On Second Thought

Sure, sure, I sounded sanctimonious, but really, people could be such jerks. Eric had talked about this in his column, how people threw around terms like “good cancer” and “great odds” and just didn’t understand.

No matter what, Eric had been afraid of dying.

There was part of him, I knew, that had wished his battle had been a little...well, a little more dramatic. He’d been prepped to be noble and uncomplaining. That was why he asked me to get him the column at Hudson Lifestyle. His journey, he said, would inspire people.

And it did. Well. I was inspired, of course. The blog didn’t get a lot of traffic, and Jonathan was irritable about it, so I lied to Eric about the statistics. He’d been fighting cancer. He didn’t need to know his views were in the dozens (sometimes not even that).

The truth was, the CCs were kind of...bland. Eric wrote about finding silver linings, living in the moment, being present, the transformation of the caterpillar to butterfly. There was a lot of detail about his treatment. Even a picture of the pre-and postoperative scrotum, which we had to take down as soon as Jonathan saw it, since it violated the magazine’s pornography rules (that was an awkward meeting, let me tell you).

Eric liked to use quotes: Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the realization that there is something more important than fear... Live to fight another day... You are braver than you know, stronger than you think... It’s always darkest before dawn. (That one made even me wince.)

It wasn’t exactly new territory, or great writing. Every Monday morning, Jonathan would fix me with a dead-eyed stare after he read the blog. I didn’t care. It wasn’t like Hudson Lifestyle was Newsweek. And besides, Eric was always very flattering when he referenced me. He called me Sunshine on the blog, rather than using my real name. To protect my privacy, he said, though I wouldn’t have minded being outed.

“Why doesn’t anyone comment?” Eric asked a few weeks after he started, and that was when I made up a bunch of fake usernames and started posting. Lucy1991, CancerSux9339, EdouardenParis, LivefromNewYork28, DaveMatthewsFan! and LovesToRead288 were actually all me.

There’d been this one woman who’d had chemo at the same place Eric went. Noreen. She’d been so, so sick, so thin it was a wonder her legs held her. No hair, no eyebrows, sores at her IV sites, yeast infections in her mouth, bleeding gums, yellow skin and slack, hollow eyes, a cough so hard I was surprised she didn’t bring up her large intestine. It was her third time around with cancer. The odds were not in her favor.

But Noreen always smiled, asked after the nurses’ kids by name, sometimes even crocheted little blankets for the preemies in the neonatal unit when she had the strength. Never lost her sense of humor, wore funny T-shirts that said My Oncologist Can Beat Up Your Oncologist and Does This Shirt Make Me Look Bald? She was never anything but gracious, kind and happy. Every time I went in to sit with Eric, I was terrified Noreen wouldn’t be there, that the cancer finally devoured her.

Against all odds, she made it. In fact, she ran a half marathon last month and raised more than twenty-five grand for cancer research. That was when Eric started training for one, too.

But Eric’s cancer journey had been...well, it had been easy. Easy as cancer journeys go, that is. No hair loss (though he did shave his head). Only two days of puking and diarrhea that might’ve been caused by some iffy sushi. He lost fifteen pounds, but then again, he needed to, and it was more through our new macrobiotic diet than because of chemo. There was one week where he took a nap every day.

So what Rob’s wife had said was true. If there was a cancer you had to have, testicular was the way to go. And Eric had sailed through it like a champ.

I knew he exaggerated on his blog, but I didn’t bring it up. He had cancer, for the love of God.

And he won. Maybe his battle wasn’t as tough as other people’s, but he won.

My throat was tight with happy tears. I set Ollie back on the floor so he could win more hearts and minds, and took a breath, wanting to press our night into my memory forever. Three Wall Streeters were laughing in the corner. Lillie, my college roommate, was giggling with her fiancé. Everyone looked so happy.

Almost everyone, that was.

“You really went all out, didn’t you?” My stepmother, Candy, appeared at my elbow. “I can’t imagine what this cost.”

“So worth it, though,” I said, determined not to let her ruin my mood.

“If you say so.” She gave me her patented, squinty look of disappointment—I did my best, but look what I had to work with.

A word about Candy.

She and Dad were each other’s once and future spouses, as it were. The first time around, they met in college, got married, had Sean and Kate. Then, when Kate was seven, they got a divorce.

Not very long after the divorce—a few months, I was told—Dad married my mother, Michelle, who died when I was three. A pickup truck hit her one Sunday afternoon as she was riding her bike. Six months after that, Dad went back to Candy and married her again.

Candy wasn’t an evil stepmother. She took care of me when I was sick and asked if I did my homework, but...well. She already had her children, and they were past the age when they needed help brushing their teeth. I was not encouraged to call her Mom. “Your mother is in heaven,” she’d say calmly if the M-word slipped out, as it sometimes did. “You can call me Candy.”

Dad, who had been a great baseball player in college but not quite good enough to play for a living, was an umpire for Major League Baseball. He traveled seven months of the year, so the bulk of my upbringing fell to Candy. And while she did take my father back, she never got over him dumping her for a younger, prettier woman. Every few years, she’d announce that she was divorcing Dad, though she never followed through.

Candy had a PhD in psychology and had authored several books on family dynamics, including The Toxic Mommy and Stuck with You: Raising the Recalcitrant Stepchild. Other cheerful titles included Freeing Yourself from Your Family and Parenting When You’ve Got Nothing Left. She was a bit of a celebrity on the parenting circuit, and also the advice columnist for Hudson Lifestyle, which she wrote under the name Dr. Lovely.

She was great out in public and took her appearance very seriously—expensive blond hair, glaring white teeth, a perfect size four, five foot two, abs of steel. At book signings and whenever confronted with a fan, she’d morph into a smiley, warm, wonderful person who never minded taking photos.

With us—with me, I should say—she remained brittle. Which was okay. She had her reasons, and she’d never been cruel or angry toward me. Just resigned. She got her man back, but with the stiff price tag in the form of a toddler.

“Oh, honey, this is gorgeous,” said Eric’s mom, Judy, pouncing on me with a hug. “You’re so wonderful, you know that? And look at you! So beautiful!”

“Thanks, Judy!”

“Candy, how are you? Isn’t this a special day?”

“It is.” My stepmother forced a smile, then backed away. Judy and I exchanged a look. We’d gossip about everything tomorrow. Tomorrow, when I’d be engaged.

“I love your dress. Perfect for tonight!” she said.

So she knew. Excellent. “Well,” I said, feigning innocence, “white for a clean start.”

She pressed her lips together so as not to blurt out the news. Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what he’d do without you, Ainsley,” she said. “You’re a treasure.”

“Oh, Judy,” I said, my voice husky. I gave her a hug, and my sister aimed her camera at us. Kate did take the best pictures.

“Where’s my second-best girl?” Eric’s dad asked, joining us. “You look beautiful, darling. Both of you do.”

The Fishers were the best. “You’re a daughter to us,” his mother had been saying for the past decade. They had the kind of marriage I wanted—affectionate, open, happy and fun. My boyfriend had great role models, that was for sure. We went on vacation with them every year, and we always had a great time, a fact that befuddled my friends.

Judy and I would go crazy planning the wedding. It could be Jewish, since that would be important to them, and would win me even more points as best daughter-in-law ever. We’d have the canopy and the breaking of the glass and the fun dance with the chairs...

I looked over at my honey. He stood next to the huge montage of pictures of himself he’d put up. Eric before cancer, a little chubby. Going into the hospital for surgery. Lying in the recovery room afterward. Hooked up to an IV bag. (He asked me to take all these, for the record.) Just after he shaved his head. Wearing his Fuck You, Cancer T-shirt, sitting in his favorite chair, seven prescription bottles next to him.

He met my eyes and smiled, then clinked a fork on his champagne glass.

Oh, God, it was time. I looked around, my heart revved up and my toes clenched in the red shoes. Jonathan and Candy were talking in a corner. The frat boys were doing shots. Rachelle was taking a picture of Kate and Nathan, calling them Kate and Nate, and asking Kate about camera settings.

“Folks, if I could have your attention for a minute,” Eric said. I swallowed hard. Everyone quieted and gathered around, ripples of laughter and conversation fluttering out. I hoped Kate would get a picture of the big moment. Oh, man, I was nervous! All these years waiting, and I was shaking!

“Folks,” Eric said again, “I just want to thank you all for coming to this party. As of noon today, I am officially cancer free!”

A cheer went up, and glasses were raised, and I felt tears slipping down my cheeks.

“It’s been a long, hard road,” he said, “and I wouldn’t be here without all of you. So this party is for you, all my friends and family who stood by me in this dark time. To life!”

“To life!” we all chorused back.

“L’chaim!” Aaron said. So Fiddler on the Roof! I loved that musical!

“And if you’ll indulge me here,” Eric continued, “there are a few people I need to thank specially. My parents, of course, the best people in the whole world. I love you, Mom and Dad. More than I could ever say.”

Judy sobbed happily, and Aaron wiped his eyes. “Love you, too, son,” he managed.