Chapter One

“It’s a brain tumor.”

Marlowe had never quite decided which way was better to hear bad news, with a bit of a preface — “what I’m about to tell you may be hard to hear,” “the prospects don’t look good,” “this is not going to be easy, but…” — or getting straight down to business. The preface really gets the blood adrenalized, but the straight news feels like a sucker punch. Apparently, Dr. Zeman had his druthers.

“Stage Four.”

Marlowe didn’t feel sure that she comprehended Dr. Zeman. Something felt off. Was she really in this quite plush doctor’s office with such truly remarkable Persian rugs? And look at those antique African masks hanging in triptych over the credenza. If this were the way he decorated his office, Marlowe was dying to see the inside of his home. No, not dying. Curious. Extraordinarily curious. And then the doctor cut-off her thoughts: “If I were you, I’d think about how I wanted to live out my next few months, not years. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”

She nodded with a smile and thought, the “I’m sorry” at the end — now there’s an interesting way.

Wait. Was she smiling? She was. Stop.

Look.

And there he was. Blake. Her husband, graying in that silvery way that only the handsomest do, looked stalwart against the onslaught of words Dr. Zeman flung at him. Why didn’t Blake tell Marlowe about his symptoms earlier? Why was this the first time she was sitting in a doctor’s office with him?

He bit his bottom lip. “Damn it.”

“Blake.” Marlowe attempted to reach for his hand, but knew his body language too well to continue pursuit.

His green eyes sent lasers straight to the core of Dr. Zeman, as though the doctor were responsible for the size and placement of the tumor. “You’re absolutely sure.”

“This explains your migraines, the vomiting, seizures…”

Seizures? Marlowe was stunned. He had been having seizures, and she didn’t know it?

“…and plus, it’s right there on the MRI. No mistake.”

The words “No mistake” took on its own existence, and blanketed them with a damp heaviness.

“I would begin to make arrangements,” Dr. Zeman continued, “for palliative care at home. I would make sure your will is in order. See family. And in whatever ways possible to enjoy the days you have left.”

“Well, this day’s a fuckin’ hoot,” said Blake. “A real fucking pleasure.”

Dr. Zeman paused before continuing. “Do you have any questions for me?”

They were both too stunned to reply.

“You have my number. Feel free to call. I’ll send the nurse in to give you some information and set-up your follow-up visit.”

And as though Dr. Zeman had lived this moment a thousand times before with a thousand other patients sitting right where Blake sat, the doctor stood, tapped his fingers on his desk, and left the room.

Marlowe turned to Blake. “Don’t say a word,” he said.

“But–”

Violently, he replied “Shh!”

And there they sat. In silence. Staring at the clock, their shoes, until the nurse arrived.

- – - – -

Blake walked in front of Marlowe at a furious pace through the hospital lobby and to the main entrance, where he presented his ticket to the valet.

“Just a sec’,” Marlowe said. “I’ve got one, too.” She scrounged around her purse to find her ticket, all the while regretting that she never had a special place for things like valet tickets, cell phones and keys. She always needed them quickly and now, all eyes were on her. “You know, go ahead. I’ll find it when you get back.”

“No, Marlowe, do it now while the man’s still here. While we’re young.”

“It’s too much pressure!” She nearly screamed the words. And she felt tears swarming beneath her eye lids.

“Oh, Jesus, Marlowe. Get yourself together,” Blake admonished. He snatched the purse from her and produced the pink valet slip. With two tickets in hand, the valet had his charge.

“You know, I want to feel bad for you,” said Marlowe, “really, I do. But this doesn’t give you license to be a complete ass to me.”

He ignored the comment.

“I mean, what am I supposed to do now?” she asked.

“Go to work,” he said. “Don’t you have a luncheon? Go to work.”

“And what about you? Are you going to work?”

“Of course I am. I have to quit.”

And with that, she could resist her tears no longer.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Blake? You didn’t tell me about anything!” she said.

“What did you need to know? That I was having headaches? Everybody has headaches. The nausea, the vomiting, the headaches — I’m carrying an insane caseload.”

“But you had a seizure,” she said. “How many did you have? More than one? How many?”

“After I had the first one — it was only two weeks ago at work — I made an appointment. We ran the tests, and here I am.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say?” asked Blake. “It’s not easy to face this, you know.”

“I know.”

“And those bastards. Those fucking bastards. I worked my tail off for them. I’m so fucking close to retirement.”

“Do you think you should be driving?” Marlowe asked.

Blake glared at her.

“I mean, I can drive you,” she said.

“I got myself here just fine. I can get myself to work.”

“Maybe now, with everything going on, maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

“It’s fine.”

“Then see if you can have someone drive you home, Blake. I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Oh, you don’t feel comfortable? Let me try to remember again: this is about you.”

Blake’s car rounded the entrance’s cul-de-sac.

“Just please have someone drive you home,” Marlowe called to Blake as he paid the valet. And in a moment, he was gone.

- – - – -

The car’s dash read five minutes to ten. The luncheon didn’t start for nearly an hour and a half. Maybe she shouldn’t go. No, that’s not an option. She needs to go. She must go. But she couldn’t go like this. What to do?

- – - – -

Marlowe allowed her subconscious to drive, and it took her to the one place she needed to be, a place she hadn’t been since she was a student at Northwestern University: her willow tree. In her fondest memories of college, the tree had made a home for her, a place of respite. Its branches dangled low, softly touching the grass all around. The only way to get “inside” was to part the curtain of leaves.

From there she could peer out through the vines at the large pond and the ducks who lived on it. She could hear the fountain set at the pond’s center, circulating water; she could hear snippets of conversations of people walking on the nearby path. She reflected; she journaled; she studied philosophy under that very tree decades and decades ago.

Marlowe wondered who else knew about this tree, apart from Blake. The willow tree sat nearly next to the student union — there were just too many people coming and going for no one else to notice this cozy little spot. But on all the occasions that she took to visit while she was in school, the tree was always there alone, waiting for her.

Such was the tree that day. Waiting.

They both had aged. Marlowe’s fiery auburn hair had been replaced with a bright grey. Her once fine, delicate skin had become mottled with age spots. It was harder to sit down and get up now, and she would never consider spending the night under the willow’s branches as she had in college. Who knew what it would do to her back. The last time she sat beneath that tree was a quarter-century ago.

But still, she felt that she was the same Marlowe as ever. Age couldn’t touch her sense of wonder, and she was thankful for always having that childhood optimism within her.

That sense of optimism came in handy today, because her tree had changed, and the change was dramatic. The willow’s weeping branches no longer swept the ground, but rose high at least six feet. Her first thought was that the grounds crew had trimmed the branches, with each snip, plucking away at her solitude. She imagined them stinking from sweat, talking about the lottery, and with grime on their hands, shearing her darlings who were useless to defend themselves. Was this even the same tree?

She stepped back several paces and realized. The tree had grown. It was different now. She was different now than those many years ago. Life happened. She wished she visited more often.

Marlowe walked toward the edge of the pond, using muscle memory to recall how she used to access that cozy space between the pond and the tree. She thought she found it. Perhaps. But here, now, things were not the same. She felt completely vulnerable, available for every passerby to see, in plain view.

More than that, there was barely enough room for her. Branches that used to hang low started at least half a dozen feet higher now. The trunk had become enormous, which flung the vines past the edge of the pond. The tree no longer had a spot for her. She had been gone. It moved on. But had she?

Here she was, standing on the ground where she used to daydream. None of her dreams included what happened today. In fact, she never dreamed of a time that she and Blake would be so distant that she wouldn’t know there was something wrong.

When they were both in school together, she had taken Blake here. One warm fall day, he rested his head on her lap while she tousled his curly locks and they talked about the future. They both wanted lots of kids; Christmases in Colorado with a ten-foot tall tree in the middle of their gigantic foyer to greet guests; friends visiting from far-away countries for whom they would throw lavish dinner parties and talk about politics, the arts and the intimate details of their lives. The topic of their jobs didn’t once come up during that conversation all those years ago, but that was all they had to talk about now. Their jobs.

In recent years, talk about their jobs included what their work entailed, but even that depth of conversation had trailed away. Now, they talked solely about the daily function of their lives — “what time do you need to get up for work tomorrow?”, “what time do you think you’ll be home tonight?”, “your cell phone rang; I think it’s work” — and their lives both revolved around their jobs. Which reminded Marlowe. She had work to do.