— Daniel —He begins writing it on a Tuesday.Not at the coffee shop. At his kitchen table, at six in the morning, before she wakes in the next room. He's been awake since three with a headache that ranked a seven on the scale he's been keeping in his head since September, and he has decided that keeping it in his head is no longer sufficient.He finds a sheet of paper — actual paper, not a notebook page — and a pen that works, and he sits down and writes:
Maya,Then he stops. He looks at the one word. He picks up his coffee. He puts it down.He has thought about this letter for months. Since before he met her. He has written versions of it in his head during the long insomnia hours, careful and complete, every word exactly right.Now, sitting in front of actual paper with her asleep ten feet away, all the careful words have gone.He tries again.
If you're reading this, it means I couldn't find a way to tell you in person. I am sorry for that. I am sorry for a lot of things but mostly for that.He reads it back. It sounds like the beginning of a suicide note. He crosses it out.He sits for a long time.He writes:
I was diagnosed with Glioblastoma Grade IV in February. It is a brain tumour. It is the kind that does not go away. I chose not to tell you because by the time I knew you I already—He stops again. He crosses out 'already' and sits with the incompleteness of the sentence.He knows what the end of that sentence is. He has known for weeks. He has been very careful not to say it, even to himself, because some things once said cannot be unsaid and he has so little time left for his thoughts to be his own.The headaches are worse. The blurred vision comes more often now. He called Caroline last week — not to tell her, just to hear her voice. She said he sounded tired and he said he was fine and they talked about nothing for an hour and he felt better for it, and worse.He has, by his own estimate, two months. Maybe three. The last scan he allowed himself to get — three weeks ago, in a city two hours away so there was no chance of running into anyone who knew him — confirmed the growth the previous one had suggested.He should leave. He has been telling himself to leave for four months. Every week he says: this is the last week. And then she exists at him and he cannot go.He looks at the unfinished letter. He looks at the doorway to the bedroom.He folds the paper and puts it in the top drawer, under his passport and a photograph of Caroline and him as children, outside a house that no longer belongs to their parents. He will finish it later. He will find the words.He makes fresh coffee. He makes eggs — her eggs, the ones she likes, with the herbs from the small pot on the windowsill. He sets the table.When she wakes and comes into the kitchen, sleepy and warm, and says "You made eggs" with a softness that makes his chest hurt, he says: "Sit down. I have something to tell you."And then he looks at her face — open and trusting and entirely unguarded — and the words dissolve."I think we should go somewhere," he says instead. "This weekend. Somewhere new."She smiles. "Where?""Anywhere. You pick."She thinks for a moment, her fork resting in the eggs. "The coast. I want to see the coast.""The coast," he agrees. He sits down across from her. He picks up his coffee.He will tell her after the coast. After the weekend. He will find the words when they are there and it is quiet and he has time.One more week.One more week.
