Part Three - Good Time Charlie

                                                                                

We are curbside, car idling. We are early. Abbey, my sweet Cavalier, hangs halfway out the front, passenger side window, wagging her tail at everyone who walks by. "That's not him, that's not him," I say, convinced she has no idea why we are here.

She knows exactly why we are here. We are waiting for the man who throws the ball, inside the house, over and over again. The man who gets down on the floor and crawls under the furniture to retrieve her ball. The man, who I suspect, gives her a sampling of our food when I'm not looking. She knows exactly why we are here. We are waiting for HER man to arrive.

She sees him first. He greets her first and I'm jealous. 

The next four days move quickly. Before, we set the pace. Before, we were able to slow time down enough to fit our needs. Our mornings in bed lingered. Our nights stretched from moonlight til dawn. 

Before, we were social. He met people who were important to me. Before, we cooked - he the chef, me his sous-chef. This time, I don't remember what we ate. 

Midway through his stay we take Abbey for a hike at a nature preserve and get lost. I blame the boy scouts for poor trail marking. He blames our sense of direction. Abbey doesn't care which way we go.  She is in woodlands full of fresh scents. She is with her man. 

We don't talk about cancer, or treatment, or doctors, or tests. I don't tell him how I met with my accountant and lawyer. How I am trying to transfer my security license to my daughter. I don't tell him about the playlist and photo album I made in preparation for my funeral. I don't tell him how I won't buy another jar of expensive face cream - how I'm using up all the old, expired bottles. I don't tell him how frightened I am. 

And just like that, we are curbside again. His bright blue luggage is by his side. Abbey hangs halfway out the front passenger side window and I stand curbside, arms wrapped around him. Our gaze is locked. 

An elderly woman in a wheelchair is ushered towards us. The soft locks of her silver-gray hair bounce in the breeze.  In unison, we step aside to make room for her to pass and she cackles, "Hope your wife doesn't find out." 

He stiffens. I drop my arms and step back.

How does she know?

The following day I am curbside again, this time headed to New Orleans. Robin is flying in from Philadelphia and Jeanie from California. Together, with my cousin Janie, who resides in New Orleans, we plan a party in the French Quarter. We will be silly and sassy - eat rich, spicy food, and drink tequila and absinthe. 

On the plane, a distinguished-looking man sits beside me - greeting me with a smile. We strike up a conversation and somewhere over Atlanta, he asks for my number. I tell him I'm seeing someone. "That does not deter me," he says. "I have cancer," I say. He responds the same way. We exchange numbers with the intention of meeting up for dinner when I return. 

Airport Man is married, I remind myself. And I am running out of time.

I don't know the type of sarcoma I have - the biopsy is not ample enough to determine this - and I won't know if it's spread until I have a PET scan, but I do know this is not curable. I want to live as big as I can until I can't. I cough with the fear that the cancer has spread to my lungs. I lift my arms to ease the heat from under them, convinced the cancer has spread to my lymph nodes. A friend, who is a medical professional, explains palliative care. 

We work our way down Bourbon Street, to Lafitee's Blacksmith House - the oldest bar in the country. I am seated in an open window when a tall man with white, flowing hair walks by. "Now there is a woman I'd like to get to know," he says to his friend and points at me. "Then ask for my number," I say. I'm bolder now that I have cancer again. I'm not used to this much male attention and wonder if cancer has a pheromone. 

On a napkin, Janie writes lyrics to what will certainly be a hit song...

4.27.2023 Shannon, Robin, Jeanie & Me

ABBY

She stumbled down the hallway of my mind.

Hips swaying from side to side. 

She's all hair

All boops and all hips

And she doesn't believe she is beautiful... 

We hang a hard left out of Lafitee's, then a right down Royal Street to FiFi Mahony's - a fabulous wig boutique. I've had enough tequila to make the mint green, whimsical wig with horns work but instead, settle on a playful, strawberry blonde wispy bob and dress it up a bit.

I text my daughter a picture of me in my new wig. "You've been wearing the same shirt for 3 days," she says. "Are you alright?"

The young woman who was once obsessed with her split ends is now hyper-focused on me. She is my primary caregiver, my emergency contact, and my main reason to live.

Later that evening, Charlie sends a text asking if we can get together for dinner.

"Remind me what you look like," I ask. 

He sends a picture. It's an artsy, black-and-white professional headshot. Serial dater, I think. "Handsome," I text.

I agree to meet him for a nightcap. "I'm incognito," I tell him. "I'd spot you anywhere," he says - not knowing I'm wearing a wig. 

We meet at a courtyard in the French Quarter by a flaming fountain. He tells me he has a gift for me and hands me a penny. "It's a lucky penny," he tells me. "I found it today, then dropped it. It rolled under a table but I got it back for you."

Charlie doesn't know that I have cancer and that good luck is exactly what I need. Charlie doesn't know that pennies are all about my son, Kerry - his way of letting me know that he is near. Charlie doesn't understand the coincidence of today's date - the 27th  - and how 27's are all about Kerry. 

I sit on his lap and run my fingers through his hair. It is soft and sexy. After several cocktails, he walks me back to my hotel and we make plans to meet up at the Jazz Fest the following day. He is polite. I am prudent.

At the Jazz Fest, my crew intertwines with his crew - we are three, they are two. He towers over me, beside me, beneath me - on the lawn he is my chair, in the blaze of the sun he is my shade. He never leaves my side.

There is so much I like about Charlie. His mind clicks fast and his moves are steady. He is a welcome distraction from my angst.

And Airport Man is married. And I am running out of time. 

"Meet me after dinner?" he asks the following day.

"Reserve a suite at the Hotel Monteleone, " I boldly say. "Bring something for me to wear and champagne."

Charlie doesn't know that my torso is carved up more than a Thanksgiving turkey, that my breasts are reconstructed and have no sensation, that my nipples are masterly molded from pig cadaver skin (or human, I can't remember), that I have a chemo port scar off-set by the long stretch of a melanoma scar, that what looks like areolas are faded, 3D tattoos, that my upper inner thigh has an impressive wound from a dog attack, that I am on my third bellybutton and have no rectum, that I had 18 inches of my large intestines removed - the rest are sandwiched together with mesh. And that I am shy.

He stands proudly in the center of the lobby, poised below two massive chandeliers and overshadowing a grand, grandfather clock. He is cradling a bottle of Crytal. There is a small backpack at his feet and I have no luggage. We greet each other ardently before heading to the elevator. "Our suite is newly renovated," he tells me.

We enter the elevator - a warm belly of mahogany with well-polished marble floors and brass, art deco fixtures. He presses the button for the 15th floor but the doors only close halfway. And then open. And then close. And then open again.

"The hotel is haunted," I say. 

The 14th floor, (really the 13th floor), is known for being haunted. During the late 1800s, the Begere family - regular guests at the Hotel Monteleone - were attending the opera when their toddler son passed away from a fever while in his Nanny's care. Throughout the years guests have reported seeing a friendly ghost on the 14th floor - the same floor that the International Society for Paranormal Research determined to be a hotbed of paranormal activity. 

"But we are on the 15th floor," I tell him. "We will be fine."

To be continued ...