Bride of C-Man

Firstly, yikes! but it's coming down hard out there. I hope it lets up by quittin' time. I hate driving in the rain. Especially at rush hour.

Anyway, here's the writing exercise. First, here's the prompt:

For this exercise, your character is sorting through some of his/her stuff and finds an old photo album. It belongs to the character, but they'd forgotten about it until now. Pick one of the pictures your character is viewing and flash us back to that time. Then, bring us back to the present.

I cheated, in that this doesn't actually contain a flashback. I thought it best to follow the inspiration instead of fighting it.

A further note: for the record, though this is anchored in personal experience, it is mostly made up, especially the bits about the mother-in-law. I love Mama Bauhaus.

Here's the story.

***
Bride of Cancer Man

The cheerful, childish crayon on the cover of the photo album made Regina smile, in spite of the title: “Mike’s Cancer Adventure.” Good to know he never lost his sense of humor.

“I’ve never seen this before,” she called, picking it off the top of the laundry basket. Three years they’d been married, and she never even knew this tribute to the worst time of his life existed. Of course, that was three years in which they’d never completely unpacked their things. After a marathon of home organization shows last week, Regina felt inspired. Hence the day’s unpacking and decluttering session. “Are you tossing this?”

“Is it in the toss basket?” Mike called from the bedroom.

“Yeah!”

“Then toss it!”

Regina sighed and opened the album. A bald, emaciated man who looked somewhere between twenty and eighty looked out at her with Mike’s beautiful blue eyes. Tubes ran from various parts of his body to destinations unseen. Regina winced. It hurt, seeing him like that. Imagining what he went through was hard enough without the photographic evidence. But it hurt more that she wasn’t there. She wasn’t part of his life then. So she kept looking.

“Cancer Man!” read a caption in doodled lettering beneath the picture. Cancer Man Mike smiled for the camera and offered it a tired thumbs up. A Spider-Man poster hung on the wall behind him, doing its best to brighten up a cheerless, sterile room. She imagined his mom behind the camera, spouting clichés meant to encourage as he forced himself into a cheerful pose, reaching over his own fear and pain to allay hers. Regina turned a few pages to find more of the same brave face. She lowered the book and looked at the fireplace, blinking hard, not acknowledging the ugly stab of hatred she felt for her mother-in-law except to note its complexity—one part anger, one part a perverse sort of jealousy that she’d been there; one part _gratitude_ that she’d been there; and about fifty parts pride in Mike’s ability to stay positive—or at least in his ability to fake it. She wondered, if she’d been there, would he have put on that face for her? Would she have needed him to? Or would she have made it safe for him not to? Could she have handled that?

She wanted to think she would, but she didn’t know. She wished she knew. She knew she had no business resenting Mike’s mom until she knew for certain. But she prayed daily that she would never find out.

It was always there, floating in the back of her mind, that possibility.

He’d been in remission for ten years when she met him. “Ten years is basically cured,” he’d said on their first date, like a reassurance, as if to say, “Don’t worry. This will never be your problem.”

But it was. Five years together, three years married—the scars were hers now as much as his. Not just the stump of what was left of his leg or the knots on his chest and arms where the shunts and tubes had been. It touched her in ways she’d never imagined. His anxiety was a constant, and knowing what he’d been through, she couldn’t fault him for it. It altered her lifestyle—the food she chose, how she cooked it, how she cleaned...even how she did her hair. She did everything she could to wipe out the cancer cooties and ease his fears. And hers. She didn’t let him see it, but it was there. Fear of becoming a young widow. Fear of being the one across from the camera, demanding from him a brave face.

The rattle of his crutches sounded his approach even on the hallway’s plush carpet. Regina shut the book and dropped it back on the basket. “Hey,” she said, then coughed to clear the catch in her throat.

“Hey.” He paused as he entered the living room, head tilted in concern. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah!” She forced cheer. It never convinced him, but he’d learned to take it as his cue to let things go. “I’m fine.”

He nodded in that way that said he didn’t believe her, but he wouldn’t push. “I’m going after a beer. Want one?”

“No thanks. Maybe later.”

He nodded again and started for the kitchen. She watched him go, admiring the strength in his arms and shoulders, the thickness of his dark hair, the flush in his cheeks from heaving boxes around. Crutches aside, he looked the picture of health. It was hard to imagine he’d ever been so frail as the kid in that photo album. Hard to imagine he could ever look that way again.

“Hey,” she called again as he reached the kitchen door. “Are you sure you want to get rid of that album?”

He looked at her, then at the album on the basket, his expression indifferent. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Maybe because I need it, she thought. “I don’t know,” she said. He wouldn’t get it. He never understood how left out she felt from that part of his life, how she needed to feel that connection. How fifteen years later his cancer still infected her. She felt too tired to explain it to him. He looked too tired to listen. Besides, he was too strong-willed to change his mind. That stubbornness caused a lot of arguments for them, but she didn’t begrudge it. She knew it was probably what saved his life. “No reason. Just wanted to double check.”

He went in the kitchen. Regina went back to the album. She opened it up in the middle, where a monster with a big “C” on its chest had been doodled in the margins, battling a stick-figure in a cape. She smiled. Then chewed her lip, imagining a time he might be less sure. Setting the book aside, she bagged up the rest of the basket’s junk. Then she took the album over to the bookcase, climbed to the top shelf, and nestled it safely behind the other photo albums, the ones filled with happier people and happier times.

In the kitchen, Mike sat at the table, drinking his beer. Regina went over and put her arms around him. She planted a kiss on his cheek. “What was that for?” he asked.

“Just couldn’t help myself.”

He twisted to grab her by the waist and pull her onto his lap. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling, her fears mashed down into their proper place, the healthy place that motivated her to make healthy choices for them both and not the scary place that made her want to cling to him and cry. “I’m glad I married you.” She didn’t say what she really meant. I’m glad you survived to marry me.

He set down his beer and wrapped his arms around her. She reveled in their strength and warmth, put her head on his chest and listened to his strong, steady heartbeat. Healthy. Healthy. Healthy.

“Not as glad as I am, babe,” he said. She didn’t need him to tell her he meant the same thing.