The Lifeline on Your Palm

The bottle of vitamin C sat on the kitchen counter between us, bright orange against the gray stone. Jamie pushed it toward me with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You look like you need this more than I do."

I'd known Jamie for twelve years. We'd survived college heartbreaks, his divorce, my layoff. We'd called ourselves best friends through four apartments and three cities. But standing in his kitchen in Boca Raton, with the palm trees swaying beyond the sliding glass door, I realized I'd never seen him cry before.

"You're selling the place?"

"Everything."

He turned his hand over, palm up, tracing the lines there with his thumbnail. The lifeline, the heart line, the fate line—all mapped out beneath his skin, none of them predicting this. A wife who left last spring. A business dissolved in September. A diagnosis three weeks ago.

"What can I do?" I asked, because that's what friends say.

"Go swimming with me."

The pool was midnight blue, illuminated by soft underwater lights. Jamie stripped down to his boxers, his body thinner than I remembered, and slid into the water without a splash. I followed, the coolness shocking against my skin.

We treaded water in silence. The palm fronds cast spiderweb shadows on the patio. The orange vitamin bottle sat on the counter like a joke neither of us would laugh at.

"My mother died at 62," he said, staring up at the stars. "She took her vitamins every single day. Never missed. Jogged. Ate kale before it was cool."

He dove beneath the surface, emerging meters away. I watched him swim laps with a desperate, rhythmic grace. Each stroke seemed like an argument with something unseen. Each breath a small victory.

I climbed out, dripping onto the concrete. The bottle was still there. I opened it and dry-swallowed two capsules, choking them down.

When Jamie finally pulled himself from the water, we sat shoulder to shoulder on the edge, legs dangling in the deep end. His palm rested on his knee, lines still visible even in the dim light.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I start treatment."

I placed my hand over his, palm to palm. "I'll drive you."

The water rippled around our legs. The vitamin bottle waited on the counter. And for the first time in twelve years of friendship, we let ourselves be exactly as sad as we were, swimming in it, until the sun came up.