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The Hours In Between
The Hours In Between Read online
CONTENTS
Preface
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
Day 9
Day 10
Day 11
Day 12
Day 13
Day 14
Day 15
Day 16
Day 17
Pete
Day 18
Day 19
Day 20
Day 21
Day 22
Day 23
Day 24
Day 25
Day 26
Day 27
Day 28
Day 29
Day 30
Day 31
Susan
Day 32
Day 33
Day 34
Day 35
Day 36
Day 37
Day 38
Day 39
Day 40
Day 41
Day 42
Day 43
Day 44
Day 45
Day 46
Day 47
Day 48
Day 49
Matt
Day 50
Day 51
Day 52
Day 53
Day 54
Day 55
Day 56
Day 57
Day 58
Day 59
Day 60
Day 61
Day 62
Day 63
Day 64
Sam
Day 65
Day 66
Day 67
Day 68
Day 69
Day 70
Isabella
Day 71
Day 72
Day 73
Day 74
Day 75
Day 76
Day 77
Day 78
Day 79
Day 80
Day 81
Day 82
Day 83
Day 84
Day 85
Day 86
Day 87
Day 88
Day 89
Day 90
Day 91
Day 92
Day 93
Day 94
Day 95
Day 96
Day 97
Day 98
Day 99
Day 100
Day 101
Day 102
Day 103
Day 104
Day 105
Day 106
Day 107
Day 108
Day 109
Day 110
Day 111
Day 112
Day 113
Day 114
Day 115
Day 116
Day 117
Day 118
Day 119
Matt
Julia
Day 1 - Sam
My Happy Moments List
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2022 by Olivia Barry
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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Thank you for the support of the author’s rights.
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To bring author to your life event use the Contact Form at www.olivia-barry.com
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Interior design by Alexandra Amor
Book cover design by Hannah Lindner
Edited by Camilla Borgogni
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Printed in the Unites States of America
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (is available)
Names: Barry, Olivia, author
Title: The Hours In Between: a novel/Olivia Barry
Identifiers: ISBN 979-8-9863882-1-2 (paperback), ISBN 979-8-9863882-0-5 (e-book)
Subjects: FICTION/Contemporary Women. FICTION/Romance
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Paperback: ISBN:979-8-9863882-1-2
E-book: ISBN 979-8-9863882-0-5
For Camilla and Cosimo
Diary [ˈdī(ə)rē ] –– noun: a book in which one keeps a daily record of events and experiences, and occasionally a secret
A book lying by itself on a desk in the living room, at first sight, might look like nothing special. That, however, isn’t the case with the red notebook, velvety and thick, now resting on the otherwise empty antique desk.
* * *
A breeze enters the peaceful room, moving the thin, eggshell white curtains a few inches to the left, enough so that if you sat in the desk chair in front of the notebook, you would catch a glimpse of the blooming garden.
DAY 1
NOVEMBER 27 | NEW YORK CITY
This can’t happen to me. Not to me. No. Not me, I thought as the revolving glass door of yet another newly built skyscraper swirled around again and again before spitting me out into the blinding sunlight.
The world around me suddenly felt distant. People passed me as if they were characters in a movie, and I was the audience. My breathing became shallow, and I had to steady myself as a tall man in an expensive-looking suit brushed against my arm, mouthing, “Sorry,” before rushing along with the crowd and leaving me wondering if I ever could have been his lover.
What a silly thought, especially at a moment like this, when my world was caving in. Then again, that random thought made me realize two things: One, it was time to move. And two, I was not done. Not yet.
That’s when I took the first step of the last one hundred and forty days of my life.
DAY 2
NOVEMBER 28 | NEW YORK CITY
Since yesterday afternoon, after a few moments of lucidity, my life turned into nothing more than a blur. I can’t remember how I made it home or what happened after that. Hazy images of me meandering along Fifth Avenue, past St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Saks and the Empire State building still muddle my mind. There were stores, restaurants and cheerful people everywhere. Many people. But as hard as I try, I can’t recall a single detail.
For most of my life, details were so important to me. Keeping things in a particular order and being overly efficient kept me on track––especially when I suffered from anxiety and the ground would slip away underneath my otherwise down-to-earth self. My thoughts would race and go to unrealistic places as I lived through months, and ultimately years, of sporadic panic attacks.
Today I feel unusually calm. Dr. Sternenberg’s face––piercing blue eyes behind a pair of round glasses and a prominent, symmetrical nose––keeps reappearing in my mind. I imagine his face will most likely haunt me forever. A polished guy, stern in a professional way, in his mid-fifties and head of the oncology department at Mount Sinai.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, he informed me that I have twenty weeks to live, maybe less. One hundred and forty days. Of course, he wasn't too sure about the number and didn't want to commit to an exact timeframe.
There have been moments in my life when six months would have sounded like an eternity. But while sitting in one of those deep brown leather chairs––the ones that make everyone look insignificant––six months suddenly seemed like no time at all. It’s final. I have twenty weeks left to live. Maybe.
He compacted my rare form of fast-spreading acute leukemia into a cascade of complicated words while, for my taste,
pronouncing my first name far too slowly and––considering he's a stranger––in a far too familiar way.
“Liz, I’m sorry. There’s not a lot we can do to change the outcome.” How often had he said those words before?
Anyway, I knew the devastating news before he said anything. I could see every fact displayed on his face. I could see it in his eyes.
That was yesterday.
DAY 3
NOVEMBER 29 | NEW YORK CITY
This morning, I made a point of not getting up at my usual time. I was sick of all the meaningless, self-imposed rules governing my life. Instead, I laid there until the sun’s rays caressed my face, and then I did something I hadn't done in years: I spent the day in bed.
I cuddled up with this old notebook I’ve occasionally been using as a diary. Not that I’ve ever been good at journaling––my diary more so resembles a work of fiction than a journal. It doesn’t help that for the last twenty years I’ve wanted to write a novel but didn’t have the courage to do it. I’ve been waiting for my life to change; I’ve been waiting for my life to become perfect.
Foolishly, I always thought that someday there would be a better moment. But as it turned out, November 27th was the day my life changed in a way I could have never imagined. That day for me, time became a different dimension.
Lying in bed, thoughts about my past and my minimal future––about my kids and the people and things I love––raced through my mind. Once in a while I reached out to the other half of my bed, letting my fingers slide across the crisp, cold linen. There was nothing but emptiness. The way I felt for the last fifteen years.
There’s a lot of news on how sadness and loneliness can become a deadly combination. Am I looking for some half-witted reason to explain what was happening to me, the reason for my cancer?
CANCER! The word alone makes me shiver. Cancer will be my biggest challenge, while Pete will always be my biggest disappointment. He’s supposed to come home from a business trip tonight. Business trip? He must think I’m a fool. And home––what home?
Home [ hōm ] –– noun: the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family
Home. A word I once was so fond of now sounds so foreign. Years ago, this house––with its warm brick walls, fireplace and oversized windows––was filled with laughter and joy, playdates, dinner parties, Christmas trees, and Easter egg hunts. It’s difficult to remember those long-gone days, the many moments that then felt indestructible, now crumbled, and lost forever.
After staring at the ceiling for a long time, I picked up my pen again and doodled. Lots of circles and clouds. I tried to make sense of my thoughts and feelings until I dissolved into self-pity. The ‘why me’ pity kind of thing. Or was it more the realization of how many moments of my life I’ve wasted? I can’t tell.
Why me? Why do I have to die? Why do I have to die before turning fifty-five? There was nothing but merciless silence as the red ink, mixed with my tears, ran across the page while my questions stayed unanswered.
What am I supposed to do now? Let it all happen? That seems a tad overwhelming. The truth is, I am going to die before my kids get married. I am going to die before I can do the many things I always wanted to do but never did.
Between thoughts of dying and counting my many regrets, I must have fallen asleep because a buzzing sound woke me up. As I opened my eyes, I saw a fly crawling at a leisurely pace along the silver frame of one of my favorite paintings: an empty bench in a flower garden. I’ve often daydreamed about a time when, far into my eighties or even my nineties, I would sit on a wooden bench like that one, looking back on a life well-lived.
But this time, I stopped. That won’t happen. There will be no older version of myself. That’s a fact. As I continued to study the painting––the bright-colored flowers, the weathered bench that would forever remain empty––I couldn’t help but wonder: How I could possibly die now?
Finally, I checked my phone. Thirty-two messages! One was from Pete, forewarning me that he might not make it home tonight. The second was from the hospital, with more information about groups I could join, helpful pain management centers and my next appointment. Then three funny and sweet messages from my kids, Julia, Matt and Isabella. Matt was just checking in, and so was Julia. And then Isabella’s, “Mom... mom... call me back. Love you!” Followed by a smacking sound, resembling a kiss. I miss my kids and I want to see them. I need to see them.
The other twenty-seven messages were from yesterday. And they were all from my two best friends, Erica and Freja.
“Where are you? Everybody is here,” Erica had whispered into the phone. Oh fuck, I missed our most important meeting of the year. Erica and Freja aren’t just my best friends, we also co-own and run a gallery together in Chelsea. Every year for the past twelve years, we’ve hosted a charity event to raise money to provide underprivileged kids with free art programs.
The next message was from Freja. “Where the fuck are you? You better have a good excuse for this.” Freja is the type everyone wants as a best friend. At least I do. She’s assertive and always says what’s on her mind. I listened to all the messages. Erica, who is sensitive by nature, freaked out after her fifth message and threatened to call the police if I didn’t call her back. Freja threatened to kill me, which made me laugh.
I wasn’t ready to reveal my news to anyone yet. (Not sure if I’ll ever be ready.) I needed time to think and decide what to do next. So instead of calling, I texted Erica to let her know I was fine. I lied. Obviously. I am not fine. I’m a total wreck.
Time passed as I stared out of the window and the quiet street in front of my beloved nineteenth-century brownstone turned into a busy zone––honking, yelling, clattering. During all the noise of the evening rush hour, along with my racing thoughts, I reminded myself over and over: I am still in control.
In the distance, a male voice shouted, “Fucking bitch…” The remaining part of the sentence swallowed by traffic and the rattling of the familiar, comforting glass bottles in Pietro’s kitchen––a cozy, garlic-smelling Italian trattoria only a few houses over. I love Pietro’s! I love this city. And despite my many past failures and too-frequent wrong decisions, I still love this life.