One with nature: it’s not a term I’m typically fond of, nor was it one I had experienced. But after my make-out session with Mr. Hartlboro, I was off the train and found myself a few miles later on the local hiking trails. The sun was out in full mass, and shined through the naked branches in shreds of light. The smile on my face extended further, with the feel of fresh air in my lungs, and the taste of James still in my mouth.
There was something serene about the air; it had a clean quality to it, unlike the city air I was used to, choking with brake dust.
There were nuances to the mountainside. Granted, calling it a mountain was bold; but the act of pushing myself uphill with cancer in my lungs, made it Everest in my mind. Yet there I was, huffing and puffing my way to the top, being lapped by children with dogs, and touring groups seeking the perfect picture.
At the halfway peak, I stopped and sat. The Hudson was down below, and beyond was a landscape that looked painted. Rolling hills and mountain ridges bordered the endless river, guiding it to where it needed to go, like cupped hands through faucet water. The cool breeze came, drying beads of sweat and slowing my breath to a healthier pace. I let the image of what was in front of me take hold. Birds sang their songs and floated instead of flapping their wings, the sky blended in orange and pink hues, with contrast clouds—happy and dormant.
There were no thoughts of death or what could have been with James. There was only the then, and the now, and I emerged myself in both with everything I was.
Until…
My phone rang.
And worse, it read: Mom.
I exhaled slowly, watching my breath escape my mouth in a trail of steam. Did Mia tell her? I wondered. Did the doctor call her trying to find me?
It was now or never, I knew. I answered the phone.
“Olivia, please! I beg you, try! Please, just… TRY!” She never said hello.
“Mom—”
“I just don’t understand,” Mom continued on. “I don’t understand how you can do this to me? After everything we’ve been through with your father, how can you just give up like this?”
I felt my dials turn with one violent crank. I went from dully listening, enjoying the picturesque view of landscapes sold in souvenir shops, bordered by vintage wooden frames, to hearing that one question she spat out: How can you do this to me?
“To you?” I erupted, sending vengeful echoes through the trails.
“To you?” I said again. I always felt it best to repeat the words of importance, like how they do in a movie, with a nauseating predictability.
“I’m not doing anything to you, Mom! It’s being done to me. I didn’t ask for this, but it’s what I have to do. You saw Dad at the end, you watched how he died with no dignity, barely able to speak, like he was being tortured to death. I can’t do that… I won’t. This is my life, and this is my decision.”
Her sobs filled my ears.
“Your decision is suicide?”
Interesting question, I thought, but…
“No, Mom, quite the opposite. Suicide would be taking the treatment, withering away and dying. I’m choosing to live in a way I was too afraid to do before. I’m choosing to live far more than you ever have,” I said and felt my harsh words puncture her., but yet I couldn’t stop myself. “Look, Mom. I’m doing this whether you want me too or not. Please just respect my choice, because it’s my life, it’s not yours. I don’t think you ever had one.”
I hung up on her—a decision I grew to regret.
You see, I miss my mom, I really do, and I wish she was here now to hold my hand as Death creeps through that door. Because to tell you the truth, no matter how braggadocios I may come across, and no matter how much I talk about living life and confronting my fears, the god’s honest truth is I’m afraid…
I’m afraid.
See? It works every time.