So Many Kinds of Love

**

Busy after my week at training, I spent the next few days dealing with my inbox, teaching the ladies at the hospital some new combat techniques, and catching up with Gabriela. Spending time with her, having deep, intimate conversations, thinking about our future together -- it all made me feel content with life in a way I had never experienced before. We didn't even have to have sex to feel a strong connection and have a great evening (although I never refused an invitation!)

Our date that week was an hour of star-gazing in her backyard, with Venus glittering in the sky near the crescent moon, then fading as the night deepened. Huddled in blankets on the metal bench on her patio, I gazed at the sky, not speaking, just focusing on the silver dot and letting my mind drift. The next thing I knew, the sky began spinning, not in a chaotic way, but more like a stately dance, spiraling in a joyous pattern with stars and shafts of light everywhere.

Leaning back, I sighed at the beauty of it all, entranced to find my place in the celestial reel, excited at the thought of contributing my portion to the greater whole, and happily aware of Layla, Gabriela and even Smitty in the dance with me. All around me swelled music, greater than any choir or orchestra I had ever heard, as if voices and instruments unknown on my world had joined to create something wholly new. A cool, clean scent washed over me, like the freshest air the world had to offer.

Closing my eyes, I let the demands of my life fall away from me as I opened myself to something mysterious and yet familiar, and more glorious than anything I had ever imagined. I hung in the air just like Venus, and had a sense of sailing around the sun in a night sky as alive and aware as any of us.

I had an odd, yet pleasant, sensation of a playful mind touching mine, tugging at me to follow it to the stars and beyond. Exhaling, I slipped out of my body and into a presence of joy that carried me farther away than I ever could have imagined, spinning me around the edges of the universe like a tilt-a-whirl. A tendril of Layla's laughter touched me, then a whiff of Gabriela's scent, then a long, beautiful blur of colors and sounds. I tried to capture and make sense of them, but finally abandoned myself to the experience and let it all happen. Idly, I wondered if I had somehow taken a hallucinogen but the presence just laughed and told me no, that some beings lived like this all the time and now was my turn to try it.

I don't know how long I drifted and danced. Centuries? Seconds? Too long, yet not long enough, maybe.

After an unmeasurable time, I heard someone call my name, as if from a great distance. Still beaming, I turned my face towards the sound, which cut through the music like a silver spoon striking rich, heavy crystal.

My limbs heavy and relaxed, I opened my eyes to see Gabriela's face, curious and concerned, inches from mine. "Where did you go?" she whispered. "I called you three times, but it seemed like you were in some sort of trance."

I blinked, not wanting to leave the vision but accepting that I had to -- for now. "I'm not sure." My eyes sought Venus in the night sky, but she had disappeared in the deepening night. "Out there, somewhere, sailing in the sky."

Snuggling against me, she stroked my face lightly, as if trying to learn it with her fingertips. "What a strange and wonderful man you are. You're a sailor, and a medic, and a musician, and a poet -- and now a mystic, too."

A small laugh bubbled up from my belly. "I don't think so. I'm too earthy to be a mystic."

"Who said mystics can't be earthy?"

Needing to restore my equilibrium after that intensity, I gathered Gabriela in my arms and tried to describe what had happened.

"Sounds like heaven," she remarked, tracing one finger along my jawline.

"Maybe. I don't know. I didn't see Jesus or Mohammed or Buddha or anything like that."

"Mmm. You heard perfect music and saw celestial lights and sailed with the stars. That's probably enough for one vision."

Above us, the sky blazed with late winter constellations my father had taught me: the Pleiades, Taurus, Sirius, with Orion the hunter dominating them all. Inhaling the cold air, I chuckled. "Thanks, reverend."

I felt, rather than saw, her touch the little silver cross at her collarbone before she spoke. "I don't have all the answers, my dearest. I just believe there's something greater than me, and that the power of love is the greatest power there is."

"I can get on board with that," I murmured, looking back up at the stars.

"It's enough for me," she said quietly. "You have to figure out what's right for you."

After a minute or two of silence, we talked about the mythology behind the constellations before coming in for some Mexican hot chocolate her sister Vanessa had got in the habit of making every time I came over. Afterwards, we joined her sisters in a round of "Ulcer Rummy," a card game I suspected her grandfather had invented just to be cruel.

After we kissed next to the front door before I left, I asked if she believed in fate.

"You mean, were we fated to meet?"

I smiled. "Yeah. Do you think it was fate, or the universe, or whatever, that brought us together?"

Touching her cross, she shook her head. "I'd rather think that God matched us. But the truth is, I don't know. I'm just glad a sexy mystic ran through my neighborhood on the one Sunday I had to take Jess's dog out right after church, so I hadn't had a chance to change my clothes."

Pulling her closer, I buried my nose in her hair, enjoying her scent and feeling the pulse of the universe in her heartbeat. "Me too. You looked extremely good in that dress."

She stood on her toes, kissed my cheek and winked. "I know."

**

On Friday morning, as I sat at my desk doing a tutorial on a new communications app, I got a text from Layla. "I need you. Come over right now. ☹"

A shiver ran through me. Poking my head into Janie's office, I told her I had a family situation.

Nodding, she met my eyes and waggled her fingers for me to shoo. "Go take care of your sister. I hope it's nothing serious. Text me if you're coming back today. I'll cover for you."

Grateful for Janie's understanding, I made it to Layla's in record time, hardly noticing the trees greening with spring leaves after the winter. Heart pounding, I burst in through the back door, but stopped short when I looked into her red-rimmed eyes. Disaster, I thought, and wondered what kind.

She handed me a sheet of paper and I scanned it until I got to the crux of it. Sagging into the kitchen chair next to her, I covered her small cold hand with mine as the page fluttered to the floor. Trying desperately not to cry, we just sat there in silence for a full minute.

"Cancer," she finally said in a dull voice. "Stage three. The same one that killed Dad."

"It won't kill you," I answered automatically. "I won't let it."

"Oh, Gar," and her voice shook and broke. "I can't do this. It's too much."

Gathering her into my arms, I held her and rocked her while we both cried hard. So many tears lately, I thought, exhausted and sullen after the worst of the grief had passed through me. Surely we deserved a break by now.

**

I tried to blame myself for not seeing the signs: her effortless weight loss. The shadows under her eyes. The fatigue. I should have known. Layla, Gabriela and Dr. Harrison all told me not to be ridiculous.

"Your childhood conviction that you failed your father is just an idea in your head," Dr. Harrison told me. "It's not reality. You can have another idea, and another reality instead."

Wrestling with that, I looked around the large beige office that I had come to know so well. The books on the polished honey-colored shelves, the photo of his wife on the desk, even the faint sounds of traffic outside reassured me that not everything in my world had changed.

"How can I change reality?" I asked, puzzled. "Reality just is, right?"

"Certain facts are immutable, yes. But our perceptions aren't. In fact, cops have a saying: perception is reality."

I mulled that, and nodded. "Sounds about right."

"So the way we perceive a situation becomes our reality, sometimes to the extreme. For a claustrophobe, an MRI machine becomes a coffin. For an assault survivor, every sudden movement becomes a blow to dodge. For you, cancer becomes a death sentence."

"But I'm a medic," I argued. "Pancreatic cancer is a death sentence. It kills everyone, very fast."

His solemn blue eyes regarded me. "Tell that to that game show host. It's been more than a year for him, right?"

"He's an outlier."

"He's a human being who has survived for a year with the same disease your sister has. And may I point out that your sister is decades younger and a whole lot stronger than he is?"

I must have looked unconvinced, for he continued.

"I don't know what's going to happen to Layla," the doctor said gently. "None of us does. But it can't hurt to have, and show, a little hope, Gary. It may mean the world to your little sister."

I blinked. He had a point. "All right. I will stop with the doom and gloom, and spread some hope around like Little Miss Fucking Sunshine."

He laughed. "Do what feels right, but be yourself," he advised. "A magic wand and fairy dust might scare your sister."

"Not to mention the tutu and ballet slippers."

The next day, Layla and I arrived early for her appointment with the oncologist, a scrappy Philadelphia native with a penchant for bold, positive design statements. Above the sleek black minimalist furniture hung vivid paintings, not quite abstract, and teeming with reds and yellows, greens and purples. Colored glass orbs hung from the ceiling, glowing as they caught the light. The overall light-hearted effect made us both smile as we walked in and shook the doctor's small, strong hand.

"A lot's changed since your father had this," Dr. Hsu told us as we sat before her, our hands clasped for moral support. "Treatments have evolved. The survival rate has gone up. I'm not gonna sugar-coat it, because frankly, the odds still aren't great. But we caught yours before it spread, which is huge."

"What are the odds of beating it?" Layla asked, her voice trembling in the cool odorless air. I squeezed her hand.

The doctor glanced at a brilliant yellow glass sphere dangling above her desk as if it held the answer. "Maybe twenty percent make it from where you are."

My sister gulped, then straightened up in her chair. "Then I'm gonna be in that twenty percent, doc."

As Dr. Hsu grinned, I had a sudden vision of Smitty smirking the same way before a particularly brutal physical test. Exhaling, I relaxed a bit. Evidently, Dr. Hsu was a warrior in her own way, just like my old friend -- and Layla.

"That's what I like to hear! You're a fighter, aren't you?"

Layla smiled at the other woman. "I've been fighting my whole life."

Turning towards her, I pondered this. I had never considered Layla a fighter, but I had been gone so much that maybe I hadn't seen the whole picture. She certainly sounded like one now.

The doctor leaned back, and her Philadelphia accent became stronger. "That's good. I like a patient who wants to grab cancer by the balls and crush the life out of it. You think you can do that?"

Layla lifted her chin even as I winced inwardly and crossed my legs at the doctor's imagery. "Yeah. That's what I want to do."

Dr. Hsu shifted her gaze to me, her eyes narrowing in challenge. "How 'bout it, bro? You gonna help your sister beat cancer?"

I didn't flinch. "I'm Navy, ma'am. I will do whatever I need to do to help my team win."

She steepled her fingers, regarding us. She didn't look much older than Gabriela, but she radiated the authority and competence of a seasoned destroyer captain. Nodding, she leaned forward, drawing us closer. "Good. Now, let me explain what we're dealing with here, and what each of you needs to do to beat it."

**

I started going over to Layla's after work most evenings, usually bringing dinner. Gabriela joined us a few nights each week, making her friend laugh and occasionally cooking for all three of us as we entered the unknown territory of modern cancer treatments together.

At first, it didn't seem too bad. Determined to keep her spirits high, Layla joked about the routines of radiation and chemotherapy, telling us about her nurses' personal lives, mocking the port inserted below her clavicle, and inviting us to join her for a grape popsicle -- "the Dom Perignon of frozen, stick-based treats," as she put it -- at her second treatment.

Since most of her treatments and appointments took place near my hospital, I went as often as possible. Janie put me on flex time and waved off my profuse thanks. "Nothing's as important as family," she said, gruff with emotion. "You're a hard worker and I appreciate what you've brought to the office. So you do what you need to do, and we'll get through this together. Sue and I will keep you and Layla in our prayers."

I wrote Smitty a long email detailing everything had happened, and heard back almost immediately, a brief reply that made Layla and me both smile.

"Damn, Shorty. That's a shame. I'm so sorry. Glad she's got a good doctor and a brother who's a damn fine medic. You tell your beautiful sister that when she gets better, Smitty's taking some leave and coming to Pennsylvania to take her on the best date of her life. I'll even behave, seeing's how it's Layla -- but I won't be too good. Don't want her to get bored!"

That initial phase lasted until the day she discovered hanks of hair on her pillow. Rising earlier than usual one morning, I heard her crying in her bedroom. After a quick, soft knock, I walked in and found her sitting on the bed, looking at the two clumps of dark blond hair in her hands.

Sliding on to the mattress beside her, I put one arm around her shoulders as she wept.

"They told me to expect it," she said, snuffling, "and I already lost my eyebrows, but I didn't think it would end like this. I must look like a monster."

I didn't even have to glance at her. "You could never look like a monster, girly. You're the most beautiful woman in any room in you're in, always."

That made her cry a little harder. "Don't lie to me. I never was beautiful. And now I never will be."

Gently settling her against me, I kissed the top of her head, feeling smooth scalp against my lips for the first time. My breath caught in my throat, but I forged on. "For a smart girl, you sure are silly sometimes. Don't you know beauty's all about spirit? Did Shallow Hal teach you nothing?"

"That's just a movie. A Jack Black movie, even. It's not real."

"Reality and truth aren't the same thing. Sometimes, fiction contains a lot more truth than reality does."

I felt her stiffen. "You can't make this all better, Gar. Don't even try."

I didn't spend much time in Layla's bedroom, and looking around the pale green and white room, I saw nothing whatsoever from our childhood, not even her favorite books. Far from being a personal place, it looked like a nice hotel room, comfortable but corporate. I asked about it, and the unexpected question made her sit up straight.

"When we were kids, I kept my treasures in my room, you know, like all kids. Then came Donald Dumbass. He used to search my room while I was at school, and find the things I had hidden away. He'd take them away, and maybe one would show up on my dinner plate and I'd have to explain why I had it while he made fun of me. Other times, I'd find my secret things in the trash. Either way, they'd go away forever." She shrugged. "So I changed my tactics. I hid my special things in the rest of the house. I had a little space in the back of the couch where I could hide things and he never found those. Anyway, I guess the habit stuck."

"Does that mean your secret papers are stashed in the couch downstairs?"

That made her laugh. "Nah. It means I don't need to have secrets anymore." She thought for a few seconds. "You keep a beard trimmer thingy here, right?"

"You mean an electric razor? Yeah. Why?"

"Go get it. It's time to face this. You're going to shave my head."

Seeing her determined look, I obeyed, returning with my electric clippers to find her seated in front of her vanity mirror. "How long do you want me to leave it?"

"Let's go whole hog. Shave it down to my scalp."

"That's going to be awfully cold, kiddo. Spring's late this year."

"I'll wear my soft fleece cap, the pink one. That's nice and warm."

"And chic, too," I teased, plugging in the razor and turning it on. "Face me, not the mirror."

Turning, she flinched at the buzzing sound, but immediately dropped her shoulders and raised her chin. "That doesn't matter. If I'm going to beat cancer, I need to look like a warrior, not a model."

I smiled, more for her morale than because I felt like it, then moved to her side and made my first pass with the clippers. Fine, thin hair slid over my knuckles and fluttered to the floor, and I blinked back a tear before starting the second pass, grateful she couldn't see me as I worked. In hardly any time at all, I had finished and a pitiful pile of delicate blond strands lay at my feet.

"All done," I said, trying to keep my voice cheerful.

She stood up and turned to face herself. Her mouth sagged open with shock, but she took a deep breath, steadying herself.

I hadn't appreciated how vulnerable she would appear without hair. In the service, shaven heads are common, especially among new seamen. In their cases, it's a way to strip away their old personalities and images and rebuild them the military way. But for Layla, it seemed to expose her new weakness. She looked both ancient and childlike, and not in a good way.

She glanced at me in the mirror. "Good thing you're not a hairdresser. You'd get fired before noon on your first day."

"I never claimed to be a stylist."

"That's good, because one look at me and everyone would know you were lying." She shivered. "You weren't kidding about the cold, Gar. I didn't have much hair left, but it was a lot better than nothing! My pink fleece cap's on the shelf in the closet downstairs. Could you go get it for me?"

Grateful for the chance to regroup privately, I trotted down the stairs. Somehow, the session with the clippers had made everything more real, even more so than the port installation and the chemo chairs with their ergonomic designs and heating pads. The woman upstairs had entered an untraveled land, and I had the unsettling feeling that when she finished her journey, I wouldn't recognize her -- and not just because of her hair.

After determining the cap was not on the shelf, I pawed through her jumble of mittens, gloves, scarves and winter hats, muttering to myself and missing the military system of issuing one piece of gear per sailor. The doorbell rang, startling me. Spotting the pink cap, I grabbed it and stepped over to the door, expecting a scout selling cookies or maybe a religious nut going door to door. I did not foresee a slightly familiar-looking middle-aged woman, dressed in a tidy light blue suit that matched her eyes.

For a long moment, we stared at each other, me frowning as I tried to place the woman. Framed by her gray-streaked blond hair, her pale eyes drank me in, seemingly stunned.

"Gary?" she finally said, and pieces started falling into place. That musical voice, pitched lower than Layla's, couldn't belong to anyone else.

"Mother?" I asked, feeling like someone had just hit me very hard in my solar plexus. "Mom?"

She didn't match any memories of my sweet-faced young mom or the passive, defeated alcoholic she later became. This haggard but solid woman looked as though she had stormed through the abyss and come out the other side, secure in who and what she was, and able to face who and what she had been.