The Measure(32)

She knew, of course, that she should turn around, forget the glass of water, return to bed. But she couldn’t. Only three, maybe four steps lay between Anika and the string.

She and Hank had never actually talked about their own boxes before, their conversations filled instead with patients and procedures, both more comfortable discussing others than examining themselves. But Hank had left his string out in the open, she reasoned. Practically inviting her to look. Besides, Anika and Hank had spent nearly three years together, sharing every secret with each other, and they were still close now, albeit with a different arrangement. There were times when Anika even wondered if she had made a mistake ending their relationship.

All of her muddled feelings toward Hank seemed to collude with her terrible nosiness in that singular moment, when she decided to take those final four steps. And when she did, her hands flew up to her face, her nimble surgeon’s fingers silencing her gasp.

Anika had only recently measured her own string, so she quickly recognized that Hank’s was about half the length of hers. Which meant that he would die in his early forties.

And he was already in his early forties.

In her shock, Anika realized why Hank must have invited her that night, and why the sex felt more intensified than ever, fraught with something bigger than just their two selves. Hank knew that the end was coming—and coming quite soon.

When Anika walked back into the bedroom, Hank was sitting upright, and in the dim light he could just barely make out the strange expression on her face. She sat next to him on the bed and rested her warm hands on his forearm.

“I am so sorry, Hank.”

“For what?” he asked.

“You don’t have to be stoic anymore. It’s me.”

Hank shifted uncomfortably against the pillows. “Seriously, Anika, what are you talking about?”

“I know I shouldn’t have looked, but . . . I did,” Anika whispered. “And I don’t know what to say, except that . . . I’m sorry. And I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

It took Hank a second to piece it together, to connect her sudden sympathy with the string he had so carelessly left on the table. She had looked, and now she was sorry, staring at him with unmistakable pity.

“Shit!” Hank jerked his arm away from her touch. “Why the hell did you look?”

Anika stared back at him helplessly. “It was just there, when I went into the kitchen. It’s not like I went searching for it!”

“Well, I didn’t exactly plan on bringing you back here!” he yelled. “You could have just walked away! You didn’t have to look. Does my privacy mean nothing to you?”

Hank could feel his heartbeat gaining speed, the blood throbbing in his veins. His body was kicking into fight-or-flight, a familiar feeling for an ER veteran. But he couldn’t run away from this; Anika already knew.

“This was a mistake,” Hank said angrily. “Tonight was a huge mistake.”

Anika’s face puckered in a remorseful wince, her eyes starting to well with tears. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but I know you, Hank. I know that you would choose to go through this alone, thinking that you’re sparing everyone else,” she said. “So I wanted you to know that you aren’t alone. Not if you don’t want to be.”

Hank could still feel the stress hormones coursing through his body, readying him for battle. He could still feel the anger inside him. But hearing Anika’s words and watching her cower shamefully at the edge of the mattress, Hank’s own T-shirt draped loosely across her trembling frame, Hank realized that he wasn’t really angry at her.

He was angry at his string.

A part of Hank still loved Anika. There was even a time, a few years back, when he thought he would marry her one day, accepting her flaws for better or worse. Tonight, when she looked at his string instead of just turning around, was certainly worse. But she didn’t leave, after looking. She came back to bed. She told him that he wasn’t alone.

Hank didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to make enemies of the people he loved, not when he had such little time left with them. He let out a long, tired sigh, then reached out his hand and placed it on hers.

And Anika looked up at him gratefully, biting her lower lip to stop it from shaking. “I know I shouldn’t have looked, Hank. But were you really not going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t going to tell anyone.”

Anika’s eyes were red and anguished. “But it must be horrible to do this by yourself.”

“Not as horrible as that look you’re giving me right now,” Hank said.

“Maybe it’s not true!” Anika tried to sound hopeful. “I know I’ve told patients they only had a few months left, and then watched them live years longer.”

“You know this is different,” he said.

Anika sighed deeply. “Well, I promise I won’t tell anyone, if that’s really what you want.”

Hank still believed in keeping his secret, though he knew that his resignation from the hospital had already incited some rumors. (He insisted that he simply needed a break, that the deluge of short-stringers looking for answers had quickly worn him down.) But speaking with Anika, saying the words aloud, he actually felt a small sense of relief that one person knew about his string. It was grueling to conceal it from everyone, to keep worrying that something he might say or do would reveal the truth inadvertently. Now, at least, he could loosen his guard around Anika. He didn’t have to pretend that all was perfectly fine.