Desperately Seeking Epic(51)
I scoot away slightly. I can’t touch her right now. Her hand slips off my thigh, and I refuse to look at her. I already know how she looks. Confused. A moment ago I was relishing her body against mine as we laughed. We were a unit. Now, I can’t even look at her. I plaster a smile on and try to focus on the moment. This moment. With my daughter who is smiling. One of the few I have left.
After an incredible meal consisting of the pupu platter, Chinese dumplings, and snacking on Tuckahoe pie, we’re stuffed. Clara and I decide to do the dishes while Marcus, Mei-ling, and Neena plop on the couch and digest for a bit.
Clara is washing a pot as I stack the last of the plates by the sink. “I think Marcus used every dish in the house.”
I snort. That’s the only thing I can do. Only it comes out like a growl.
She slams her hand down on the faucet, shutting off the water. “What is it, Paul?”
“What’s what?” I play dumb.
“This,” she motions a soapy hand at me. “You went from hot to cold in a matter of seconds with me. What is it?”
“Nothing,” I answer, gritting my teeth. I want to lash out at her, but I know I shouldn’t. It won’t change what happened and it won’t change what is happening. I missed the first twelve years of Neena’s life. And now she’s dying. Those are the facts. Yelling at Clara, no matter how angry I am with her, won’t change that.
“Fine.” She flips the faucet back on and starts scrubbing the pot again. Under her breath, she mumbles, “Ruin a great night with your little head trip.”
I lose it. My heart thunders as my rage pumps through me. I hit the faucet, causing her to jump. When she twists her head and sees me, she narrows her eyes, glowering at me, but doesn’t back away.
“Ruin a great night?” I snort with disdain and derision. “How many good nights with her have you gotten?”
“What?” she questions, appearing angry and confused.
“Twelve years,” I answer for her, stepping closer. She doesn’t back away because . . . well . . . it’s Clara. She backs down to no one. “Twelve years you saw her grow, laugh, and play, and twelve years of f*cking hugs, Clara. Of laughter and pure and sweet smiles. You got all of that. And what do I get?” I ask her, my voice cracking slightly with pain and emotion.
Clara’s enraged expression ebbs in to what almost looks like shame.
“You denied me that. You denied me what little time she has had.”
Her expression morphs back to raw anger.
“You denied yourself that, Paul,” she hisses quietly. “You took off. Not me.”
“You could have found me. You know you could have. I mean, here, only when you were at your most desperate time, you found me. Why not before, huh?”
She finally steps back, her forearms and hands soapy, dripping water on the floor. “The same reason you never came back. You never called. You never wrote. Not me. Not Marcus. You disappeared. So let’s be real here,” she growls. “You didn’t want to be found because you didn’t want to come back.”
“You were having my baby!” I boom. “I deserved to know that!”
“You are ridiculous!” she booms back. “You leave and I’m supposed to chase you? And for what? So that you’d hate me for trapping you here? Or you’d play part-time father in between your world travels and f*cking adventures?” She pulls a dish towel off the counter and wipes angrily at her hands. “While you’d been skydiving in Brazil and backpacking through jungles, and screwing exotic women, I’ve been running a business, which by the way, funds your f*cking adventures. Oh, and I’ve been raising a child by myself . . . who happens to be dying. Don’t you think that destroys me? Occupies all of my time? Yes, you missed some pretty amazing times in her life. I won’t lie. She has been my world and I wouldn’t trade a second of it. Those moments are more valuable than anything to me.” She places a hand over her heart.
I wince as her hand trembles. But her words are like a knife in my chest. I should have had those moments, too.
“But you also missed the blow of finding out your eight-year-old child has cancer. You missed watching her go through radiation, chemo. You missed the nights when she was so weak she couldn’t get out of bed and puked all over herself. You missed watching your healthy, vibrant daughter lose her hair and cry when people stared at her. You missed watching her fall behind in school, unable to keep up with her peers. You missed having to choose whether to do more chemo or let things go. You—”
“Wait,” I cut her off. “What?”
Clara pauses, unsure of what I’m asking.
“More chemo was an option?”
She sighs, exhausted by our argument. Tears are streaming down her face and she uses the dish towel to wipe them away. “Not to cure her. It may have bought us more time with her.”
I back away from her and fist my hair. “And you didn’t do it?”
Clara’s head snaps up, her narrowed gaze fierce with fury. “We decided together what was best.”
“You let a child decide this?”
“We decided together,” she growls at me.
“Are you f*cking kidding me?” I shout. “Why would you decide to not have more time with her?”
“Because I’d be miserable,” Neena cries from the kitchen doorway. Her makeup is smeared from her own tears and she’s holding her wig in her hand. Watching your kid slowly dying has been f*cking awful. But watching your dying kid cry tops the list of the worst things ever.