The Perfect Marriage(48)

He did. “I know.”

“One of the things that is so unfair about all of this . . . one of the ten billion things, I should say, is that I’m supposed to have experienced everything you’re going through. That’s why the universe created parents. I’ve done long division and not made the team and all the rest. But I have no idea what this is like for you. And for that, I’m so sorry, because I feel like I’m . . . useless.”

They’d had this discussion before. Many times, actually. It always seemed to him a silly thing for her to focus on. First, because he doubted very much that even if his mother had suffered from leukemia as a teenager she would really know what he was going through . . . or that he would have cared. He remembered being stressed out about a million different things before he got sick, and it never made him feel any better when his mother claimed to understand.

But the other reason was that he didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about fairness. If having leukemia had taught him anything, it was that life was unfair. Not just having leukemia, truth be told. His parents had taught him that too when they had divorced. James’s death had only reinforced the point.

Without any further discussion on the topic, Owen went into the bathroom and shut the door. It was like déjà vu, except that the last time he’d done this, his hair hadn’t been very long and the bathroom had been his father’s in Queens.

He found a pair of scissors that he assumed were a relic from his art projects in middle school. Still, they were sharp enough to do the job. He couldn’t remember if he had used the same ones the last time. Maybe.

Owen stepped into the bathtub, grabbed a fistful of hair, and began cutting. He didn’t look down until he had reached the end, and ringlets and stray hairs covered the tub.

He took a break, looking at himself in the mirror. His hair was now the length it might have been if he had never had cancer. Like a regular seventeen-year-old’s.

That wasn’t who he was, of course. Cancer made sure that he would never be a regular kid. He might as well look the part.

He brought the scissors up to his scalp and resumed snipping. He’d need to switch to a razor at some point, but he wouldn’t stop until he was completely bald again.





15

Wayne went directly to Jessica’s loft after the school day ended. He had called ahead to ask her permission and told her he wanted to visit to check on Owen, because phrased that way, he knew his request would not be denied. In fact, he was there first and foremost for her.

Wayne had seen Jessica at her lowest. He recalled only too vividly the days after Owen was first diagnosed. Jessica had been inconsolable, and nothing Wayne attempted to lift her spirits had made the least bit of difference.

Yet when he entered her apartment, it was worse than anything he could have previously imagined. She looked practically dead herself. As if her inner light had been snuffed out with James’s passing.

“Owen is in his room,” she said.

From her attire—sweatpants and a T-shirt, no shoes or socks—Wayne assumed that Jessica had not breathed any fresh air that day. “Before I see him, is there anything I can do for you?”

“That’s sweet of you, Wayne, but no.”

“How about if I go out and get some dinner? Then we can all eat together.”

The concept of food seemed foreign to her. Wayne wondered if she’d eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours. Then she eked out a smile.

“I suppose we do have to eat. Although I don’t think either of us have much of an appetite.”

Wayne went to the Morton Williams a few blocks away. He got ingredients to cook penne alla vodka, which he hoped Jessica still liked. Or at least liked as much as she’d claimed when they were married. From there he stopped at the liquor store and bought a twenty-dollar bottle of Chianti, which was twice as much as he’d otherwise spend on wine.

Jessica’s kitchen was certainly an upgrade from his in Forest Hills. A six-burner Viking range and All-Clad pots. In the end, however, the penne alla vodka came out the same as it had when he made it with inferior appliances and cookware.

He left the pasta to sit for a little, his trick to get the noodles to soak up the sauce. While he did, he checked in on Owen. Much like at his house, Owen’s room here was arranged so he sat with his back to the door, staring at his computer.

One thing Wayne had not expected, however, was that his son would be hairless. Jessica hadn’t told him that. How could she not have shared this? Well, now was not the time to raise that issue, but the sight of his bald son did cause a lump to form in his throat. A not again feeling seized his heart.

“Nice ’do, O.”

Owen started and turned around in his chair. “What are you doing here?”

“I decided to come here after school to check up on you and your mom. See if I can be of any help. I’ve already been here for about an hour. I made some penne alla vodka for dinner. It’ll be ready in about ten minutes.”

If Owen found this odd—his father at his mother’s house, calling him for a dinner that he had prepared—he didn’t show it. He only gave a small nod of his bald head.

Wayne couldn’t remember the last time they had all sat around a table together for a meal. Jessica commented that the penne was great, and when Wayne asked if it was too spicy, she assured him it was perfect. Even Owen said it was good, although when dinner was over, his plate remained nearly full.