Fluorescent light refracts off sterile white walls. The only interruption in the colorless void is a picture of a farmhouse in a field which beckons viewers out of the tiny room on the second floor of Johnsville’s hospital. Mark sits in a corner of the room in one of those uncomfortable stackable armchairs. He looks past dust coated shades and out the solitary window to a bland view of a mostly empty parking lot. Outside, isolated snowflakes sift down but disappear before they settle. Mark’s girlfriend of five years sits cross-legged on the examiner’s table next to him. The paper beneath her crinkles softly as she fidgets with the tongue of her Converse. Stapled to the door, a poster depicts a skinless human body, various organ systems highlighted and labeled.
A small white noise machine buffets them with recorded ocean sounds as Mark gazes at the falling snow. Emma changed back into her street clothes half an hour ago, and only now does the doctor finally knock on the door of their tiny room. He enters to discuss her test results. He perches carefully on a stool before them and begins mouthing words Mark can’t immediately distinguish from the droning of the ocean’s tide.
“-carcinoma. You have my sincerest condolences.”
“Sorry,” Emma says. “Say that again.”
“Miss Walker, it’s important you listen closely. You need to plan for what happens next. I’ve just informed you that you’ve been diagnosed with severe adenocarcinoma. Unfortunately, it’s already advanced to a stage where—”
“Woah, woah,” Emma interrupts. “In English please, doc.”
“Cancer, ma’am. Your test results show several large masses. I’m very sorry.”
“You’re telling me my sore throat is actually fucking throat cancer?”
The doctor nods, then silently adjusts his glasses. “Esophageal, to be precise, but yes.”
Mark feels a serrated blade enter his chest. It twists and wrenches cold steel through his heart.
“Well,” Emma says, “I guess we can’t say we didn’t see that coming, right, Markie?” She turns to face him in his corner. The paper beneath her rips.
He looks past her smiling eyes to find a fetid bog of embarrassment, sympathy, and, most painful of all, fear. And then he blinks, and her fire returns, bright burning as ever.
“Guess you finally win,” she says. “Should’ve quit smoking a long time ago.” She cocks her head and smiles at him with a level of sincerity that makes him feel, somehow, this is all his fault.
All their heated fights about her pack a day habit reignite inside him. He’d tell her — sometimes loudly — that it cost too much, that it stunk, that it was killing her slowly. She’d respond that she was worth it, that he smelled good enough for both of them, and that everyone knew she rightfully belonged to the twenty-seven club. She had a special way of mixing her opinions with facts and flattery that always made him laugh and give in. “They’re called cowboykillers,” she’d say. “I’m a lady.” Then she’d take a deliberately deep drag and make sure to moan with satisfaction on the exhale, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
Now, in their small sterile room at Jonhsville’s hospital, her brave smile hurts to look at.
“I’d rather I lost this one—” Mark starts, but his voice breaks and he finds himself mute. He stays quiet and holds her hand.
Emma squeezes his hand reassuringly before turning back to the doctor. “How bad is it?” she asks.
“Well, you’re in stage four. The final stage. The cancerous cells have spread to your lungs. Judging from your scans, I assume the incident that brought you in wasn’t the first.”
“Incident?” Mark asks.
The doctor’s eyes shift awkwardly between the pair for a moment.
“I’ve been coughing up blood,” Emma says. “I just… didn’t want to scare you.”
The knife goes deeper — deflates his lungs. He still cannot speak. How could he have missed something like this?
After a silent moment, the doctor continues. “At this point, the only treatment left is palliative — to reduce pain. We can schedule your first appointment today if you like.” He begins thumbing through the papers she’ll need to sign.
“So… there’s nothing you can do?” Emma asks. Her eyes flick over to Mark.
He can feel her memorizing him. His shaggy hair and unkempt beard. His perpetually concerned face — currently twisted in true fear. His T-shirt and hoodie combo that only ever changes in its shade of black. His tattered jeans that he refuses to call dirty until he’s worn them three times. His dark brown eyes that have always traced her every move with the deepest love she’s ever known.
He can see her building a wall. He can see her accepting her fate.
“The cancer is metastatic. It’s everywhere. While it started in your esophageal tract, it’s since grown… our scans show you have masses in your esophagus, lymph nodes, and lungs. If we pursued surgery or chemo, there’d be nothing left of you… I know it’s hard to accept, but it’s the truth.”
The room goes silent for what feels to the currently mute Mark like an eternity. Finally, someone breaks it.
“How much time’ve I got?” Emma asks. Her fake half-smile shifts back into her typical Cheshire façade, like the doctor’s answer doesn’t really matter.
The doctor stops thumbing and lowers his gaze. “Well, at this point, minutes matter. It won’t be long before the cancerous cells lose all function. Maybe a few weeks?”
She slides down off the exam table still holding Mark’s hand. Her momentum drags him to his feet. “Let’s go get a drink, okay?”
The doctor, who had to roll out of her way to avoid getting kicked asks, “You aren’t interested in any form of palliative care?”
Emma ignores him, patiently waiting for Mark to answer.
He tries to speak but nothing comes out. He stands there, mouth open, fear and pain paralyzing him and stealing his words. How could she be okay with this? The ocean sounds swell in the room in the silence. It’s his turn to soak in her features. The pixie cut she insisted on doing herself because, “Why pay someone to use a pair of scissors? I have scissors, dude.” Her porcelain skin that always burns in the summer. The countless tiny tattoos that dot her arms because she can never decide on one big piece — or save enough money to buy one. The scar on the back of her left hand from when she got too drunk and played the knife game with a warrior’s conviction. She can’t be okay with this. Mark certainly isn’t.
“Sure,” he finally says. “A beer sounds amazing.”
Her grin widens, and she pulls his arm until they’ve floated out the door and into the hall. They rush toward the stairwell, hand in hand. The doctor’s voice calls after them, but they don’t stop to listen. Emma refuses to waste their time.
They step out into the parking lot and the chilled air hits Mark in the face. He puts his hood up and looks to the ceiling of grey clouds above them. The snowflakes grow fast. He makes a mental note to get the Christmas decorations out. Emma always tries to put the tree up by late October. Early snow like this only encourages her. He looks back toward the car to find Emma’s feline figure slinking its way there. She reaches the door and jiggles the handle before he can hit the unlock button.
“Hurry up dude,” she calls. “Mama’s thirsty.”
Her brevity feels like salt in his fresh wound. Wordlessly, he drives them from the hospital to the bar. On the way, Emma sings every word to Father and Son by Cat Stevens. Mark hides his tears by looking out the driver’s side window each time Emma’s gaze threatens to pass over him.
Emma steps out of the snow and into The Hunstman with Mark trailing close behind. Instantly, the scent of onion rings, wings, and all manner of fried carbs assails Mark’s senses. He brushes snow off his shoulders while his eyes adjust to the dim light. Each ring-stained table in this back-alley bar rests beneath the decapitated head of a different local beast. From the mighty moose to the agile duck, creatures great and small have all found their final resting places on the beer spattered walls of this tiny tavern. A burly bald man with a scar on his forehead waits behind the large bar. It has around five beers on tap at any one time, but Mark only likes one of them.
The bartender looks up, gives a toothy smile, and then a chorus of, “Emma!” and, “Markie-boy!” erupts from all corners of the room. Emma loves the attention and gives her best princess wave, while Mark wishes he could melt into the shadows.
“Hey Lewis!” Emma shouts over the nameless hair-metal band blasting on the stereo. “Pour me up the usual but make it a double! Please and thank you very kindly!”
“Any occasion?” asks Lewis.
“Less talk-y more pour-y!” Emma says. “Mama’s thirsty!”
Her answer forces a mote of joy out of Mark, and he chuckles. He never finds her any less charming, even when she repeats herself like this.
“Yes ma’am,” Lewis laughs. He makes her a pomegranate cosmopolitan and adds two extra shots of Triple Sec and Absolut. Only Emma can order this drink at this bar.
Seeing her commands carried out, Emma kisses Mark’s cheek and says, “Meet you at our spot! Gotta do the rounds!” Then she skips off to a nearby table to greet some other regulars, leaving Mark to wait for their drinks.
Lewis turns to Mark and says, “Hey brother. Good to see you. Everything all right?”
Mark looks at Emma — whose smiling and joking manner claim there’s nothing wrong in the whole world — before saying, “Yeah, man. Just a rough morning. Mom called mid-episode.”
Mark hates lying, especially to Lewis, but he knows it isn’t his place to speak on Emma’s business without her permission. It’s also common knowledge at The Huntsman — because she makes a point to talk about it whenever she gets drunk — that Emma’s manic schizophrenic Mother refused any kind of treatment. She never made enough trouble to get incarcerated or institutionalized, but she also wasn’t lucid enough to provide any form of parenting. They don’t see each other often, but when they do, Emma usually ends up here at the Huntsman. Emma’s dad was never in her life, having bolted shortly after finding out about her. Subsequently, Emma’s current family are all chosen. Mark is the only person she’s ever told about her father.
Lewis shakes his head and says, “That damn woman.” He knows better than to dig further. He places a martini glass filled with a translucent pink mixture on the counter. “What’ll it be for you, then?” he asks. “Was it a beer or a whiskey kind of fight?”
“Whiskey. Neat. Please.” Mark edits his voice for sorrow or anything that might betray the emotional pandemonium inside him. Despite his efforts, his sorrow hangs as heavy on him as a lead cloak.
Lewis grimaces on Mark’s behalf before pouring four fingers of Maker’s Mark into a glass and placing it next to Emma’s drink. “These are on the house, brother. Y’all let me know if you need anything, all right? I’ll be by in a bit if you want something to eat.”
“Thanks, Lewis, you’re the best,” Mark mumbles. He takes their drinks to a table in the back. Their usual. They met at this table. He watches Emma float from table to table lighting up the faces of everyone she passes. He downs half his whiskey in one gulp and closes his eyes as the heat runs through his cold heart. His closed eyes provide a moment of solitude he wasn’t prepared for, and tears threaten to surge forth again. He opens his eyes to see Emma’s smiling face coming toward him and he manages to stem the tide.
She sits beside him and puts a hand on his. The two sit and drink until Emma completely loses herself. She smokes her cigarettes, which Mark almost protests before he recognizes the futility. Every time he tries to breach the subject of her diagnosis, she expertly evades him. Trips to the bathroom, friends she spots across the bar, and ordering more drinks all widen the gap between them until Mark gives up on their talk. At least this way they can enjoy the evening.
By the end of the night Emma can’t walk without Mark’s shoulder for support. He helps her to the car and fastens her seatbelt for her. He drives them back to their apartment and helps her inside. They’ve lived here together for just over three years now. He tucks her into their bed and places a glass of water on the nightstand. A part of him — one he’d rather not acknowledge — relishes this opportunity to be so needed.
Around a month from now, he will repeat the last of these gestures for a final time. By then, her hair will have grown coarse and rough, brittle almost to the point of breaking. Her eyes will retreat slightly into their sockets as her body hollows itself out. Her body will be eaten away until she’s too weak to walk to the bathroom alone. Her porcelain skin will dry and turn sickly pale and the tattoos on her arms will wrinkle and morph into blobs of grey smudges that no longer remind him of her vibrant life. Her mischief-laden grin will disappear, replaced by weak lips that only part to cough until her throat ruptures and blood escapes. He will lay her down and kiss her forehead and taste the salty remnants of her life as it leaves her. She will tell him through cracked lips that she’s scared, and he will tell her it’ll be okay even though he knows it won’t be. He will lie down beside her. He will hold her. And he will wake up alone.
But tonight — the night of her diagnosis — those things still lie ahead. Mark places his hand on Emma’s cheek and asks, “Need anything else?”
She shakes her head slightly and smiles.
Their cat Mephistopheles, who has hated Mark since the day he came into Emma’s life, jumps up on the comforter and curls next to her head. He lets out a low mewl, which Mark interprets as a warning not to come too close.
Emma giggles at them and falls asleep in seconds. Mark stays awake. He sits on a recliner in their living room, tears falling down his cheeks until his sorrow drowns him and sleep finally grants an end to this wretched day.
The morning following Emma’s diagnosis, Mark leaves a note that says, “Call me when you wake up! Drink lots of water!” next to the bed. Then he attempts to quietly slip out the front door so she can sleep off her drunken evening undisturbed.
Mephistopheles bars his path. The black and white long-haired king of this domain sits in front of the door casting Mark a look which can only be interpreted as condescension or disdain. The cat looses a loud meow that somehow sounds both angry and desparate at the same time.
“Woah, buddy, keep it quiet. Emma’s still sleeping.”
Mephistopheles hisses, arching his back.
“Seriously, What the hell, man? Just get out of my way and I’ll leave,” Mark says. “Then you can have Emma and the house to yourself, so just—”
The cat’s back lowers, and he takes a few steps away from the door, allowing Mark access. He goes to grab his coat but finds it lying on the floor next to the front door, rather than its usual hook on the coat rack. He reaches down to pick it up, but the smell of cat urine stops him before he touches it.
Mark turns to Mephistopheles, who now sits near the doorway to the bedroom wearing a satisfied sneer.
“Little alien monster,” Mark mumbles. Then he slips out the door into the cold.
Mark stomps his way up the narrow stairwell of the Ultraplex Theater to its projectionist booth, where he spends almost all his shift.
In an attempt to keep his mind off Emma, he focuses his mind on his job. He’s worked at the Ultraplex — a name the six-screen theater hardly deserves — for something like ten years. Projectionist used to be a semi-skilled position. Something fun and unique that he enjoyed being good at. It was his first job since moving to Johnsville at eighteen, and he’s never left it. The theater has long since switched from using reels of film to using digital projectors. Mark can’t help yearning for the days when being a projectionist was something to take pride in.
Back then, on a day when the theater got a new film, he received it from the distributor himself. Then he’d splice trailers onto the reel of film and delicately thread the completed product through the projector. If any mistakes were made, or if the film track was left unclean or ungreased, the film could run off the track and potentially rip, costing the theater a bundle to replace. If a movie sucked or had reached the end of its time, it would be moved to a different screen or taken down altogether. Only the projectionist knew how to do that without damaging all the delicate parts. People turned to their projectionist for help if there were any problems. They were essential. The Ultraplex theater used to always have two projectionists on each shift, just to make sure everything went smoothly. Mark and his colleagues possessed a unique and valuable pool of knowledge that made them irreplaceable.
Now he just presses a button and the movie plays itself. The day the Ultraplex switched to digital, they also fired practically everyone but Mark. These days he spends his entire shift in the booth alone. He supposes it’s good luck for him that the managers of this tiny theater can’t be bothered to walk upstairs and hit a couple buttons every few hours, but he can’t help but wonder: why him? He feels like he’s in limbo between the necessary and the useless.
He reaches the top of the stairwell to his office. The door at the top opens into a long, hallway-like room with thoroughly stained carpets and old movie posters plastered over every square inch of wall. Three large, box-like machines stand as sentinels on both sides of the hallway, casting their light through tiny windows into each theater. The hallway-room is kept in perpetual darkness for the sake of the movies, so it often feels to Mark like walking into a cavern with six claustrophobia-inducing, perpetually humming robots. A desk waits at the other end of his cave with a nice-ish computer chair where he sits for most of his workday. As he finds his seat and gets situated, his mind inevitably drifts to Emma. He does his best to force the thoughts out of his mind. A large clock stares down at him from above, reminding him of his only purpose. Press a button at a time.
He presses the button on each of the six electric projectors and their humming initiates. Since there’s not much else to do, he chooses one to watch from his isolated perch above the theater patrons. The Boy and the Heron. He hasn’t heard much about it, but he likes Christian Bale, so he rolls his chair to one of the tiny windows and watches along with three early matinee customers. He loses himself in the film. It speaks to his aching heart. He feels he’s almost learned something when the door to his cave bursts open.
“Mark what the fuck?” His boss Reggie’s angry voice disrupts Mark’s momentary peace. The door at the end of the room stands ajar, casting light on the figure in the doorway. He wears black dress pants and a white button up shirt too tight for his growing gut. He completes his look with a different colored polka-dot bowtie each day. Today is red and white. Butter stains line his collar and tiny flecks of popcorn speckle the bottom of his thick mustache. “You’re like twenty minutes late for screen four,” he shouts. “You have one fucking job, man. Do I need to press the button for you?”
Mark has fallen fully into the realm of the superfluous. Tears stream down his face as he recognizes the full truth of that statement. Then he moves over to the machine and silently presses its button.
“Whoa, Mark,” Reggie says. “You okay man?”
“Yeah. Just some stuff at home. Sorry Reg. Won’t happen again. Could I take a minute in the bathroom?”
“Uh sure.” Some popcorn crumbs fall from the middle-aged man’s mustache as he steps out of Mark’s way.
Mark can feel the older man staring at him with concern from the top of the stairs. He trudges through the lobby and into the family bathroom. He checks his phone to find no missed calls. It’s already past noon, but he decides not to call and chance waking Emma from hibernation early. He’s experienced that wrath before and has no desire to repeat such a mistake. He realizes through his depressive haze that he’s hungry, so he cleans his face and heads back upstairs before ordering an Italian sandwich from his favorite local shop.
Mark finishes his food and restarts all six movies at their designated times before his phone finally rings. He looks down to see Emma’s name on the screen.
“Hey,” Mark answers. “You feeling okay? It’s like two o’clock.”
“Yeah, I slept like a dragon, didn’t I?” she croaks. “I’m fine, just hungover.”
The falseness of her statement stings, but he ignores it. He can smell the alcohol on her breath through the phone, but her voice makes him smile.
“Yeah, but you drank like a dwarf, so that makes sense,” he laughs.
Mephistopheles meows loudly on the other end of the phone.
“Man, your cat hates me so much,” Mark laughs. “Even my voice sets him off. What did I ever do to him?”
“Well, you make a point of distinguishing him as not belonging to you, so that’s one thing,” Emma says, a note of coldness creeping into her tone. “I’m not a huge fan of that either, actually. But more realistically — when was the last time you fed him? Last night after we got back? Or this morning before you left? Or did you leave it to me to feed him yesterday morning and then again just now after I woke up? Cats aren’t hard Mark. You just have to listen to what they want.” She maintains the frosty silence for a moment before laughing loudly at him. “You’re blushing, aren’t you?” she asks, her warm, playful tone returning.
“Yeah, I am. You’re the champ of making me feel stupid,” Mark answers grinning sheepishly. “Congrats on that. What are you going to do today?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll quit my job. No point working my final hours away, right?”
The joke at her mortality’s expense sears Mark’s insides. He takes a moment to collect himself before saying, “So you’re really not going to look into treatment?”
“You heard the doc, Mark. No point.”
“So?” he asks desperately. “There’s got to be like, some experimental medicine or something out there. You’re not even going to try?”
“I don’t want to get into this over the phone.”
“Well, you kind of brought it up,” he says. “And we haven’t talked about it at all…”
His heart is engulfed in white-hot flame. He wants to scream at her. Every time she avoids the subject, napalm melts a part of his insides. They’ve known about her death sentence for almost twenty-four hours and haven’t approached the subject once. Now that she’s finally brought it up, his brain is melting at the prospect of holding back once again.
“But it’s fine,” he finishes. “We can talk tonight.”
“Okay. Thank you, Mark. Let’s do something special. Just us?”
“Sounds good. I can grill some steaks.”
“Ooooh, you read my mind,” Emma says. “I’ll pick up the meat while you’re at work. See you tonight.”
The line clicks dead.
Mark watches and rewatches videos of Gordon Ramsey’s technique for cooking ribeye on his phone. He sits at his desk alone, allowing the hours to slink past in his dark booth until it’s finally time to go home.
Mark stands before the stove putting a hard sear on two beautiful cuts of meat. He spoons melted butter with garlic on top of them as they sizzle. Emma watches Golden Girls, her favorite show, in the living room, eagerly anticipating her favorite meal. The two can still see each other because of the way their tiny apartment is arranged. Mephistopheles prowls the kitchen floor sending venomous glares at Mark between longing glances at the meal he prepares. The scent of sizzling meat fills the air.
“That. Smells. Amazing!” Emma shouts.
“Well let’s just hope I don’t overcook them.” Mark answers while shooing Mephistopheles with his foot. The cat runs over and jumps on Emma’s lap. She scratches his head.
“Knowing you, I’m sure you’ve spent the day researching techniques. We’re not worried, are we buddy?” she asks, nuzzling Mephistopheles’ face.
Now that they’re both home, comfortable and decompressing, Mark decides to press the issue a final time.
“So, can we talk about it yet?” He flips the steak over and their hissing is renewed. He hears the volume on the TV turn down and the soft thud of Mephistopheles jumping down from Emma’s lap.
“I’d rather we wait ‘till after dinner, if that’s—”
Mark slams his palm on the counter, knocking over spices and seasonings. His face flushes, his heart races and the heat from the stove makes him feel he’s losing his mind.
“Or maybe we just wait until you’re fucking dead, yeah?” he shouts. He spins around to see a shocked Emma staring wide eyed at him. In all their time together he’s never once been this loud with her.
“How dare you?” he continues. “Are you fucking serious, Emma? You want me to sit here and say nothing while the person I’ve loved more than anything in the world for the past five years literally rots to death in front of me?”
She stares at him with her fake half-smile while tears run down her face.
“How dare you?” Mark is screaming now. “How dare you act like nothing has changed. Maybe for you one day this will all just be over. Maybe for you it’ll just be darkness and painlessness. Well, you know what? Not me! Fuck this and fuck Cancer. And fuck you for wanting me to watch you die without even having the courage to ask it! I don’t get to die, Emma! I don’t get to give up! I have to keep living after this and remember that stupid fucking smile you have. That fucking invincible grin that not even Cancer can wipe off your face!”
A blood-curdling screech from the kitchen stops Mark’s eruption and the pair look to the kitchen to see Mephistopheles leaping down off the stovetop. One of his paws has received a nasty burn — penance for his attempt to make away with a ribeye. He sprints into a corner of the kitchen and hisses at Mark.
“What is wrong with you?” Mark barks. “Do you want to die dude?” A toxic combination of fear and guilt courses through him. He frantically grabs ice out of the fridge for the small creature’s paw.
Emma moves over and grabs his arm. “Mark, calm down. Everything’s okay.”
The ridiculousness of her statement forces him to pause and look at her.
They stand in the kitchen for a quiet moment, just staring at each other.
“He just wants to live,” Emma says. “He just wants to enjoy his life. He loves his life. He loves you for making it better. Even if he doesn’t show it all the time. He wants his life to be the best it can for as long as it can. That means taking risks sometimes. I mean who doesn’t love steak?” Her tone changes as she grabs both Mark’s hands and looks deep into his eyes. “Besides, you remember what the doctor said. Minutes matter. I don’t want to spend a single one hooked up to a machine with my shriveling body reflected in your eyes. All that just to leave you with so much debt you can’t live your own life when I’m gone?” She rubs his cheek. “No thank you, sir.”
Mark’s face is slick with tears he hadn’t noticed. “Emma, I—”
“Which is why, if you could’ve made it ‘till after the fucking dinner” she says, rolling her eyes and getting on one knee, “I was going to do this.” She produces a small gold band from her back pocket. “Mark Swanson, will you marry me?”
“But you—”
“Please?”
Mark falls to the floor and embraces her. He nods and says yes. They hold each other on the floor of their kitchen, crying and smiling together.
“Now let’s get your devil cat to the vet,” Mark says. “That looks like it hurts.”
“He’s your devil cat too, you know,” Emma says, grinning ear to ear.
“Yeah, I know.” Mark moves over to the injured creature and picks him up. “Come here, Meph.”
For the first time, the cat purrs in Mark’s arms.
Woodrow Walters is a writer from Logan, Utah, whose work appears in the Palouse Review, as well as the anthology *Faithful Hearts*, published by The Writer’s Cache and available on Amazon. He’s currently working on his first novel series, which should be out for consideration in the next year. He is the managing editor of Sink Hollow, the undergraduate-run literary magazine published at USU, and the ambassador for Helicon West, a free, uncensored performance venue for the written word open to the public since 2005.