Page 56 of The Girl with No Name
Before Gatsby can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to find a message from my aunt Sarah. Although I grew up in Texas, she’s my connection to Chicago, which gave me the courage to come here. She’s also one of the main inspirations in my life. In her youth she was an artist, like I aspire to be. As I read the message, my heart begins to pound.
Aunt Sarah: I have a personal update. Can you please call me when you can? Thanks
“I’ll be right back,” I told Gatsby. “I need to make a quick call.”
Moving away from the bustling gallery, I dial Aunt Sarah, fear gnawing at me with each ring.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she begins when she answers, her tone heavy with emotion. “I’ll get right to it. I went in for my checkup, about that mass in my colon.”
“Yes?”
“The doctors have confirmed…it’s stage-four cancer.”
“Oh my God.” A lump forms in my throat. Aunt Sarah isn’t just my aunt; she’s a pillar of strength. She’s always believed in my dreams and encouraged me to pursue them. In that moment, as the museum hums with life around me, all I can focus on is the fragility in her voice and the uncertain future ahead.
A few seconds of silence pass. I want to offer her comfort, some solace, tell her it’s going to be all right—like she’d done for me during tough times in my life. But I can’t find the words. Finally I just say, “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”
“Thank you,” she replies. “Thank you.”
“When should I come by?”
“I’m not feeling up to it today. But tomorrow would be great.”
“I’ll come see you in the late morning before my shift tomorrow. How does that sound?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“I love you, Aunt Sarah.”
“I love you too,” she says and hangs up.
I come back into the exhibit, and evidently Gatsby can read the emotion on my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“It’s my aunt.” I explain the situation.
“I’m so, so sorry. What can I do?” he asks.
“Nothing. There’s nothing that can be done.”
We leave the museum and head out to a bar. After a few drinks, I ask him something that has been on my mind. Death seems exceptionally real right now, after the news about Aunt Sarah. Or maybe I’m just so in love.
“What would you do if we, you know, had a kid?”
“We use protection,” he says. “So it wouldn’t happen.”
“But if it did?”
He looks me in the eye. “I’d deal with it.”
I nod. It would be a blessing. Nothing could get in the way of this thing between us.
“Let’s go home,” he says, as if confirming my thoughts, and I smile. He calls a Lyft and whisks me away to his apartment.
The next month develops a rhythm.I cut down on my shifts at the bar so I can take care of Aunt Sarah. First it’s visiting her in the hospital. Sometimes she is so weak she can’t speak, but with no kids of her own, I know she appreciates my presence. Then it’s getting her back to her apartment, making end-of-life arrangements, taking her for walks on nice days. There are late nights and times I stay over at her place.
One day, I’m over at Gatsby’s, telling him how my lease is ending and I don’t know where I’ll move next, especially with my decreased shifts and income lately.