Death and Chocolate

Today is my birthday and there will be cake. Chocolate cake. One decadent slice loaded with gluten and dairy that will pain me later.

I'm at Amy's Cakes, my local dessert cafe that survived COVID-19 closures by selling all-occasion cakes and cupcakes online, each order accompanied by a trio of balloons. I remember reassuring Amy that she'd outlast any lockdown because no celebration is complete without cake and balloons. She made it her slogan and powered through the pandemic. Last Friday her cafe opened again for indoor dining so here I am back in my favorite spot re-establishing my habit of weekly visits. I brought my hunger and pent-up sugar craving knowing my usual order of coffee and almond croissant will be sidelined in favor of cappuccino and chocolate cake.

I sit in a narrow booth waiting for Katie to arrive. I've known Katie Lang since grade school, long before I became a copywriter and she a globe-trotting archaeologist. Even though we went our separate ways after university, and were thousands of miles apart for most of our working lives, we are still best friends. We always commemorate each other's birthday, usually with a cryptic message written in a cutesy card delivered by regular mail. Today we meet in person. Back in town to accept a teaching position at the university, Katie called me this morning with an invite to get together. Not sounding like her jovial self, she said she had something to ask me that she wouldn't discuss over the phone.

While I peruse the new menu, the cafe front door opens and a familiar bell jingles. I look up to see a too-thin Katie walking towards me draped in an ill-fitting tweed jacket and khaki trousers. Her clothes look lonesome for her lost curves, the shoulder seams droop. Her tired eyes peer out from behind a face mask imprinted with skulls and crossbones in black, white, and blood red. I stare at a sullen red skull as Katie slips into the booth and sits across from me.

She pulls off the mask and smiles. "It's good to see you," she says.

"You too," I reply.

Our normal enthusiasm for each other is replaced with awkward silence. I choke my fear and state the obvious. "You've lost weight." It was the cue Katie needed to tell her story.

"Remember when I was in Peru last year?" she began.

"Yes. You were doing research for your book. Is it coming out soon?"

"I'm polishing the final draft. I hope I live long enough to see it published next Spring."

I laughed thinking Katie was over-exaggerating the impact that writing a book would have on her health. Or maybe she was anticipating an exhausting semester teaching history and archeology to first year students at Yale.

The desperate look on Katie's face told me there was no exaggeration and nothing funny about what she had yet to say. With a quick and sober attitude adjustment I let her continue.

"While I was in Peru I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I came home for treatment. I kept it quiet. I didn't want anyone fussing over me."

Katie said it like a true confession. Odd because her adventurous spirit, powerful intellect, and wicked sense of humor always put her at the center of everyone's attention.

"How can I help?" was my instinctual reply.

"Will you be the executor of my will?" Katie asked.

I freeze. For a moment I stop breathing. When I don't answer right away Katie keeps talking. "My cancer is back. I may die. I need to take care of everything now, while I can."

I feel tears coming so I look away. I see Amy approaching our table carrying a tray with two cappuccinos, two forks, and a giant wedge of velvety, dark, chocolate fudge cake with a lighted birthday candle stuck in its slanted middle.

"Hey Patty, welcome back and happy birthday chickee-baby," Amy declared in her raspy voice. "Is there anything else I can get ya?"

"Ya. More cake."

Katie smiled. She knew we'd be there a while. She knew my answer was yes.