Goodnight Tweetheart (12 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Watched the IQ episode of FRASIER last night. Learned I’m smarter than Frasier but dumber than Niles
.

If I were president, I’d appoint a Starbucks czar, a hot stone massage czar, and a dark chocolate M&Ms czar
.

Doctors should give out bottles of Dark Choco M&Ms labeled HAPPY PILLS. Take 30 and don’t call me in the morning
.

Dear New Age CD: This track might be more relaxing if it didn’t sound just like the music they played when TITANIC was sinking
.

Abby groaned out loud, earning a faintly annoyed look from the man skimming the
Times
and nursing a Caramel Macchiato at the next table. She was doing it again. Tweeting in her head. Collecting observations of 140 characters or less to share with Mark. She desperately wished there was some way she could flip the stubborn switch in her brain to off so it would stop tweeting. It was almost as if it was sending out some sort of distress signal to a tower that was no longer receiving.

She took a sip of her latte, then grimaced. The coffee had grown stone cold while she sat absently watching the traffic pass by on Fifth Avenue and chatting up a phantom. Before she had “met” Mark, she hadn’t wanted to leave her apartment. Now she only returned there to sleep. She just couldn’t bear to be trapped in the same room with her laptop, much less think about actually turning it on. She’d let it sit cold, dark, and silent since she’d signed off of Twitter for the last time nearly a week ago.

During that week she had learned there were a lot of places in New York where you could loiter all day without being arrested for vagrancy—the public library, the Guggenheim, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rockefeller Center, St. Patrick’s Cathedral. One sunny afternoon she had even laid claim to one of the benches that lined the Poet’s Walk. But the sight of all the happy couples had driven her out of the park to wander the bustling streets until she was so exhausted she had no choice but to return to her apartment and fall into bed. She had slept all night without dreaming a single dream.

After that she had returned to her old familiar stomping ground. Fueled by caffeine and righteous indignation, she had been writing at various Starbucks all week, scrawling page after page of her new book on a yellow legal pad in her barely legible handwriting. Judging by the superior smirks of her fellow Starbucks customers, with their sleek iPads and vibrating BlackBerries, you’d have thought she was using a chisel to carve her words into a stone tablet.

She might be able to escape her apartment and her laptop, but there was nowhere she could go to escape her own brain. She was still haunted by the ghost of a man who had never even really existed. She would have almost sworn they had actually strolled the Poet’s Walk hand in hand while trading semi-serious quips about what they were looking for in a relationship.

Do you think you’ll ever remarry?

No
.

She might know the truth about Mark’s medical condition, but she had no way of knowing if he had responded that way because his divorce had left his heart so badly scarred or because he didn’t believe he would live long enough to marry again. He had lied to her with effortless charm, yet it was those heartbreaking moments of honesty she couldn’t seem to forget.

She still couldn’t believe she’d only been a tweet away from revealing that she had already purchased a ticket to Dublin. From telling him that her mother’s unwavering faith in love—a faith that transcended even death—had inspired her to take a chance. To tear down the walls she’d built around her own heart, even if that meant risking everything by offering it to a man she barely knew.

But before she could do that, he had sent his own wrecking ball crashing through them.

She didn’t want to think about how difficult his confession must have been for him or picture him lying in that hospital bed the entire time they had been tweeting. She couldn’t afford to feel sorry for him. She didn’t have any room left in her heart to grieve another loss. She wanted to hold on to her anger for as long as she could. She was afraid of what she might feel when she no longer had its jagged edges to protect her.

She scribbled another line on the yellow pad, hoping to occupy her brain with something more productive than brooding. A familiar chirp sounded behind her. She froze, the cheery sound cutting through her heart like a blade. She slowly turned to look over her shoulder, as if fearful any sudden move might sever some essential artery.

A twenty-something girl with a bright magenta pashima draped over one shoulder had claimed the high-top table behind her and flipped open her laptop to reveal Tweetdeck’s distinctive columns. The laptop chirped again, signaling the arrival of another tweet. The girl grinned as she read it, then sent her fingers flying over the keys to craft a response.

Only a week ago that might have been her, Abby thought. But as she had discovered since that night when she had abandoned Mark in mid-tweet, a week could be an eternity.

Or it could be only the blink of an eye in the life of a man battling lymphoma.

Seized by a sudden rush of panic, Abby jumped to her feet and stuffed her legal pad into her portfolio with shaking hands. She started for the door, stumbling over the outstretched legs of the man nursing the Caramel Macchiato.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, rushing past him as he gave her a disapproving glare over the top of his newspaper. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

Abby stared at the screen of her laptop, hypnotized by the cheery yellow square with the silhouette of a blackbird perched in her dock. All she had to do was slide her cursor over it and click to open her Tweetdeck. She’d already taken the first step by turning the computer on.

She steadied her trembling fingers by closing them over her wireless mouse. Buffy and Willow Tum-Tum watched her every move from the foot of the futon she had called a bed for the past four years, managing to look both bored and expectant in the way that only cats could.

Outside the window the sun had already begun to set. Soon the room would be lit only by the intimate glow of the laptop. If Mark wasn’t actually in Europe, then they might even be in the same time zone. He might be lying in some hospital bed, watching the day fade and wondering if she was doing the same.

Knowing there was only one way to find out, she gave the mouse a decisive tap with her index finger. Her neglected Tweetdeck sprang to life, its orderly row of columns filling the screen. At first it was completely blank. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until the first tweet popped up on the screen with a cheerful chirp, only to be quickly followed by a dizzying array of others.

She didn’t even glance at them. She only had eyes for the empty column that was her Direct Message column. She closed those eyes briefly, her heart catching in her chest. When she opened them, the Direct Message column was full. Confused, she squinted at the column. All of the messages had come from the same person, but she didn’t recognize the profile pic. That’s when she realized Mark had changed his avatar from the generic Twitter bluebird to a .jpg of John Cusack holding the boombox over his head as Lloyd Dobler in
Say Anything
.

She cupped a hand over her mouth to capture a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

Knowing it would be impossible to read anything but his most recent tweets on Tweetdeck, she minimized the app and went directly to the Twitter website. Every Direct Message she’d ever received was still stored there. She had to track back over five pages to find the date when she’d stormed out of their cyber-playground with her day-of-the-week panties in a wad.

Over twenty-four hours had passed before Mark had dared to tweet again.

Tuesday, June 14—7:35
P.M.

MarkBaynard: I’m guessing you’re listening to WE USED TO BE FRIENDS by the Dandy Warhols right about now. (You know—the theme from VERONICA MARS.)

MarkBaynard: You haven’t Unfollowed me or Blocked me yet so I’m going to assume you’re still receiving.

MarkBaynard: I want you to know that I don’t blame you for blowing me off.

MarkBaynard: I won’t even take it personally if you’re wishing me dead at the moment. But I should warn you that it takes more than that to kill me.

MarkBaynard: My doctors have been trying to kill me since I was sixteen. They redoubled their efforts recently, but have still met with limited success.

MarkBaynard: So far they’ve only succeeded in making me WISH I was dead.

MarkBaynard: At least we still have that much in common. We both wish I was dead.

MarkBaynard: You’re probably waiting for me to say I’m sorry. But I’m not and I’d be lying if I said I was.

MarkBaynard: And I figure you’ve had just about enough of me lying to you. The truth is you’ve been the only bright spot in some pretty dismal weeks.

MarkBaynard: If not for you, I never would have gotten to see the Eiffel Tower while sipping espresso in a Paris cafe.

MarkBaynard: I never would have watched the sun set over the vineyards from a balcony in Tuscany.

MarkBaynard: I never would have listened to the cathedral bells echo through a piazza in Florence.

MarkBaynard: And I never would have kissed the Blarney Stone and wished for the words to tell you the truth.

MarkBaynard: So I’m not sorry I lied to you, but I am sorry for being such a selfish bastard about it.

MarkBaynard: In the interest of no longer being a selfish, lying bastard, I shall now own up to having non-Hodgkins lymphoma Stage III.

MarkBaynard: (As opposed to Stage Right, where they’ll be expecting me to exit if this new experimental treatment doesn’t work.)

MarkBaynard: I was diagnosed and underwent chemo and a bone marrow transplant for the first time when I was 16.

MarkBaynard: I stayed in remission for 17 years until the lymphoma decided to kick my ass again. I didn’t respond as well to treatment this time around.

MarkBaynard: They’ve spent the past few months preparing to harvest my stem cells for a new experimental treatment.

MarkBaynard: This disease is a little like the California penal system—three strikes and you’re out.

MarkBaynard: At the moment the count is full with 2 strikes & 3 balls. But I decided it would be better to go down swinging than take a called 3rd strike.

MarkBaynard: Oh hell, here comes my nurse with my 8 PM meds:
http://twitphoto.com/MB7stj

MarkBaynard: Are you too young to recognize Nurse Ratched? It’s times like this that I really miss your Naughty Nurse costume.

MarkBaynard: And you.

MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …

Wednesday, June 15—7:30
P.M.

MarkBaynard: I hope you’re not disappointed to discover I’m still clinging to life.

MarkBaynard: Rough night last night. After Nurse Ratched and her magical mystery medications had their way with me, I was way too wired to sleep.

MarkBaynard: Only thing on TV was a KEEPING UP WITH THE KARDASHIANS marathon, which made me long even more keenly for the sweet oblivion of death.

MarkBaynard: So I downloaded a copy of A FINE AND PRIVATE PLACE and spent most of the night reading your favorite book.

MarkBaynard: If you’d told me it was about a guy who lives in a graveyard, a couple of ghosts & a snarky talking raven I’d have read it a long time ago.

MarkBaynard: The raven kind of reminded me of me. I like that in a talking bird.

MarkBaynard: I can’t decide if the moral of the story is that love transcends death or death transcends love.

MarkBaynard: I have learned that nausea transcends both death & love. As do the powdered scrambled eggs they feed you for breakfast in this place.

MarkBaynard: Who even knew it was possible to be nauseated and starving to death all at the same time?

MarkBaynard: I was wondering if we could go to Cracker Barrel on our next date?

MarkBaynard: Maybe order up one of those big sampler platters w/eggs, biscuits and gravy, hash browns, apples, pancakes, warm maple syrup, muffins …

MarkBaynard: … and an entire pig brought straight to your table w/another pig in his mouth instead of an apple.

MarkBaynard: That’s my sad little fantasy these days—you and a whole lot of bacon.

MarkBaynard: I could buy you something from the gift shop while we’re there. Maybe some saltwater taffy or Patsy Cline’s Greatest Hits.

MarkBaynard: Or one of those old-timey toys where you use that stick on a cord to try to get the magnetic shavings to stick to the bald guy’s head.

MarkBaynard: Or a bubble gum cigar. I could slide the little paper ring from it onto your finger and we could make jokes about how cheap I am.

MarkBaynard: Of course if you’re more of a Grand Slam from Denny’s kind of gal, I understand.

MarkBaynard: They usually let me wear my own clothes except on days when I have to have more tests.

MarkBaynard: These hospital gowns give a whole new meaning to the phrase “full disclosure.”

MarkBaynard: Today I accidentally mooned the grumpy old lady in the next room & an ultra-bitchy X-ray tech.

MarkBaynard: At least I pretended it was an accident.

MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …

Thursday, June 16—3:47
P.M.

MarkBaynard: If it’s revenge you’re plotting, it should delight you to learn my mother breezed into town today for a visit. (Cue Darth Vader theme.)

MarkBaynard: Even after all these years of dealing with this disease, she still seems torn between fluffing my pillow and smothering me with it.

MarkBaynard: I can never tell if she’s more disappointed in me for being inconsiderate enough to get sick again …

MarkBaynard: … or for not having expired in a more timely manner that wouldn’t have interfered with her Monday night Bunko game.

MarkBaynard: I think she’s always secretly believed there’s no ailment a pack of Virginia Slims Lights and a 3-martini lunch can’t cure.