Before I Go

Colleen Oakley

• Publisher: Allen & Unwin
• Year: 2017
• Print ISBN:
  9781760112103
• eBook ISBN:
  9781743439319
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

Colleen Oakley's debut deftly balances sorrow with laughs and compassion. - Us Weekly

Her time is running out.
How can Daisy ensure that Jack will live happily ever after?

On the eve of what was supposed to be a triumphant 'Cancerversary' with her husband Jack to celebrate three years of good health, Daisy suffers a devastating blow: her doctor tells her that the cancer is back, but this time it's unstoppable.

Death is a frightening prospect - but not because she's afraid for herself. She's terrified of what will happen to her brilliant but charmingly helpless husband when she's no longer there to take care of him. It's this fear that keeps her up at night, until she stumbles on the solution: she has to find him another wife.

With a singular determination, Daisy searches for Jack's perfect match. But as the thought of her husband with another woman becomes all too real, Daisy is forced to decide what's more important in the short amount of time she has left: her husband's happiness - or her own?

april

seventeen

I DON’T EAT CHILI.

I’ve never liked it. I think the cans of it that I buy for Jack to slather onto his hot dogs look like dog food.

Yet I’m inexplicably standing in front of a table lined with Crock-Pots in a church basement, holding a Styrofoam bowl full of slow-cooked ground beef and spices. Orange puddles of oil have begun to congregate on top of the meat, and as I stare at the offending concoction, all I can think is: how did I get here?

Not literally. I know that I rode with Jack and we walked in together and now here we are, standing on top of linoleum and beneath cheap ceiling tiles.

And I know that it’s because I said yes. That I agreed that we should come.

At the open house, after the revelation that Jack and Pamela were not meeting for the first time, Jack offered me the missing puzzle piece: “Pamela volunteers at the Small Dog Rescue, too.”

He turned back to her. “But I didn’t know you worked here,” he said at the exact moment that Pamela said: “I didn’t know you had kids.”

Kids. Shit. Jack and I were supposed to be parents. Panicked, I glanced up at Kayleigh, her wide eyes meeting mine.

Following an awkward beat of silence, Jack spoke, easily explaining away our lack of children and therefore unnecessary presence at an elementary school open house: “We don’t. My wife is best friends with Kayleigh. She’s always wanted us to see where she worked.”

Wife.

I basked in the noun. Smug at the possession it implied.

And then, as they continued chatting about the dog rescue and last weekend’s adoption day at PetSmart, I silently scolded myself for my ridiculous overreaction to this entire situation. So they already knew each other. This was a good thing, no? Just minutes before, I had been trying to scheme their meeting. That part—though unexpected—took care of itself. I should have been relieved, elated. Not acting like a possessive schoolgirl who doesn’t want to share her Oreos at lunchtime.

But if I was honest, I didn’t really like the way she was looking at my cookies. Like she might eat them all, including the crumbs. And leave me without even one.

I forced myself to tune back into their conversation.

I heard the word “chili.”

And then Jack and Pamela were looking at me expectantly.

“Huh?” I said.

“Do you want to go?” Jack said.

“Where?”

“The fund-raiser for the shelter. Pamela was just talking about it.”

“Oh, sorry. Yes. That sounds great.”

And now it’s Saturday and I’m at a chili cook-off. Holding a bowl of chili that I don’t intend to eat.

“You coming?” Jack says, grabbing two plastic spoons and a couple of napkins from a table covered in a red checkerboard cloth.

I follow him as he weaves through the crowd, past the dessert table, laden with homemade frosted cakes, chocolate chip cookies, lemon bars, and cherry pie. Though sugar has strictly been on my Do Not Eat list for years, I slow down and eye each goodie, surprised how easy it is to conjure the memory of its taste in my mouth.

The carrot cake reminds me of my first Christmas with Jack’s family in Indiana. It was so normal it made me uncomfortable. Like I was in the middle of a Publix commercial, but someone forgot to hand me a script. I smiled a lot. At his mom when she offered more turkey and stuffing. At his three little sisters when they all wanted to braid my hair and paint my face with lipstick and glitter. At his uncle who said I hadn’t lived until I ate a piece of Jack’s mom’s carrot cake. “Aren’t you going to have any?” I asked Jack as his mom passed out slices on good china. “I don’t really like sweets,” he said, pouring coffee into a delicate cup.

“Who doesn’t like sweets?” I raised my voice, forgetting my demure composure, shocked that I had known him for eight months without learning this significant piece of information. The family erupted in laughter. “He’s the milkman’s son!” His dad banged his fist at the head of the table. “It’s unnatural,” his mom tutted.

Jack doesn’t eat dessert. As I slide into a folding chair, I make a mental note to add it to the list I started for Pamela. Things she should know about him, like how he’ll never voluntarily get a haircut or how he keeps a box of Trivial Pursuit cards next to the toilet and reads them for fun, or how, if an animal dies on his surgery table, he needs to be left alone for a few hours that night—no hugs, no consoling “It wasn’t your fault,” no suggestions for distraction.

“I like your sweater.”

I look up across the table that Jack has led us to into Pamela’s round eyes and then down at my navy and white striped top. Jack calls it my boat captain shirt. He usually salutes me when I wear it, but when I came out into the living room this morning, he just looked at me and said, “Ready to go?”

“Thanks,” I say, sitting down, while scanning her torso so I can return the compliment. “I like your . . . hair.”

It’s pulled straight back into a full ponytail. No muss, no fuss. And I know it’s not the style I’m complimenting her on, but more her whole low-maintenance attitude. And how she can still look impossibly, irritatingly beautiful with her hair up and no mascara.

She smiles and then looks at Jack, already inhaling his chili beside me. “You like it?”

“Killer,” he says, using his napkin to catch a grease dribble running down his chin.

“It’s my grandma’s secret recipe.”

Jack pauses long enough to say, “You made this one?”

She nods. “Make sure you vote for it. I mean, you know, if you think it’s the best.” She glances at my untouched bowl. Then she adds, in a serious voice: “There’s a plastic trophy on the line here.”

Out of reflex, I pick up my spoon and start picking at the meat. “Sorry,” I say. “I had a really big breakfast.”

“Daisy hates chili,” Jack says.

“I don’t hate it. I just don’t really like it.” I offer Pamela a smile. “But yours looked the best out of all of them.”

“Thanks.” She laughs, and there’s something pleasing about the sound. Or maybe I’m pleased with myself for eliciting it. Like I’m in high school and thrilled that the popular girl thinks I’m funny.

She straightens her back and clears her throat. “So, um . . . I have a confession to make.”

She nervously glances at Jack and my spine goes rigid. The word “confession” is so personal, suggestive, intimate. I lean closer, wondering what the next sentence could possibly be. Is this when the popular girl tries to steal my boyfriend? Right in front of me? Or have I been watching too many Gossip Girl reruns on TBS?

“Jack, I’ve been wanting to ask you something all day.”

“What?” he says, putting his spoon down, giving her his full attention. I stare at his face staring at her and wish I knew what was going through his mind. Does he think she’s pretty? Of course he does. She’s indisputably beautiful. But—does he think she’s prettier than me?

“It’s about Copper.”

I wait for Jack to ask what I’m thinking: Who’s Copper?—but he only nods.

“How’s he doing?”

“Not good. They had to remove the sling this week because he was developing laminitis in his right hoof.”

“From bearing too much weight,” Jack says.

“Exactly. But his broken leg isn’t completely healed and the vet says there’s nothing else he can do. He recommends putting him down.” She takes a deep breath. “But I just . . . I can’t.”

Jack nods again. “You want me to come take a look?”

She brightens and the water rimming her eyes glints in the light, and I know immediately that she’s one of those rare girls who’s pretty even when she cries. “Could you? I know you’re so busy, but you were talking about all that prosthetics research—”

“It’s really come a long way in the past few years, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” he says. “Leg injuries are tricky with horses.”

“I know,” Pamela says.

She continues speaking, but I’m stuck in what she’s already said. Or not what she’s said, but in what her words infer. Pamela and Jack really know each other. They have had actual conversations about her horse and about his job and I wonder what else they talk about. And I wonder how long they’ve been volunteering together. And I wonder why he’s never mentioned her. Has he? I search my memory bank. Did Jack ever come home from PetSmart and say, “Remember that girl Pamela I was telling you about? She did the funniest thing today.” But I don’t think he ever did say that. And I wonder what it means that he didn’t.

I try to stay involved in their conversation, but it’s a tennis match and I’m very much just a spectator. So I observe. Their bodies are hunched toward each other, Jack’s eyes bright and eager as he expounds the details of his prosthetics research. Pamela’s a fervent listener, devouring every word that falls from his lips. And I wonder if I’m imagining it or if I can actually hear the buzz of the electric current that invisibly flows between them.

Jack loops me back into the conversation. “Is that OK with you? If I go up there tomorrow?”

I pretend to think. I pretend that our once-full calendar isn’t completely blank except for my every-two-week Friday doctor appointments. I pretend that I’m still in control, that everything is going according to my plan, that Jack isn’t slipping through my hands, but that I’m pushing him. Letting him go.

I nod my head. “It’s OK.”

Pamela stands up. “Great,” she says. “Do you guys want anything? I’m gonna get a cookie.”

My eyes are drawn to her stomach. It’s so flat it looks like it’s never seen a cookie, and I try to swallow my envy. “Get two,” I want to say. But then a sentence from Pamela’s dating profile jumps out at me.

“You don’t want the pie?” I ask.

She tilts her head.

Why did I say that out loud?

“I just . . . it looked really good.”

“Oh, do you want a piece? I’ll bring you one.”

“No, I’m fine.”

She nods. “Jack?”

We both look at my husband, whose mouth is full of cornbread.

I speak for him: “He doesn’t eat dessert.”

But then, I wonder if maybe she already knows that and is just being polite.

ON THE DRIVE home it’s still light outside. More cars than usual line our street, which can only mean—

“Must be a baseball game today,” Jack says.

“Mmm,” I say, still lost in thoughts about Pamela. But part of me inexplicably waits for him to say more. To ask if I want to go to the game with him. Right now. Grab a blanket and go sit on the hill, a...

Table of contents

• COVER PAGE
• TITLE PAGE
• COPYRIGHT PAGE
• CONTENTS
• FEBRUARY
• MARCH
• APRIL
• MAY
• MAY: ONE YEAR LATER
• ACKNOWLEDGMENTS