You Take It From Here by Pamela Ribon Page B

people to come up to you and tell you to do something about it.” I was there that day, hiding behind a sunglasses kiosk, mortified down to my very last blood cell.
    And do you know, one year later that woman with the mole showed up on your doorstep with a homemade sheetcake and a dozen roses, thanking your mother for saving her life?
    Nobody ever stopped Smidge from talking, because she somehow had the ability to always end up being some kind of right. It was maddening.
     

    I was sliding a dark walnut bar stool out from under the bar for Smidge when she gently pushed me aside.
    “I’m not dying today , Danielle. You can cool it on the coddling.”
    I tried to cover. “I just assumed you were too short to reach the bar without some help.”
    “I’m not buying that,” she said. “But I will buy your first drink.”
    In the hours after Smidge dropped the bomb on me, we had silently driven to Atlanta, quietly checked into a hotel, robotically changed outfits, and then practically sprinted to a rather swanky, dark bar in midtown. We didn’t have to say why; I knew neither of us could handle whatever we were about to discuss without a drink. I’m glad we found a quieter spot in a corner, pressed up against the bar near a mirrored wall, watching the place grow crowded.
    The regular patrons were standing together in easy-to-recognize groups. There were the overly boisterous office workers who’d been here since happy hour, ties loosened and pumps off. The young married women early into a girls’ night that would end badly, their shot glasses aloft as they focused on temporarily forgetting all the young children they’d left at home in the shaky care of their husbands. Awkward body languagegave away the couples on first dates, unsure how close they could sit despite—or because of—the noise level.
    The walls around the bar were glassy and black, twinkling with ever-rotating dots of lights, making everyone look just a little more glamorous. For a second I was homesick. The upscale atmosphere reminded me of a place James and I would have gone to in Los Angeles after a movie or for celebratory drinks with friends.
    I studied Smidge’s face, thinking maybe I could find a sign, some hint as to how advanced her cancer was. What would I do if I were faced with the knowledge that my time was quickly coming up? Would I want to sit here with my friend at this trendy bar in Atlanta, ordering a martini? Wouldn’t I want to be home with my family?
    It might seem wrong that I could think of my own life, my own decisions, as I was waiting to find out the details of Smidge’s illness. But everyone sees this disease through their own mortality, looking back over their shoulders, wondering, Would I be ready for this?
    Cancer is selfish. It rips through its victim’s body without the slightest hint of remorse. Then it spreads, jumping to anyone who hears the victim’s story, infecting those people with fear, guilt. Cancer is at its most selfish when it comes to the spouses, the families, the friends. Because that’s when it mutates again. For them, it’s not their cells it destroys. It’s their dreams.
    “Okay, so I’m just going to start talking,” Smidge said, smacking the bar with an open palm like a contestant on a game show. “I can’t take it anymore, Danny. You have got to get that look off your face. I am not a pound puppy.”
    I tried, turning my eyes turn downward, forcing my focusonto the bowl of wonton crispies left for us by the bartender. I picked at one, wondering how long I could waste time pretending I was deciding whether or not to eat it.
    There was another pause as Smidge took a healthy gulp of her drink. She leaned back, eyes closed in boozy bliss. Finally, she said, “These taste much better when you’re dying.”
    I tried to laugh but my breath caught in my throat. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be drinking?”
    “Lord,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Here we go. I’ll tell you something