When Linda May’s cherry-swirl ice cream cake finally melted, I didn’t know what it was. I did notice those thick tufts of glossy-black hair and nearly went ballistic thinking the carcass of a rat ended up in the mold after being drowned in a plastic tub of sweet milky pleasure. I soon learned I was wrong about all that.
I spent the whole morning getting the place ready for Linda’s homecoming. She’d been in the hospital for almost three weeks since her collapse that turned out to be a sign on a one-way road leading to the final stages of leukemia. I didn’t know how to react to that so I simply plowed on, as I always did, planning our strategy for beating this thing, no matter how hopeless the doctors insisted it was. Two months at the most, they said, but I never once let on to Linda that this short projection of her life expectancy was even possible, constantly talking about this or that next move in our losing campaign against the inevitable. I was absolutely convinced I was doing the right thing by refusing to show emotion or even empathy at those crucial times when the shed of a tear or a tight warm hug would have meant so much. Of course, I honestly don’t think I could have done any of that, anyway. I’ve never really been much of a gusher, you know.
I guess that’s what Linda was trying to tell me the day she passed. She seemed to be improving and her discharge from the hospital the very next morning was pretty much guaranteed. Linda was lying in her hospital bed all dreamy-like, probably from the morphine being pumped into her veins through that I.V. I think she liked the feeling and I was pretty sure she was going to miss it when she finally had to be let go. I was sitting in that tiny leather armchair leafing through the smooth pages of a three-month old issue of Newsweek, briefly eyeing the dozens of photos and wondering what the hell they were all about.
“Carl? Is that you, Carl? Come closer, darling. I want to see your face.”
I forced myself out of the armchair, a bit agitated because I was fairly certain I was actually going to read a few words in that magazine. “Linda, looking at my face isn’t going to make things any easier. Best you get some rest now so that coming home won’t be such a stress for you.”
“Oh, come here, Carl. Don’t be so difficult with me.” I sighed and stepped closer to her bedside. She reached out and placed the cool palm of her trembling hand against my cheek and smiled warmly. Her brilliant loving eyes burned into my own and they seemed filled with hopeless pity for me.
“I’ve always loved your face, Carl. Such a beautiful face. I think I fell in love with you the first second I saw it. Funny how a face doesn’t say much about who a person really is. I always believed a person’s face was like a picture of what’s inside. I’m not so sure about that, anymore. I’m thinking now maybe a face is only a mask covering up something not as pretty, or maybe nothing at all because there’s nothing there to begin with. If that’s the case, then maybe there shouldn’t be a face. What do you think, Carl? Is there anything inside you? Do you really have a face?”
Linda died that night and when they cake finally melted, I knew the answer.
WeirDskinS 