Read Online The Book of Someday by Dianne Dixon - Free Book Online Page B

brownstone where a Justice of the Peace was waiting to perform their wedding. This is the Jason that Micah has come here wanting to see. The young man, the handsome, appealing man. He’s the one who could have given her the reassurance—and the forgiveness—she needs.
    But the Jason in Micah’s memory isn’t in any way the man who has ushered her into his house, who is standing in front of her now. And it’s tearing her apart.
    His living room is small and square-shaped, surprisingly tidy. The thrift-shop furniture, a sofa and two chairs, is spotless: slip-covered in sky-blue bed sheets held in place by neat rows of chrome-colored safety pins. He’s gesturing for Micah to take a seat on the sofa. After she does, he slowly, tentatively, as if trying to keep pain at bay, lowers himself into one of the chairs. He’s struggling to hold his head up, drawing ragged breaths, exhausted by the effort of simply sitting down.
    Nothing about this moment or this place seems to make any sense. Micah can’t think of what to say, how to begin. She can’t sort out her tangled emotions. Her shame—for having treated Jason so badly on that September day in Cambridge. Her pity—for the wreck that he’s become. Her selfish disappointment—for having flown all the way to Kansas, wanting the beautiful Jason she knew so well, and ending up with an invalid she doesn’t even recognize.
    Micah has had countless men. Countless lovers and affairs. She’s spent her life in a carnival of male attention and sexual adventures. But in that delicious, ever-changing parade of men, there has only been one Micah has never forgotten, never stopped loving. Only one who has been important. Only Jason. Always. And only. Jason.
    His expectant expression is letting Micah know he’s waiting for her to speak first. “I’m not sure where to begin,” she says.
    “Well, I figure you probably have some questions you need to ask.” His cane has fallen onto the floor; he’s leaning forward, fishing for it with a hand that’s colorless and unsteady. “Want to know the joke of this?” he laughs. “When I was a kid my mother’s favorite charity was multiple sclerosis. Because it was such a bitch of a disease and she felt so sorry for the poor bastards who got it.”
    Micah can’t bear to see how depleted and feeble he is. She’s glancing around the room, doing her best not to look at him, wishing it were yesterday and that she’d never gotten on the plane. All she can think to say is: “How long have you been living here?”
    “I figured you’d have that information already.”
    “Why?”
    Micah shifts her gaze to meet his. And he smiles in a strange, surprised sort of way.
    And she asks: “Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “I don’t know,” he chuckles. “I was just thinking…you’re mighty pretty.”
    Mighty pretty. That homey, Midwestern style of saying things. Micah hasn’t heard a phrase like that for a long, long while. For some reason, hearing it now is bringing her close to tears. The heat of those waiting tears—and the kindness she’s noticing in his eyes—is melting something in Micah. Something that’s been frozen with fear ever since the final day of her trip to New York.
    Without intending to, she’s telling him: “I have cancer. It’s bad and they want to do surgery. I’ll probably lose my breasts—”
    Micah stops. For an instant everything has gone blank.
    Then she tells him: “If I don’t say yes to treatment right away, I’ll probably die. But I’m thinking maybe, because of the evil I’ve done, dying is what would be fair. I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t fight the cancer…that it’s my punishment and I should just let it happen. To finally make amends.”
    He shakes his head, staring off into mid-distance, processing what he’s just heard. “Sounds to me like right now you’re not thinking straight.”
    After a while, he looks back at Micah. He seems perplexed and asks: “What could you