Love Undecided Read online

  “Kat, you aren’t thinking straight, baby, there is no reason for me to leave. I’m here. I love you. I want to be with you. I want to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help!”

  “Okay, clearly I’m not saying all the right things here, but Kat, you know how much I love you and how badly I want to spend the rest of my life with you. The rest of your life with you. We are better together than we are apart. A bad day together is always better than a good day apart, right?” I felt my chest constricting and I couldn’t breathe.

  Was she serious about this?

  She couldn’t be.

  There’s no way she really wanted me to leave.

  “If you don’t get your things and go in the next five minutes, I’m calling the cops.”

  “Oh come on! You’re being ridiculous. Let’s just sit down and talk about this. Or better yet, how about you lie down, I’ll make you some tea, you can get some rest, maybe sleep off the tequila, and we will talk about it in the morning when we’ve both had some time to calm down.”

  She looked at me. “Five minutes.”

  Then she walked into her home office and locked the door. I sat down outside the door to her office and tried to reason with her. Tried to get her to open the door. She wouldn’t answer me. I was starting to get worried about whether she was even conscious after half a bottle of tequila.

  The front doorbell rang and I stood to go answer it. Before I could even get to the door, I saw the blue and red flashing lights through the window.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, Kat! Are you kidding me?” I yelled.

  I opened the door to a couple of officers.

  “Can I help you, officers?”

  “We received a domestic disturbance complaint, sir. Was that you we just heard yelling?”

  “Yes, but it was just because it was ridiculous and unnecessary for her to call you.”

  “I think we’ll be the judge of whether the call was necessary or not. Can you tell us where the lady of the house is now?”

  “Kat is her name. She’s my fiancée, and she is in her home office down the hall there,” I turned to point toward Kat’s office.

  “Do you mind if we come in?”

  “For what purpose?” I ask dumbly since I already know the answer.

  “We’d like to talk to her, make sure everything is okay and that no one is hurt.”

  “I would never hurt Kat, I’m just upset that she’s trying to break it off with me. We’re getting married in two weeks. We’re practically married now.”

  “Sir?” He motions toward the inside of the house.

  “Yeah, sorry, come in.” I wave them through the door. They come in cautiously, looking around.

  “Which way to the home office?”

  “That door there.” I point out Kat’s office door.

  One of the officers stands by me, and puts his arm out in front of me, as though to stop me from moving forward. The other officer approaches the office door and knocks.

  “Ma’am? This is Officer Neal with the SSPD. Are you okay? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  The door opens and Kat peeks her head out. “Can you just make him go away please?” she asked, pointing at me.

  “Kat, what the hell?” I yelled.

  “Sir, please stay quiet,” the officer next to me said, as he’d moved from blocking any forward momentum to grabbing my upper arm.

  “I haven’t hurt her,” I said. I tried to shake off his arm, but he wouldn’t let go. “I could never hurt her. I love her. She’s drunk and she’s just found out her cancer is back. She’s trying to break up with me, and I don’t want to go. I’m not going anywhere. Do you hear me, Kat? I’m not going anywhere!”

  “Why don’t we step outside?” The officer holding my arm turns us around and tries to pull me outside.

  “No. I don’t want to go outside. You aren’t listening to me, I’m not leaving her!” I wrenched my arm from his and turned to face him at the same time as he stepped toward me. My hands went up in front of me, an automatic reflex, and I found myself pushing him backward.

  I barely got the words ‘man, I didn’t mean’ out before he’s got me twisted back around, both hands behind my back, and handcuffs locked tight over my wrists.

  I heard him say something about assaulting a police officer as he pushed me outside, shutting the front door after him.

  “You don’t understand,” I said.

  “I do understand, sir.”

  “I’m a firefighter with the SSFD, I would never hurt a woman. Especially not Kat,” I said.

  “That may be true, sir, but assaulting an officer of the law is a serious offense.”

  “I didn’t assault you, it was a reflex.”

  He opened the door to the back of the squad car and said, “Watch your head,” as he pushed the top of mine down and in, directing my body to the inside of the car.

  “This isn’t even a real call, this is just Kat being irrational,” I said as he shut the door.

  The other officer came outside a short time later and shut the door behind him. The two talked in low voices, looking from me to the front door of the house, and back again.

  By this time, some of the neighbors had come outside, watching to see what was going on. The blue and red swirling lights acting as a beacon in the foggy night for nosey gossip mongers.

  The other officer opened the front passenger door and leaned in to talk to me. “Sir, the lady said that you’ve both been drinking tonight, and I understand that you’re both upset. I need you to calm down, then I’m going to give you a couple options for tonight.”

  “For fuck’s sake. This is absolutely ridiculous! I didn’t fucking do anything!” I struggled against the handcuffs, trying to pull my hands free.

  The officer looked at me.

  “Sir, how much have you had to drink tonight?”

  “I went to happy hour after a Haz-Mat training. I had two beers over two hours, I wouldn’t exactly call that drinking. So, in answer to your question, not much. Unlike Kat who’s had a half bottle of tequila and clearly isn’t thinking straight. Can you just give me a minute to talk to her?”

  “No, sir, I cannot. The lady has asserted that she is frightened and does not feel safe with you. In addition, my partner says you got physical with him.”

  “Well, then you’re going to have to fucking take me in, ‘cause I’m not leaving her willingly.”

  “Planning on it, sir.”

  And, so, I spent the night in a holding cell, and Ethan bailed me out the next day.

  I check myself, trying to see if I can muster anger toward her, but I just can’t. At least not for the breakup part of it. Intellectually, I know that she was acting out of fear and love.

  Fear for herself and her life, and love for me in not wanting me to have to watch her die. I just need my head to remind my heart every so often.

  But as far as the decimation of my career? Yeah, that I can still get angry about. And, if I’m honest, I’m still pissed off that she didn’t die. And then the cancer came back a third time and she didn’t die. That was the reason she left me to begin with, because she was going to die. Yet, she didn’t die and we still are not together.

  And the time apart has been a total waste.

  Chapter 6

  Kat

  I have an afternoon appointment with my oncologist to checkin and get a full body scan. The building I’m going to is a smaller one in a much larger complex. They’ve tried hard to make the Curtis Cancer Center look more like a resort than a medical complex. Trees and grass line the paths to the buildings, and a large waterfall hides the entrance. There’s even a Koi pond in the lobby.

  The atmosphere is always quiet. As though all the cancer-free inhabitants are continually paying homage to those who are dying. I hate the way my slutty stiletto boots sound on the slate floor, trying to push through the silence and create a constant agitation.

  Upstairs is carpeted, dulling the noise from my shoes and thus t
he noise in my head. I find myself calming as I change into my hospital gown and slippers. The MRI and the CT scan are both just routine when you’ve had cancer recur as many times as I have they just become a part of life. I’m not concerned though, I feel good.

  The MRI machine doesn’t even scare me as much any longer. Sometimes I even drift off for a few seconds in it, the insanely loud knocking noise becoming more of a relaxing white noise in the background as opposed to raising my anxiety levels.

  If you had asked me five years ago if I would ever be comfortable going to the doctor, for anything, I would have said no. It was all I could do to force myself to get my annual check-up and gynecological exam. When I was young, I was that child who would throw such a tantrum when getting a shot, they would have to restrain me in a straight-jacket type device so that I wouldn’t be able to hit the nurses or the doctor when they administered it. More than once, I’d contaminated the needle because my flailing caused it to fall to the floor or stick in the wall.

  Now, sticking me with shit is like second nature. And being locked up in confining little scanning machines that make lots of noise is a normal happenstance.

  I get through my appointment, blood draws, and scans relatively quickly and change to leave. The nurse stops me and says my oncologist wants to see me for a moment in her office. I walk back toward the office and knock lightly on her closed door.

  “Come in,” I hear through the door.

  I go in and she motions for me to take a seat. “How are you doing lately, Kat?” she asks.

  “Good. I feel good. A little tired, some muscle soreness, and a little emotional, but that’s to be expected, right?”

  “Any tenderness in your breasts?”

  “Franken-boob is still sore at times,” I say. “But Zombie-tit is good.” She laughs at my response.

  I named my tits after a particularly brutal lumpectomy. Franken-boob because of the scar and resulting hollow from the lumpectomy. And Zombie-tit because of the fat and tissue she donated to Franken-boob to try and fill her back up.

  “And you aren’t working, correct?” she asks.

  “No, I took a leave of absence and my partner is slowly buying my share of the law practice from me. I am doing some consulting for the police department, I’ve helped with a few cases.”

  “How many hours a month are you doing that?”

  “A month? It’s kind of more like how many hours a day right now. I had a really busy day today, and I don’t see that letting up. I think that’s why I’m feeling off.”

  “Don’t overdo it, Katarina,” she says.

  “I’m not. I won’t.”

  “Okay, well, your estrogen levels are not where we would like them to be. I’m having them run a full panel from today’s draw and we should have the results from the scans in a few days. I’ll have them update you on both at the same time.”

  “Them?” I ask.

  “I’ll be out of town for the next couple weeks,” she says. “So I have another doctor covering for me. He will be the one to contact you with the scan results and the blood test results. How are you on your meds?”

  “All good, no worries there,” I tell her with a smile, thinking of my little stockpile of Valium and Oxycontin.

  “Great. Are you seeing your therapist regularly?” she asks.

  “I have an appointment tomorrow morning.”

  “Perfect,” she says. “Make an appointment to come in and see me in three weeks, and you and I can go over your scans and results together then as well.”

  I thank her and am out the door. My phone pings with a text as I’m getting into my car. It’s another text from Brad.

  Brad: How’d the appointment go? All okay?

  I can’t believe he still keeps track of my appointments. I mean, I know he’s still listed as my cancer caregiver in my medical file, so he gets the auto-notifications by email. But the fact that he actually pays attention, and then follows up with me, blows my mind.

  I text him back a thumbs up emoji and turn my phone off. Not wanting to get too wrapped up in texting him back, and more importantly, too wrapped up in thinking about how his text makes me feel.

  How his texts always make me feel.

  Like I matter, more than anything else. When all I usually feel is completely alone and unseen.

  Which makes me think about him. And miss him. And no matter how many times and how many ways I try to get him out of my head and out of my heart, he just stays.

  No matter how much I drink, or how many nameless drunk fucks I bring home, and how many times I let them fuck me in the dirtiest, most debasing way possible, it isn’t enough.

  I still wish it was Brad every time.

  Chapter 7

  Kat

  Even though I was in the shower by six forty-five am, I’m five minutes late to my therapist appointment. Her office is located in a little strip mall with nondescript frontage. If you didn’t know it was there, well, you’d never know it was there.

  But the inside is very calming: soft gray-blue painted walls, a waterfall in the corner that is always running, and extremely cushy and comfortable furniture. Her office has a way of making me want to sink down in that furniture, go to sleep, and never wake up again.

  I look at her now and see that she’s waiting, pencil poised, for me to start talking. She’s already asked me how I’m feeling.

  I wait to see if she’ll do the thing. It only took me a couple visits to figure out what her thing is: double tap of the pencil eraser on her shoulder. I’m pretty sure she does it whenever she’s agitated. Clearly, I agitate her.

  Tap. Tap.

  Satisfied, I start talking,

  “It’s been a good week, I think. In fact, I don’t even think I have anything to talk about.”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Yep,” I say, putting unnecessary emphasis on the ‘p’ to make a popping sound.

  “So, you’ve stopped drinking, you aren’t taking random strangers home to have sex, and your cancer is cured?”

  “Nope, nope, and nope,” I say, still popping the ‘p’ with each nope.

  Tap. Tap.

  “Well then, start talking,” she says. “Tell me about the drinking.”

  “Ok, I’m still drinking.”

  “How much?”

  “Um … a lot,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks.

  Tap. Tap.

  “Same reasons as before. I like it. It feels good. It tastes good. It blurs the lines of reality, makes everything that much more tolerable. It dulls the sharp edges. Helps me sleep.”

  “Are you still mixing the sleeping pills with the alcohol?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She writes something down in her little notebook. So I add, “But not every time, definitely not every night. Just when I know it’s going to be a rough night.”

  “How do you know when it’s going to be a rough night?”

  “I don’t know, when I can’t shut my brain off, can’t get my body to stop buzzing, can’t shake that sense that I’ve forgotten something, that I’m missing something. Can’t get the pain to go away.”

  “Are you in more pain than before? Or having more anxiety than before? Have you spoken with your Meds Counselor about this?”

  Tap. Tap.

  “I have. And, before you ask, I tell him pretty much everything about how much I drink too. For the most part.”

  “What does ‘for the most part’ mean?”

  When I don’t answer her, she continues, “I know I don’t have to tell you this is a dangerous game you are playing with your body, Katarina.”

  Tap. Tap.

  “No, you don’t have to tell me that. But, it’s not like I’m not dying already anyway.”

  “Is that going to be your excuse?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” I ask.

  She just looks at me.

  Tap. Tap.

  “Look, I know it’s bad for me,” I say. “And I shouldn’t do it and blah, b
lah, blah, but I need this sometimes. There’s just too much to deal with otherwise.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about that. What is too much to deal with?”

  “All of it. Giving a fuck, work, men, sex, Brad, cancer, my friends, being nice to people, doctor’s appointments, giving a fuck, you name it.”

  “I thought you took a leave of absence from work?” she asks.

  “I did, but I’m helping the SSPD and SSIHT with another case.”

  “Is that taking a lot of your time?”

  “Not so much, so far, no.”

  “Tell me about Brad.”

  “Nothing has changed. We aren’t together, which is good. We are still in contact, which is bad. He has a girlfriend. I have other things.”

  “Why is it bad that you are in contact and good that you aren’t together?”

  “You know why.”

  Tap. Tap.

  “Why don’t you tell me anyway,” she says.

  “His mom died of cancer. And it was horrible for him and his brother and dad. They watched her suffer for so long. But even if that hadn’t happened, I don’t want anyone to sit around and watch me die. Especially not so young.”

  “Would it be different if you were older?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then we would have spent our life together and it’s more expected.”

  “But you could be spending your life together now. Because, unless I’m missing something, you aren’t dead.”

  I stay silent. I don’t really have a response to that. At least not one that I don’t feel like I’ve already shared with her a million times before.

  “Tell me this, would it be any different if you were healthy and you died in a car crash suddenly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we wouldn’t be waiting for it to happen.”

  “But aren’t we always waiting for death? Every day that we live we get one step closer to it.”

  “That’s a pretty morbid thought, even for you.”

  Tap. Tap.

  “You’ve told me before that you are still in love with Brad,” she says.

  I nod.

  “And that he is still in love with you.”