Canon loves me.
It’s my first thought, and absolute joy and a sated body coax my lips into an irrepressible smile. The previous night plays out in full panoramic color projected onto the walls of my memory. It was measured not in hours or minutes, but in kisses and whispers. At first, we had urgent, impatient, frenzied fucking. Then languid, lazy we’ve-got-all-night loving. We ordered food. We climbed into Canon’s oversized tub, my back against his chest, and talked until my fingers and toes wrinkled, and the water grew cold. He shared his dreams with me, bright and unfinished like uncut diamonds kept in a bag no one else has seen. I shared my aspirations with him, which have been revised since the diagnosis. They’ve gone from winning a Tony to living to see my next birthday.
It’s funny how we speak of the future like it’s promised. Now, I feel less and less like I can assume anything, even tomorrow. It does lend life a certain preciousness it’s easy to take for granted. It’s a different perspective that forces you to change your lens. I do believe I’ll beat this. If Canon has to scour the whole country, we’ll find a kidney for me, but facing something like this changes you.
I roll over in the rumpled sheets, breathing in the coupled scents of our bodies. I’m alone, and I wriggle over to Canon’s side, fitting my head into the dip in his pillow.
“You got it so bad, girl.” I laugh at myself ruefully. It’s true, but at least so does he.
He told me so last night.
The best and worst of life make strange bedfellows. I’ve worked so hard for years to have an opportunity as big as Dessi Blue, and I’ve gone years never feeling for anyone even an ounce of what I feel for Canon. I should be high on possibility, and yet the future is as uncertain in many ways as it is bright.
I sit up, tucking the sheets under my arms.
What time is it?
I grab my phone from the bedside table, shocked to see it’s after noon.
“Good grief,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the side of the large bed. “I’ve slept half the day away.”
The production schedule has slowed significantly—partly because we only have music to finish, and partly because I need it to be slower, and it’s still a lot. I could literally lie right down in the bed and go back to sleep.
When I stand, I stagger and sink back down into the soft mattress for a second before trying again. A tiny hammer taps behind my eyes and at my temples. My ankles and feet are swollen. So are my hands. This is part of the disease, I know that, but it’s a cruel reminder that despite the drugs that manage these symptoms so I can get through each day, my kidneys are still failing. Toxins that should be filtered from my body aren’t leaving efficiently. And every day without a new kidney, it will only get worse.
I have to call Terry. Mama promised to give me today and I’m taking it. I’m facing enough crap without thinking about the most awkward conversation in the history of awkward conversations.
I know we’ve been beefing the last twelve years, but could I have your kidney?
No more awkward than I fucked your fiancé and I’m having his baby, sis.
And who’s to say she’ll even be a match? We won’t know until we try, and I know we need to try. Sighing, I grab underwear from my suitcase, but ignore my clothes, instead opting for one of Canon’s USC hoodies slung over a chair. For a bachelor, Canon keeps his house very orderly. I’m sure someone helps with that, but still, his closet is as big as my tiny apartment in New York. One whole wall for shelves of shoes. A segment of his closet is dedicated to suits, and I remember how incredible he looked that night on the rooftop. His collection of sweatshirts, jeans, button-ups—they’re all color-coordinated and neatly arranged.
My body protests, begging me to crawl back into bed, but I push myself to venture downstairs. The house looks even more impressive now that I’m not distracted by hunger and nerves. I wander through expensively decorated rooms, each screaming interior design. There’s no way Canon would slow down long enough to shop and create this beautiful space.
“Where are you?” I ask the empty room. Nowhere on this floor.
Spotting a door ajar beneath the floating stairs, I hear the rumble of voices. Tiptoeing down the steps, I peek around the corner. A huge home theater takes up most of this floor, outfitted with four rows of movie-theater seats and a huge screen dominating an entire wall. Canon is slumped in a seat in the front row, a pad on his knee, his eyes fixed to the screen. His laptop rests at his bare feet, open and frozen on what I recognize as one of the French Riviera scenes.
“Looking good?” I ask, walking across the plush rug to stand beside him.
He drops the pad and pulls me down to sit on his knee. I snuggle into his strong arms and hard chest.
“It looks amazing,” he says. “It’s not perfect, but we’ll get there.”
He takes my hand, frowning at my swollen fingers and wrists. His glance slides lower to the puffy ankles and feet. I tense, not needing him to tell me this isn’t good, but sure he’ll ask.
“Did you take your meds?”
“Of course. I know it’s a little bit of swelling.”
“Any other symptoms?”
Extreme exhaustion. A touch of nausea and a headache that’s playing ping-pong behind my eyes.
“When do you see Dr. Okafor again?”
“I have a checkup Monday.”
“And have you called your sister about getting tested to see if she’s a match?”
“Not yet. I’ll do it today.”
“Neevah,” he says, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I don’t care about whatever shit you and Terry have going on. She has the highest likelihood of being a match. You have to ask her.”
“Does this place have popcorn, too?” I stand to get away from the conversation. I’ve already decided I’ll call Terry. I don’t want to be nagged about it. I sound like a spoiled child, but between work and what my body’s been putting me through, I just want to turn off for a second.
“You’re hungry?” he asks. “I can cook something.”
I’m actually nauseous and cannot imagine food right now, but I nod so we can shift from the unpleasant task of begging my sister for a vital organ. He grabs the remote to turn off the video, but pauses, staring at the screen.
“Wait.” He pulls me to stand in front of him and links his arms around my middle, tucking his head into the crook of my shoulder. “Watch this.”
The onscreen image rolls into a different file. Digital, not film. It’s one of the musical numbers at the Savoy we recorded early on. Days, weeks in the making, relentless hours of hard work, and the scene comes and goes in a matter of minutes. Lucia’s meticulous attention to detail and her exacting demands are evident in every step. The dance is precisely executed, but there is a wild joy on my face, in the abandon of my limbs when I’m tossed and when I glide and when I kick and swing. The spirit of the Savoy inhabits every inch of the screen. The excellence and the pride and creativity that swept through Harlem and reverberated around the world—they’re all there. Even now, standing here in the circle of Canon’s arms, I’m an echo of those artists—their talent and persistence in the face of prejudice or war or poverty or any flaming darts the world threw at them. Instead of burning them to death, adversity lit a fire under them to make something the world had never seen. Innovating with their bodies and minds and voices. The chaos and necessity of imagination. And this is their legacy. I am their legacy.
Tears blur the beauty onscreen and I grip Canon’s forearms, sinking into the hardness of his chest.
“It’s fantastic,” I whisper, moved almost beyond words at the privilege of being in this film. “You’ve made something . . . Canon, this is so magnificent.”
“It is,” he agrees, excitement woven into the dark fabric of his voice. “You are. Everyone who sees this movie will see what I saw in you.” He turns me around to face him, his big hands resting at the curve of my hips.
“Which was what?” I ask, placing my palms flat against his chest.
“Light.” He cups my face, his eyes intent and unwavering. “I get it now—my mother’s fascination with light. She chased it for years, committing it to memory and film with every sunset. She taught me what to look for and when I saw it in you, I recognized it. I didn’t fully understand what it would mean for me, who you would be to me, but I saw that light and wanted it.” He nods to the screen. “I wanted it for Dessi Blue, and though I wouldn’t admit it, I wanted it for myself.”
“It was a crazy thing to do.” I chuckle, cupping the hard angle of his jaw. “Trusting some girl nobody knows with a movie this big.”
“I always know what I’m doing,” he says immodestly, grinning when I roll my eyes. “Enough about my brilliance. I mean, for now. We can revisit it later. Let’s get you some food.”
My stomach roils and I swallow another wave of nausea, but I smile and follow him back up the stairs.
We’re on our way to the kitchen when he stops and detours to a room through an archway down the hall. “Let me show you something.”
It’s a studio of sorts with a wide skylight, inviting light into every corner. A cushioned seat is built into one nook. The walls are filled, mere slivers of space separating the photos and shelves. Photographs of sunsets, ocean scenes, buildings, Canon at various ages, self-portraits of Remy Holt—her work takes up all the space on two walls. The other two walls hold shelves with more cameras than I’ve ever seen.
“Wow.” I walk over to inspect a vintage-looking Nikon. “This is some collection.”
“Hers,” he says, inspecting a selection of Polaroids showing Canon and his mother at the beach. “She was obsessed.”
I’m afraid to touch the cameras. It’s obvious they’re in excellent condition. They aren’t dusty, but shine and are neatly arranged.
“They still work?” I ask.
He picks up the Nikon and aims it at me. “Let’s see.”
The click of the camera startles me. “Canon! Don’t.”
One hand flies to my hair, covered by the silk scarf I slept in last night.
Lowering the camera, he offers a slight smile. “We don’t have any pictures together.”
“Is that true?”
“Someone may have snapped one of us on set or something, but I don’t have any.” He walks over to an old-fashioned camera on a stand. “Let me take a few.”
I don’t want him to. Call it vanity or fear, I’m not sure what, but something inside me recoils at the idea of documenting this time of my life. In the film, I have makeup and wigs and costumes and a character to hide behind. But here in the unforgiving light of day, there’s nowhere to hide. It’s just me and my battle scars and bald spots. He’s asking to memorialize it when I just want it to be over.
“A few,” I relent.
His triumphant grin makes me regret my acquiescence immediately because give Canon an inch and he takes a road trip. In a few minutes, he makes quick work of fiddling with the buttons and setting the timer.
“Look into the camera?” I ask, nervous for some reason.
“Look at me,” he says, bending, taking my lips between his, sucking gently. I lose myself in the kiss.
The camera goes off and I pull away, looking from his face to his lens.
“So just a picture of us kissing?”
“Can I take a few more?” he asks, walking over to grab the Polaroid camera.
“Okay.”
He extends his arm away from us, aiming at our faces pressed together. He captures us kissing, crossing our eyes, laughing. The camera spits each photo out and Canon lets them fall to the ground, not bothering to stop until several photos litter the floor, scattered at our feet. He collects them, opens a drawer with clothespins, and clips the photos of us to a line that stretches between walls.
“This one,” he says, picking up another camera, “was one of her favorites. It’s an EOS DCS3. Expensive at the time and a little unwieldly, but she used it a lot. In Greek mythology, Eos was the goddess of the dawn who rose each morning from the edge of the ocean. What do you say?” He aims the camera at me. “Just a few?”
No rests on the tip of my tongue. It somehow feels different than when he took pictures of us together. Me standing alone in the light, no makeup or a persona I can don and doff, feels more exposed, vulnerable.
I nod permission, but give him nothing to work with. I stand in a pool of light and stare back at his camera. He doesn’t do that photographer thing—coax me, direct me, encourage me to pose or “give” him anything. He just clicks, changes the angle of her camera, of his head, the camera’s eye never leaving me.
“You done?” I ask.
“Not unless you want me to be.” He lowers the camera. “I’d like to take more.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to remember you exactly as you are right now.”
I scoff and shoot him a sour look. “Right now? Like this?”
He nods, his expression sober. “Exactly like this.”
There is such love in his eyes, such . . . I don’t know . . . adoration . . . that for a moment I don’t know how to respond. It is a look, a love that reaches in and fills me up. I’m about to yield because that look could get this man anything he wants, when a wave of nausea overwhelms me. I rush from the studio, zigzagging from unfamiliar room to unfamiliar room until I stumble into a bathroom just in time to vomit. I haven’t eaten anything, so it’s a violent, fruitless expelling, but I hug the bowl tightly, my tears running into the toilet. I’ve tried to ignore the persistent pain battering the inside of my skull since I woke, but the heaving worsens the agony, and I close my eyes against light that has suddenly become unbearable. Slumping on the cold tiles, I let my body go limp, praying for oblivion.
“Dammit,” Canon curses, rushing in and scooping me up off the floor.
I want to tell him I can walk, but I honestly don’t know that I can. My head flops onto his shoulder.
“Neevah, baby.” I’ve never heard his voice this way. Desperate, panicked. Frightened. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
I open my mouth to tell him that’s unnecessary, but a sob comes out instead. It’s a wretched sound, and I resent my body for making it. I taste tears and grip his shirt with one weak fist.
“Mama. I want my mama.”
Most times when I’ve really needed her in the past, I’ve had to make do on my own. As I give in to the debilitating fatigue, I don’t believe this time could be any different, but I have to ask.
