Natalie
There's a fine line between oversharing and being authentic. Oversharing stems from the inability to determine the appropriateness of a conversation topic or a vain attempt to raise one's social status. I did not perform the latter today. No, that will never become a part of my existence. The former, however, is debatable.
Was that appropriate? The thought traverses my mind, hitting each nook of my useless brain.
Should I have said that?
That always seems to be the golden question.
Often, I conclude my actions were "fine" or at least redeemable by some measure. Sitting in Winn's batmobile, I know I can't take those words back. Winn will remember everything from my disposition to my mother to my new circumstance.
Let this evening haunt me for eternity, or count as a shot at authenticity.
My mind shoots at authenticity. Everything in me, whatever that may be, tells me to concur. Which, by any measure, will result in my demise. Since, of course, my head remains in some distant world, untouchable. Either way, I wanted to talk and talk I did.
Winn rubs his left side and squints his eyes in the fading light as he drives to the local bakery. Flashes of Winn's widened eyes and parted mouth cross my mind, pasting on when I knocked into him on the scrambler and when I told him my place of residence was past the local bakery.
He blinks twice before touching the base of his neck. "Are you angry with your mother?" he questions. His left hand rests loosely against the wheel, and his right hand drapes onto the center console. Though the clench of his jaw and the tightness of his shoulders give his inner state away.
The clouds are whispy, almost invisible, shrouding the darkened sky in a blanket of flowing visions of lighter swirls of color. A series of cotton-like clouds intrude like shadows. They creep forward, purging the ether from any light. In short, the sky is more interesting than the topic at hand. No, interesting is the wrong word. The weather would be a preferred topic compared to the LE. That in itself is notable.
"In more ways than one," I answer, letting my face relax into a non-expressive state. How could I not be "mad" at her? Winn speaks, probably trying to comfort me, but it's background noise to my elephant mind.
For the second time today, my mind collapses with weighted memories. Memories of when we were closer, laughing together like a family, when I believed she was a superhero, perfect in every way, flood my brain. Each thought is depressing at best, haunting and decrepit at worst. My mother is a senile ghost of my childhood past. The way that she floats around town, greeting faces I've grown to know over the past four years. They don't know and don't need to know about this case.
If only Dad had gotten her to drop the case.
He couldn't.
Caleb and Lindsey don't know about that facet.
And I, well, I haven't talked to the LE since the fair last Thursday. I'm sure that's the day the world went downhill. Thanks, Mother.
"It's raining," Winn remarks, bobbing his head to the monochromatic color of the sky, some grey with hints of violet and blue in an odd muddled pattern. "Don't you hate the rain? It always rains on the parade." Winn snorts. "Literally."
"Rain alone isn't awful. It's the least destructive storm one can have," I find myself saying. A long breath escapes my lips, fogging up Winn's window. With that, I pin my back to the black leather seat and face forward.
"Very true." He nods. "Rain isn't pleasant, though."
"You hate rain?"
Winn momentarily lifts his hands from the wheel, making the car swerve. "Yeah, they're little living terrors." His left turn, similar to every left turn, is executed in a wobble. His right turns are never unsteady. At least, that's what I've noticed thus far. "So, you like rain?"
"It's calming," I say, facing him.
Winn opens his mouth, but no words pass. Again, he opens his mouth, preparing to speak. He coughs instead. I half expect speckles of red to dot his arm. None do. He only hacks a dry cough. His eyes widen by the second, and he swerves to the side, jerking his car into park. It's a haphazard move. The front is only a foot from a light pole.
"Winn?" I grasp his elbow as he motions to his throat. He gasps, sucking in a slip of air. His face turns a shade of blue. Instinct kicks in. I grab his hand and place it above his abdomen. "Okay, Winn. Listen up." He wheezes and claws at his airway. "Have you heard of pursed lip breathing?" He shakes his head negatively and rocks backward. "It'll help, okay? I need you to purse your lips." He does so as his knuckles turn white. "Exhale twice as long through your mouth as you inhale through your nose," I instruct by memory, my brain skimming over my track habits.
He nods, sputtering an inhale. The exhale rings worse. It drives like a maniac with a flat tire, releasing in undeterminable bursts. The rise and fall of his chest decrease in sporadic energy, and his face reflects a still lake after the twentieth set.
"How are you feeling?" I ask after the thirtieth. What kind of boneheaded question is that? He's most likely exhausted after that episode of something. Right, episode of something. The condition is yet to be determined.
Winn turns his head to me and swallows hard. "Thank, thank you." He hacks another cough. Still, there isn't any blood, further muffling my theories into something of the deranged past. "I'm sorry you had to see... that."
I close my eyes and pin my lips together. Should I ask? If anything, now would be the optimal time. Better safe than sorry. "See what exactly?"
For a second, I'm convinced that he'll pass through another spell of terror. But after clearing his throat and rubbing his eyes, his voice returns to normal. "I'm not going to lie," he states. "I'm going to tell you what's going on, alright?" He shakes his shoulders and cracks his knuckles, continuing in a shaken murmur. "That's exactly what I'm going to do."
The cogs in my head whirl unpredictably, tugging my train of thought to Winn's recent sessions of vomit, blood, and shortness of breath. Bronchitis, pulmonary hemorrhage, snorting drugs, pneumonia, lung cancer, mitral valve stenosis, lung abscess, and parasitic infections could explain the blood, only the blood and unlikely. Or he could be completely fine, as I had determined before. He would have told someone if it was serious, right? Everyone would have known by now, correct? He only had a nosebleed, gets motion sick, and has a chronic, harmless medical condition. Like asthma...
"There isn't any other way to say this," Winn starts, running his hand over the surface of his head. "I have cancer." You have what? No crinkles form by his eyes, and his hands don't raise in his usual animated manner. His eyes aren't even directed at me.
"Melanoma," he continues in a cracked tone, "It, it's stage four." He crackles, managing to wear a grin all the while. A wild, dysfunctional grin at that. "I'm sorry for telling you this. I just-I don't know anymore, Natalie. I don't know what's happening to me. The bloody vomit..." The what vomit? "...and this-" He waves his hands over himself. "-breathing thing. The past week has been a mess. It doesn't make sense. None of it does. I feel worse every single day. I haven't told my doctor yet. And-" Winn cuts himself off and pins his hands to the steering wheel. "I'm sorry you had to hear this and see that. I shouldn't have said anything." As Winn exhales, his face morphs into a relaxed smile, an opposite of his previous wide-eyed shaky expression.
The rumble of the engine chases silence away, leaving the steady tread of the motor. Winn's voice seems to wave off, growing silent as he finishes. He flops into his seat and tenses. I guess waiting for a response. My response. My heart only palpitates in a way I can only imagine Winn's does. Why didn't I piece it together? His change in skin tone, chilled skin, jittery behavior, or occasional half-asleep stare. Not to mention he shaved his head. There's too much. Thoughts rip my mind to shreds, rendering my conscious questioning useless.
My mind fills with substance. The blood. The doctor. Curse this.
"You're a damn bonehead!" I jerk the passenger door and dash to his side "Give me your keys and move. We're going to the hospital."
Winn freezes. "What? Why?"
"You didn't mention your new symptoms to your doctor, correct?" I snag the keys from Winn's hand, but he doesn't move.
His brows furrow, and his shoulders hold no tension. "Yeah. I guessed that the blood was just a side effect of the medicine." He shrugs, further making bells in my head ring. Why is he such a good actor? Maybe he isn't even acting?
"Winn, it, you said stage four melanoma, correct?" He nods. "Winn, the melanoma would have metastasized by now. It's the defining factor of stage four." What kind of research did he do? "You could have cancerous cells in your lungs. It would explain this episode and the bloody vomit."
"They already ran a CT scan two weeks ago," Winn mutters, not making a move.
"A whole lot can change in two weeks, Winn!" I exclaim. "Have the radiology department redo the CT scan. Even better, get a PET scan too. Coughing blood isn't normal," I emphasize the last part, attempting to drill it into his brain. Winn opens his mouth, probably preparing to spout a string of reasons why he doesn't need to visit the ER. I interject, "Unless you've been prescribed a blood thinner, I highly doubt coughing blood is a side effect."
Winn shakes his head and gazes at the ink sky. "What does a 'P E T' even stand for? And why do you know that?"
"Positron emission tomography, and I'm interested in the med field, but that isn't the point." I rake a hand through my hair, almost setting myself into a round of pacing. "Why not go to the hospital? This could be serious."
Winn lets his hand slide down his face as he heaves a sigh. "I get what you're saying, but I have an appointment next Tuesday. I don't want to bother my doctor about this. I should be fine until then."
How is he so relaxed? Logically, he has processed this information. But he should have done something by now. Maybe prepare an action plan or schedule a closer appointment? No, not Winn, the one not disturbing his doctor, possibly an oncologist, with a very cancer-related problem.
"Say I didn't force you into the hospital." I cross my arms over my chest, peeved at the thought. Point blank, he wouldn't be coughing blood if there wasn't a problem. Let alone... what did he say? Vomiting blood. Unfortunately, one of my outrageous theories is confirmed. "Where do you go from there?"
"Well, I'll drop you off at your house first." He scratches the back of his neck. "And just continue as usual until Tuesday?" He sighs. "My doctor says I'll walk out pretty scotch free like last time."
"Last time?" I ask, dubious, momentarily forgetting my objective.
Winn nods and touches the back of his neck, tugging down the collar of his flannel. "You see this." He jabs his finger at a sizeable absence between his neck and shoulder blade. "I caught the melanoma early about four years ago. They were able to remove it without complications. I wasn't so fortunate this time, and I probably wouldn't have caught it if I hadn't gone to my dermatologist." Winn lets an easy shrug pass while his fingers drift past the back of his head while he adjusts his collar. "I should've probably stopped talking like ten minutes ago, but I guess that's about everything. Anyways, can I have my keys back?"
I can only stare, attempting to wrap my brain around this. Winn has cancer. I didn't notice. He hasn't told anyone. "Why tell me now?" I gaze into his eyes, watching the hazel spheres flick in sporadic motions, darting to his keys clutched in my hand and then to my orbs.
"You've seen me vomit, and I could've just crashed." Winn laughs a little, rubbing his eyelids. "And, well, I trust you won't wave this around like a literal flag."
Stuffing his keys in my pocket, I grumble, "Understandable."
"Natalie? You're not going to relent, are you?"
"Absolutely not."