Chapter 4 - Mara and Vanessa
Vanessa had known Mara before I did.
Not well.
They attended the same high school two grades apart.
Years later they reconnected through a local nonprofit board.
When Mara developed lymphoma at thirty-two, Vanessa became part of the circle that helped us survive treatment.
Meals.
School pickup.
Pharmacy runs.
Insurance phone calls.
Mara liked her.
At least initially.
I trusted Vanessa because Mara trusted her.
That sentence would become complicated.
During Mara’s second round of chemotherapy, I traveled less but still worked.
I owned thirty percent of Carter Architectural Systems, a medium-sized commercial design and engineering firm founded with two partners.
We were not billionaires.
We were comfortable.
Mara handled most household finances before she became ill.
When treatment intensified, she asked Vanessa to help with certain expenses.
Groceries.
Pharmacy.
Childcare supplies.
A household card with a $7,500 monthly limit.
Vanessa also helped organize receipts because Mara hated losing track while foggy from treatment.
I barely paid attention.
That ashamed me later.
At the time, every day had one goal.
Keep Mara alive.
Chemotherapy ended.
Her scans improved.
For four months, we thought we had won.
Then she died from a pulmonary embolism after a minor outpatient procedure.
Not cancer directly.
A clot.
She collapsed at home.
I found her.
Noah was three.
For six months afterward, I was functional only by calendar.
Breakfast.
Preschool.
Work.
Dinner.
Bed.
Grief counseling.
Repeat.
Vanessa remained around.
Not romantically.
She brought food.
Helped with Noah.
Took me to one medical appointment because I had developed panic attacks and convinced myself every chest pain was a pulmonary embolism.
A year after Mara died, Vanessa and I started dating.
Slowly.
At least that is what I told myself.
We married ten months later.
Noah was five.
Some people thought it was too soon.
Mara’s sister, Julia, did not attend the wedding.
She said:
“I don’t trust Vanessa.”
I thought she was grieving.
She refused to explain beyond:
“Mara had concerns near the end.”
I asked:
“What concerns?”
Julia said:
“Ask Vanessa about the care account.”
I did.
Vanessa laughed.
“Mara got paranoid about every receipt during chemo.”
I hated the word paranoid.
But I also knew chemotherapy had made Mara anxious.
Sleep-deprived.
Forgetful.
I asked our accountant whether anything looked wrong.
He reviewed annual totals.
Nothing obvious.
Household expenses increased during treatment.
Of course.
I let it go.
Julia did not.
We stopped talking regularly.
That was one of my failures.
May you like
Not because Julia definitely knew truth.
Because I found distance easier than an uncomfortable question.
