Chapter 3

“Memory, the priestess, kills the present
and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.”
- Rabindranath Tagore
Indian author, philosopher

Celeste leaned down and grabbed her suitcases, and slowly walked towards me. In the three years since I’d last seen her, several things had happened. Firstly, I wasn’t about to stoop and scrape and come running at her beck and call. She was a strong young woman; she could carry her own damn bags. Secondly, she had that look on her face, the same look she always gave me when she wanted something.

And I knew that unless it was something that didn’t have the potential to hurt me, something that I wouldn’t mind giving to a stranger on the street, she wasn’t going to get it from me.

Not this time.

And again, I was wrong. So wrong.

Celeste dropped the suitcases on my porch and was suddenly in my arms, her own arms around my neck, burying her face against me. “Brad,” she said/moaned, “It’s so good to see you.” She pulled her head back and then slowly, softly kissed me on the lips. It was a friendly, warm, brotherly kiss, and then it lengthened for a second, grew some heat, and then was dust.

“Can I come in? We need to talk, big guy.” I had said nothing to this point, and I just nodded, opening the door and pointing with my chin. If she took offense at my non-offer of help, she didn’t show it. She just bent down, grabbed her suitcases and followed my lead. She dumped them at the base of the stairs and found the living room. She sat on a couch and looked around. I’d had a decorator in about two years ago, and the place looked good. I knew it, and she knew it. We were three years and as many thousands of miles away from Baltimore and those times.

I took a leather wing-chair across from the couch and crossed my legs, folding my hands in my lap, looking expectantly at the woman who had once filled my life with joy. I took a fast moment to think about her as she gathered her own thoughts.

I remember what it was like having her in my life every day. How I didn’t feel complete, didn’t feel ... whole, or human, until I’d seen her every day, talked to her, made her laugh and heard the sound that made the songbirds in the trees hang their heads in shame. How she made me feel human when the forces controlling my life conspired to make me feel less so.

And then I remembered the callous way she’d treated me, the easy ways she found to crush my spirit and trample my feelings. Celeste had a cruel streak in her, something she didn’t hesitate to use when she felt trapped or cornered. She sometimes delighted in seeing people bend to her will, seeing them flush with anger or embarrassment when her venomous tongue hit the mark. She was a bitch, through and through, and I’d fallen into the ultimate vanity, thinking I could tame her.

“Brad,” she said, her face somber and direct. “I don’t know quite how to say this ... I...” she trailed off, I suppose looking for the right words. I sat silently, not offering any help or brooking any bullshit.

“Last year,” she started, “the company switched insurance carriers in an effort to control costs. This new company believes more in preventative medicine than waiting for something to happen and then worrying about it. Towards that end, physicals are two dollars, drugs are like six dollars, most preventative procedures are likewise very affordable. I hadn’t had a physical in about five years, so I signed up and had a complete one done.”

A sudden ball of ice appeared in my stomach, and my mind started working, getting the denial circuits warmed up. Somehow, I knew. The only reason Celeste would come three thousand miles to see me was because she...

“They found something,” Celeste confirmed, searching my face. “They have this new toy, something called an MRI. Stands for Magnetic-”

“Resonance Imaging,” I finished for her. “It can take crystal clear pictures down to the cellular level. Thousands of times better than that old Computerized Axial Tomography...”

“Yeah. And what they found is...” Shaking her head, Celeste tapped a finger against her skull. “What they call ‘a mass.’ I call it a tumor. About the size of a plum.”

“Where?” I asked. “Exactly where?”

“I don’t know if I can remember it. Hemispheric something-or-other.”

“Hemispheric Bridge?” I asked, fear dripping from every word.

“Yes,” she said, and seeing the look on my face, she knew I knew.

“It’s inoperable, isn’t it?” Celeste nodded. “Chemotherapy? Radiation treatment?”

“Tried and failed. Both of them. My hair just finished growing back. The mass got bigger. It’s now about the size of a baseball. A small baseball. And it’s strike three for me, Brad. I’m out.”

I sighed, all thoughts of turing her away gone from my mind. “Do you know what the rate of metisis is?”