My life has been back to normal for the weekend. I haven't heard and haven't seen her. Peach didn't visit me too for two days in a row. Never seen them lingering around. I wanted to check on her but doubted that she was even in her unit. Hope they are both fine. She said in the letter her father is in the hospital, then maybe she's in the hospital visiting her father.
I've been thinking about her the whole time that I couldn't focus on my job.
"Hey, Jack." Jorge whispers.
Reality snaps in front of me. I look at him.
"Mr. Gomez is looking for you. Looking for your presentation."
"I have it sent to him already." I say.
I go to his office. He looks tired and might have lost sleep. He gestures to me to come inside, then yawns.
"I sent the presentation to your Google Drive last night." I explain to him.
"I see that, but it's incomplete. You were absent last Friday, and you didn't bother to send me the finished presentation."
"What's missing?"
He groans. "The footnote and citations."
The telephone rings as he swings his hand, shooing me out of his office. I brush both my hands on my face in disappointment before leaving his office. I thought I'm done with this stupid presentation I'm not yet done.
The weather was night, but it didn't last long, as it rains on my way home. I run to the gate and accidentally bump into a girl.
"I'm sorry." I utter.
She just looks at me.
"Jack!" the girl cheers.
"Hey, it's you!" I greet. "I haven't seen you around."
"Did you miss me?" She asks.
"Of course!" I say.
She's wearing a see-through plastic backpack with Peach inside. Just like the other times I've seen her: she's wearing a medical face mask, long sleeves, and jogging pants.
"Peach and I went to the hospital." She adds.
"Just like what I thought."
She looks at me puzzled as if I accused him of something.
And I read her reaction. "I just figured out since you said in your letter about your father."
She softens up and walks to the gate. I follow her inside and we walk together to the hallway, then she stops. I suddenly halt behind her, then she looks at me.
"I went to the hospital for my weekly check-up. My doctor was mad when I mentioned the rides. That's why they advised me to stay for the rest of the weekend." She says, annoyed.
I feel bad about her. She couldn't enjoy something without going to the doctor.
"Was it bad?" I ask.
"Not that so bad." She fake laughing.
I should start researching her illness so that I know what's bad for her health. If she wants me to be her partner on her Bucket List, she'll have to listen to me.
"Why? Why are you lying?" I ask in disgust.
She looks down at the floor. "I get tired easily. I feel stupid, you know, I just want to have fun. Then the next hour I'm having chest pains."
Her expression is telling me not to feel sorry for her. She's implying not to pity her because of her condition and treat her pain as nothing when it's worst. She can do things she wants to do, but her body can't handle things even when she wishes to. I want her to complete her bucket list. She deserves it. I will do my best for her to complete everything without putting her health in precipes.
I grab her hands. "We can check all in your bucket list… together. If it requires a doctor, then be it."
A small tear falls from her beautiful cheek, adding to her imperfection. I chuckle. I call her to tear 'imperfection' when it's the first time she bravely showed her fragility to me. She shows her feelings to me because she trusts me. Trusting me about her plans and fragility.
"After the amusement park, I think you noticed I was so weak."
I noticed her shortness of breath. It was bad, but I can't be one of the hurdles, that she can't do things she pleases to do. I know it's stupid, but I know she knows when enough is enough.
"I know. But I will always be there for all the things you want to do. 13 weeks, right?"
She nods her head.
"I will be there with you to fulfill your lists for 13 weeks." I say.
She jumps on my chest to hug me. She let go of me not long enough and asks me to her unit. It's my first time inside her unit. Not much to see, as almost all her things are inside the box. She mentioned she hasn't unpacked yet, but it's been weeks, giving me the impression that she doesn't want to move out. Her talkative personality comes in the clear, mentioning her doctor's visit and her cleaners.
"How rich is your family that you have your own cleaners?" I sit on her carpeted floor.
She chuckles. "You don't have to know that."
"Come on, I won't steal from you."
She snickers. "Okay, but you have to tell me something about yourself. Just to be fair."
"Okay, deal."
"My family owns this apartment." She falls to the couch next to me.
"Y… you own this building?" I stutter.
The building is not big, but the rent is 10,000,15,000 a month.
"Technically, my family owns this, not me." She rolls her eyes. "Your turn."
"I don't like my job and I want to resign soon."
"What's your job?"
"We only agree on just one, right?"
She shakes her head. "No, I said something."
"I'm a copywriter. What about you?"
She thinks, then looks at me disappointedly. "I don't like that question."
"That's unfair. Okay, just tell me something about yourself."
"My father still doesn't want me to be free. I just moved out and live alone weeks ago. I always wanted to live independently, but throw me into one of our apartments."
It seems that she's far from her parents, but whenever she mentioned her relationships, she always makes it appear she's not holding grudges against them.
"At least I found you." She forces a smile.
I scoot in front of her, still seated on the floor, then I grab her hands. She coughs and slowly holds her chest.
"Excuse me." She mumbles and goes to the bathroom.
I check my phone just then to realize it's almost dinner. Soon she comes back from the bathroom. I ask her what she wants for dinner.
She weakly leans on the wall, putting her weight on her right foot and holding the counter.
"I want chicken wings." She says.
Peach knocks on the bedroom door. She forces a smile before going to the bedroom. Watching her walking to the bedroom, having difficulty with her trembling feet. She opens the door for Peach and carries her kissing her face, trying to stand still. It comes to my realization why she's the only tenant with a cat, and it's because she's the daughter of the owner.
"Who hears chicken wings?" She says in a childish voice. "My sister is coming with us."
"Yes, ma'am." I stand. "Are we going outside?"
She flushes a shocked face. "I thought so."
"Oh, I meant delivery, but going out is better."
"That's what I thought."
The nearest mall from our apartment is just a minute's walk, but since I fear her health, so I drive her to the mall with Peach.
She orders all the flavors of the chicken wings and a bottle of soda.
"Can you finish all of that?" I ask.
"Of course." She says.
When the waiter leaves, she takes a bottle of alcohol and wet wipes from her bag and began rubbing the table for minutes.
"Can we play a game?" She suggests.
I thought she was nervous but really, she's just bored.
"What game are you thinking?" I ask.
"We're going to mention facts about ourselves. On your turn, I'll guess if it's a fact or a lie."
"Then? What if it's a lie?"
She squints at me and smirks. "Then I'll slap you if my guess is a lie."
I glare at her, and our order comes. She swiftly switches to a sweet girl, bowing her head to the waiter.
"I don't want to slap you. Besides. I never slapped someone in my life." I say to her.
She turns her head to her right shoulder.
"Never?" she asks, accusingly as if mocking me.
"Never." I repeat. "I'm a role model person. Never in a fight. Never smoke. Never done drugs. Never skipped class."
She put her hands on her heart. "What a good person."
She then slaps my face. I got caught on guard. I don't think I deserve that.
"What's that for?" I ask in my defense.
"I think it's a lie, Jack." She declares before taking the first bite of her chicken.
"That's not a lie."
"Then slap me back because I'm wrong." She dares.
I smirk and slap her softly.
"What a chicken." She utters.
This girl is testing my kindness.
"My turn." She says.
I munch the garlic mustard chicken wings. Chicken is one of my favorite foods but this flavor is the most disgusting I ever had along with balut. I couldn't just spit this out. I grab the soda and swallow the chicken.
"I was a top student in high school." She says.
"I think it's fact."
She slaps me on my face. "What was that?"
She rolls her eyes and looks at me disappointingly.
"You haven't gotten the game? Slap when it's wrong and slap if you think it's false."
"Okay," apologies.
"I was homeschooled." She says and sips on her soda. "Your turn."
"I'm a gamer."
"Easy, fact."
I nod my head.
"Do you have cats before?" she asks.
I feel relieved that she's changing the topic, means our game is over. Though, after having one chicken, she just looks at the chicken and gives the others to Peach.
"Yeah, when I was in elementary. I had a Himalayan cat. She died when I was in third year high."
"I hate that they have to die early. How old was your cat?"
"Ten. I was an only child. I treated him like my brother."
"I'm an only child as well. Father and mother can't afford to fuck another offspring."
Again, she didn't mention a 'kid' or 'child' but an offspring. I want to read her mind and understand what's inside her skull.
"Peach and I have been together for five years. She was a gift to me when she was two months old. Thank God, she's still in her best health. Sure, I'll be leaving her." She looks at Peach and looks at me. "Will you take care of her when I'll go?"
"I don't get what you're saying. Last night, I researched about your condition, and the oldest to live in the same condition was 43 years old." I explain.
"But I'm out from therapy. I hate hospital rooms. I'm going to die first before Peach." She grabs her drink.
She goes quiet for a minute. If the surrounding noise is not present, I'm sure I can hear her breathing.
Then she looks at me. "The last time I went to therapy, the doctor concluded I could live in my late 30s. I don't think chasing life is worth living. I've decided not to undergo chemotherapy anymore. That's why my doctor claims I only have 16 weeks left and now down in 13."
"Can we please stop this shit?" I say, rolling my eyes.
"Imagine your playground was a hospital."
"I grew up in a hospital. My parents are doctors."
"Good for you, but my reality is going there for my treatment, chemotherapy, radiation, not because of my parents."
I feel bad for her and embarrassed. Why did I just compare my childhood to hers? I feel stupid. Still, there's an urge inside of me. I want to force her to do her therapies. Whatever it is just to extend her lifespan. She gave me weeks, but it can expand into months. Maybe if God is willing, He'll give her a year. Madness fuses me in the reality I let in my life. If she knows the limit of her life. If she's aware of her life, why did she befriend me just to give her old cat to me? I don't kind of torture. All I care I'm better friendless than having a dying girl for 13 weeks.
"I'm sorry." I look at her.
She doesn't look sad or anything, she just enjoys the chicken wings.
"If that's the care, I don't think I can be a friend of yours."
"Why not?" she says, munching the chicken. "I won't be a part of your life that long. You'll be sad for a while, but eventually, move on to your life. Maybe you won't be sad at all because you just met me."
"Hey, I am not a bad person, okay? Your life is precious and there are people who love you. Let alone, being a friend of yours for a while, knowing you let yourself die? That's torture for me." I defend. "I don't have a friend here, and if you'll be my first friend, then we have to spend more time rather than let yourself die."
"I never had a friend before, either, and I need a friend. I promised my mother on her grave." She begs. "Can't pity a friend? Would that be against your morals to be friended to a drying girl?"
I put my arms on the table, placing both my elbows on the glass table, then I look at her with all seriousness.
"Why can't you refer to yourself as a human or a person or a child? Do you know that I've been referring to you as a girl, a woman, a lady?" I shake my head disappointingly. "You don't have to belittle yourself just because of your illness."
"What do you mean? I don't understand what you're saying, Jimbo." She curiously asks as if she doesn't know what she just describes herself.
"You called yourself a product and the dying girl. I don't even know your name."
"What wrong with those?"
"You're a human being with a name."
"It doesn't matter. I'll be dying, anyway."
"Stop putting that in every fucking situation we're talking about!" I yank the plate in front of me.
Peach circles in her lap and makes biscuits. Based on her actions, she's looking for a comfortable place to sleep. I look back at her. She just dismisses my argument and gets back to eating. It's still the second chicken she's having. Then she wipes her hand with a napkin and fish something in her bag. She takes a purpose notebook and places it in front of me.
"Please, you promised to me. But just knock on my door if you're brave enough to hit with death." She says and grabs Peach, leaving me at the table.
I watch her walk away from the restaurant until she blends with the people in the mall.