Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz (leveled readers .TXT) 📗

like that. I’d watched him lose a million dollars on a trade and not flinch because he had made the right decision given the information. Here, there weren’t many mathematical angles, and logic did not apply.

“So, where is he now?” I asked.

“He’s with Heather. Charlene and I are going to take them out to dinner at Cru. He wanted to go out to a crazy dinner while he could.”

“God, that’s fucking depressing.”

“Well, what would you do? Might as well enjoy yourself while you can. He might never taste again.”

We hung up. I felt that awful emptiness of despair set in. I straightened my tie, wiped my eyes, and walked around the back of the clubhouse for the awards ceremony. Around me, a few hundred people had changed into evening wear and were having drinks, waiting for the food to be served.

I waded in, found Dagmara, stared at her for a moment, and shook my head.

It was a little past 10:00 A.M. by the time we got back downtown to Heather’s apartment. We had dropped Keith in midtown and decided to go home, take a nap, then head back out later in the day for lunch and maybe a museum visit before meeting Keith and Charlene for dinner.

Heather let her cat out the window leading to the roof of the adjoining building. She and her roommates used the roof like a balcony, though it wasn’t really intended for that purpose. We headed out onto the roof as well. I wanted to have the conversation that I’d been dreading and avoiding. But now, after the Sloan visit, there was no more waiting.

“I’m sorry I had to put you through that,” I said.

“I wanted to go. I’m here for you through this,” she said.

“Thanks. But it’s not fair that you should be. I mean, we’ve only been seeing each other for two months, and long-distance, at that.”

I continued, telling her that depending on what I decided in terms of treatment she needed to be honest with herself and with me. I felt extremely guilty and self-absorbed to be putting a twenty-four-year-old woman through something as difficult as disfiguring surgeries, radical lifestyle changes, and of course the very real possibility of death.

Our relationship thus far revolved around food. We loved eating, drinking, and cooking together. And there was the likelihood that I could no longer do those things in the near future. I couldn’t see why she would be interested in maintaining a brand-new relationship through such a time—I wanted to give her my permission to leave. After all, what kind of person would walk away? I wanted to push her away, for her own good.

“Let’s be honest, this is going to change my life in such drastic ways that I will no longer be the person you know. I’ve been lucky to have an amazing career so far, and it’s likely that I would have gone on to great success. I can’t see that happening now. I have to imagine that affects the way you feel. Sure there is love and devotion and all of that, but there is also the truth of wanting to find someone you are proud of and someone who can contribute to the life you want for yourself, both physically and financially. Nobody wants to inherit a burden, and clearly that is what I am about to become.”

Tears began to well up in her eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“My whole life has been chasing this one goal. I have invested everything I have into it. I have dismissed relationships for it. I have sacrificed many aspects of what other people consider a normal life. I can’t let that go. It’s who I am. That is my identity, and if the surgeons rip that from me, then my spirit is done and I’m no good to anyone. Not me, not you, not Alinea, not my boys. And what about them? How does this affect them? They’ll have a dad who can’t talk about life with them, who looks funny. He can’t eat with them. I worry that I’ll become bitter after I lose the restaurant and my career. They are so young, and they couldn’t possibly understand that it might be better for them if I’m gone. Best to go now so they can forget. Their memories . . . well, they won’t remember me. Maybe Angela will marry someone and they’ll always think of that other person as their dad. Maybe that’s best for them.”

With that, I lost it.

After gathering our composure and promising each other that we were done crying, we decided to keep our plans and head to the Metropolitan Museum of Art before dinner. Heather wanted to take me to see the “Frank Stella: Painting into Architecture” exhibit, and there was no sense in wasting the day agonizing over the harsh reality I was faced with. Shortly after we arrived at the Met I saw an old woman pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair. I am not sure if it was the sight of longevity that did me in, knowing that my own life was in question, or the idea of having someone as a caretaker, but suddenly I was overcome with emotion. I dropped Heather’s hand and briskly walked away. She knew where my head was and didn’t follow me. I stood in a corner of the museum for twenty minutes while I corralled my thoughts and emotions. When I rejoined Heather, we wordlessly hugged, joined hands, and continued up to the rooftop sculpture garden to take photos of the skyline. Heather never asked what triggered my crash, and I chose not to explain. I had it together for the time being and didn’t want to lose it again.

After sitting in Central Park for a bit we made our way to Cru. I knew in order to get any food down I would need some Vicodin chased by some wine. My mouth was killing me from the