The Wave by Kristen Crusoe (ebook reader online txt) 📗

further and further, before sounds, a door slamming, voices, laughter, a dog barking, cast her upon the beach of now, here. Deep fatigue settling in again, she knew she had to get into her apartment and lay down. She had another chemotherapy treatment and then support group later that morning, and she needed to be rested for that. Clair fought against the urge to keep moving, like a shark, or fear dying, surrendering. She knew in her every cell that for her, death wouldn’t be the end, but a beginning, a reuniting with Devon. Still, she wasn’t ready for it yet. She had first to find him, the world of spirit was so vast, she wanted to be able to pinpoint his location. She had to beat this cancer, get stronger, and connect with him across the light years of space and time. The woman at the club was one of her guides, she knew that now. There would be others out there. But first, Adam.

Clair stood at the car, arms crossed, jacket hood pulled up to protect her head. She didn’t want him knowing which of the small apartments in the housing unit was hers. Anger filling her chest, causing breaths to come in short, staccato puffs, she stared at the double doors leading into and out of the cancer center. As she watched people coming and going, some walking on their own two feet, others with walkers or wheelchairs, and one arriving in an ambulance, she marveled at the sheer number of men, women, children, walking, dying, living with cancer.

When she saw him, her breath stopped, catching in her throat. He was so beautiful, still capturing her senses the way he had that first night she had met him. More stooped now, weary lines around his eyes and down his cheeks, giving him a hero’s persona. His eyes turned towards his car as he opened his large, black umbrella. When he saw her standing there, rain falling down on her, eyes large and fearless beneath the jacket’s hood, he smiled, large and bright. He hurried to her, holding the umbrella over them both with one hand, wrapping the other arm around her, pulling her to him. She leaned into him, his heat the sedative she needed. He felt like a warm blanket, easing her stiffness. She wanted so much to give up, let him reel her back in but she knew deeply in her heart, it would be a mistake. That past was gone. There was no going back. The future was unknown, not even a suspicion of possibility. Live or die? There was only now, and this now, she had to do alone. She pulled back and looked up at him, his head bumping the metal braces at the top of the umbrella. She felt a smile break her face.

‘You’re going to get your hair tangled in that thing,’ she said. ‘Come on, you can come in out of the rain.’

She took his hand, running towards the main doors leading into the apartment building. She was grateful that the shared communal room was empty. She decided she would rather talk with him out here, keeping her own space inviolate.

‘Sit. I’ll make us some tea. Or would you rather have coffee? We have one of those pod things,’ she said, startled at her nervousness, her uncertainty.

Adam shrugged off his coat, turning it outside in, and laying it across the back of the couch. He sat, his long legs almost touching his chest as he sank down into the soft, fabric chair, designed for comfort, not style. She could feel his eyes following her movements. She consciously stood straighter, pulling her shoulders back, still feeling the tug on nerve and muscle fibers severed, searching for some memory of wholeness. At times, she felt phantom pleasure, as though her breasts recalled their purpose. Making love, feeding Devon, the first buds when she was a girl, proud and embarrassed, wearing tight sport bras to cover and hold them back. Always small, her breasts never defined her as with so many women. Yet, through giving of her love, to Adam and Devon, she had come to love them, as an extension of her nurturing nature. Now, they were killing her. Even gone, their power of giving life and taking life remained. The language of cancer was the language of war. Remembering the woman’s words, there is no peaceful war. There is no friendly fire. Cancer was a battleground and she couldn’t weaken. This was war, not peace; this was fire, and it was raging. She turned to Adam.

‘Earl Gray or herbal? I have some green too,’ she said, waving her arm over the collection of tea boxes on the cluttered counter.

‘Earl is good. Thank you, Clair, what’s wrong? I’ve never seen you on the defensive. You don’t have to fuss, you know. I just wanted to see you to explain.’

Adam had begun to stand, and she shushed him, waving him back into his seat.

Bringing the tea over in two chipped mugs, one with a picture of Santa on it, she sat opposite him, on the edge of a rocking chair, careful not to set it moving. Her hands trembled. She tucked them between her legs, pressed together.

Adam, picking up the Santa mug, blowing on the steam rising from the cup, asked, ‘Clair, why are you here? Why won’t you come home?’

Looking around, seeing the room through his eyes, she saw its lived-in shabbiness. The old brown sofa, tattered, worn in places by grieving hands. Crocheted Afghans, needlepoint framed affirmations of hope, courage, tenacity. She noticed the many different body smells. Like a college dormitory, except instead of jubilant youth, this home was filled with terrified adults, fighting for time and comfort.

‘I like it here. I have a small apartment. I don’t have to share. I’m close to treatment, my group, others going through this. I feel safe.’

She wasn’t sure why she said that but, for some reason, thought it was important that