Never Eighteen (15 page)

"You can't do this. Don't do this," she says, but she doesn't move, just lies there staring up at me.

"Why?"

"Because it's not fair. It's not fair to tell me this now. Jesus, Austin."

"I'm sorry. I just, well, I didn't want to leave without you knowing how I felt."

She sits up, grabs the back of my neck, pulls me close, and kisses me. Her lips are soft and gentle. They're salty, leftovers from the popcorn. "I love you too, you idiot. Why did you wait so long to tell me?" she asks.

"I don't know. At first I was afraid of messing up our friendship. I didn't want you to freak out and make you go away. I'd rather have you as my friend than not in my life at all. There were actually a couple times I tried to tell you, but after a battle with my stupid head and mouth, I lost. And then, up at the mountain, I thought—" I say.

"I'm sorry about that. I'm scared, Austin. I'm scared for you, about my feelings for you. I didn't want to love you if you were just going to end up leaving."

I lean in, kiss her again, longer. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. We would have had more time together," I say gazing into those deep blue eyes I'm crazy about.

"Me too," she says, and we kiss again, longer still. We lie back down on the blanket, still locked together, and stay that way, a moment I wish could be eternal.

She reaches under my shirt, rubs my back, pressing closer. I run my hand under her shirt as well, over her belly, under her bra. Her skin is warm, smooth, and soft. We undress each other, not caring that we're outside, in the middle of the football field, that it's September and the air is colder than it should be. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters right now except me and Kaylee. I take the edge of the blanket and throw it over us.

I keep kissing as my hand works its way back down her body. She moans as I kiss parts of her I can't believe I'm touching. Her body tenses, she sighs, relaxes.

I'm nervous, an amateur, I fumble as I try to slide into her. She stops me. "You have protection, right?"

I smile, reach for my pants, pull out my wallet, and remove a condom.

"Oh my God, Austin. Tell me that's not the condom you've been carrying in your wallet since eighth grade," Kaylee says.

"No."

"But you've never, um..." she says.

"No, but I've changed it out, you know, every year or so." We both giggle. She pulls me down and again we kiss, and I stop fumbling.

"Oh my God, Kaylee. I can't believe we're here, like this."

"Me either."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

I've spent years anticipating this moment, but it seems only seconds in the moment itself. I'm embarrassed, but Kaylee doesn't seem to notice. I rest my head on her chest, and together we just breathe and fall asleep.

When we wake it's late, and although I'd like to stay here with Kaylee as long as possible, I know I have to get home. There's one more person to talk to before bed. We walk back to Kaylee's house and she drives me home. I get to kiss her one more time before leaving. My mom waits for me in the living room.

"Austin, where the hell have you been? Do you know what time it is? And it's a school night," she says, as if I don't know.

"Sorry, Mom," I say.

She sees my battered face. "What in God's green earth happened to you?"
God's green earth,
a phrase spoken only by mothers, and they alone know its secret meaning. She runs over and inspects every scratch, every bruise, every wound. Her touch hurts.

"Mom," I say, pushing her hands away.

"Jesus, Austin, who did this to you?"

"An old friend," I answer trying to be funny.

"An old friend? I'd hate to see what your old enemies would do to you." I laugh, and upon seeing that I'm really not that damaged, she does as well.

"You should go to bed," she says.

"We need to talk."

"Tomorrow," she says.

"This is important."

She stares up into my face for a moment then says, "Hold on a minute." She gets up, heads to the kitchen, and comes back with a glass of red wine.

"The tone in your voice sounded as if I'd need this." I chuckle. "So talk."

"I just want to make sure you're okay," I say.

"Okay? Why wouldn't I be?" she asks.

"When I'm gone."

She quiets, breathes, sips. "I don't want to talk about that. Why do we have to talk about that?"

"I need to know that when the time comes, you'll let me go, move on. I don't want you to give up, to stop living, like Jake's mom."

"Move on? I'm your mother. You're my only child. How am I supposed to move on? You can't just move on from something like that. I don't want to talk about this."

We're silent for a moment, then I decide I just need to tell her. "I'm not doing another round of chemo."

Her eyes widen. At first I'm not sure what I see in them—surprise, yes, but then I think I see anger. No, that's not right. Fear, that's what it is. That fear quickly dissolves though, and she locates her sternest, most I'm-the-mom-I-make-the-decisions voice. "Yes. Yes you are. It's already scheduled."

I understand why she wants the chemo, but her reasons are selfish. I become frustrated, angry, I raise my voice, "No, I'm not. I don't want to." I begin to cry, and then sink to my knees in front of her and beg, "Please, Mom, let this be my decision. I'm dying. I'm never going to make it to eighteen. My body can't take any more treatment. It's tired. And what's it going to do for me? What did the doctor say? Maybe give me another three or four months."

"But those are three or four months of you still being here. With me. Don't you want to be here as long as you can?" She's crying with me now. I feel for her, but I have to make her understand how I feel.

"No, I don't, not like that. Those won't be comfortable, dignified months, no. They will be painful, horrible months spent in a hospital bed where I will be poked and prodded, and sick and miserable. It's not worth it to me for just another couple months of life. It won't be much of a life at all. I'm ready to go, I want to go, but I want to do it on my own terms, in my own house, in my own bed, my family and friends by my side. But I have to make sure you'll be okay."

She hugs me tightly. Her tears wet my cheeks, drip onto my shirt, sink in. Her lips right next to my ear, she whispers, "I won't be okay. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. I don't want to let you go."

"It will be okay," I whisper back, for both of us, the tears now flowing freely, like rain.

She repeats the word
no
what seems like a million times.

"It's okay, Mom. It will be okay, I promise."

"You can't promise what you can't possibly know. Please don't leave me yet, Austin. I don't want to be alone."

"You won't be alone," I tell her.

She's listening to my words, but not to what I'm saying. She pulls my head in to her breast, kisses the top of my head. Now her tears stream onto my bare scalp, trickle down my cheek.

I pull away, grab her shoulders, look in her eyes. "You need to hear me." A confused expression spreads across her dampened face. She stays silent, so I continue. "Everything will be okay. You won't be alone."

"What do you mean? You're all I have in this world. Without you, it's only me."

"I've made sure," I tell her.

"Made sure?" she asks. "What do you mean, made sure?"

"I told Grandma to call you."

In a quiet voice she says, "Don't call her that. She's not your grandma."

"Yes, she is."

"I hate her."

"You can't. She's your mother. And whatever she did, I'm sure she's sorry for it. You should forgive her."

"It's a little too late for that now, don't you think?" she says.

"No, I don't think that. It's never too late for forgiveness." Mom lets out a deep, echoing sigh. "I think you'll be hearing from her soon. If she comes or calls, promise me you'll hear her out."

"Well, how can I turn down the request of a dying boy?" She says this quietly still, yet so sharp, it pierces my heart.

"Ouch," I say.

"I'm sorry, Austin."

"You may want to hold your apology."

"What? On second thought, hang on," she says. She gulps down the remainder of her wine and goes back to the kitchen for another pour. She sits back down, takes another sip, and says, "Go on."

"I talked to Dad today."

"Jesus, Austin. Why?"

"Because you still love him, and you need him," I say.

"Austin, sometimes things are best left in the past. This is better for both of us."

"No, it's not. He loves you too, you know."

"He has a funny way of showing it."

"You hurt him. Bad."

She stands up, drops her glass. It tumbles through the air, as if in slow motion, and bounces silently off the carpet, wine splashing and seeping into the beige shag. I look down on it. It reminds me of blood.

"What did he tell you?" she says, her appearance calm, but her emotions I can tell are roiling right under the surface.

"He told me a lot, but I pushed him. Like you said, you can't turn down the request of a dying boy," I tell her, smiling.

"That's not funny," she says.

"It's not supposed to be, and it's okay. He forgave you a long time ago."

"Why didn't he ever tell me?"

"He thought you'd moved on."

"That's ridiculous. I was miserable, and he just up and left."

"You didn't stop him."

"He could have stopped himself," she cries.

"You broke his heart," I say.

"Yes, but he broke mine too."

"But now you can put them back together. You'll need each other. Soon."

She quiets, picks up the glass and refills it. "Yes, we will."

"He'll be by. I would bet tomorrow."

"Oh, you would, would you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, genius, fine. I'll open my home, my mind, my heart, if it will make you happy."

"It will."

"I can't make any promises, though. It's been five years," she says.

"I'm not asking you to."

We sit quietly, she drinks her wine, I watch. Study. My dad's right. She's beautiful, with shiny black hair; of course, she's grayed a little the last couple years. Her eyes still shine like emeralds, and her skin is fair, like a doll's, but not pale. I've never noticed. I have her eyes; I used to have her hair.

"You want a snack?" she asks.

"It's late," I remind her.

"Yes, but I'm hungry. What do you want?"

"I'm not very hungry, but I'll stay up with you as long as you let me see your wedding pictures," I say.

"What?"

"Your wedding pictures. I want to see them. Dad showed me one with you guys and Elvis. I want to see the rest."

She smirks. After going over to the ottoman in front of the high-back chair, she lifts the lid. Funny, I guess I never really thought about what was in there. She reaches in, grabs the album, and brings it to me. She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a few crackers and slices of cheese.

"You have to have cheese and crackers with wine," she says. We sit silently. I flip through wedding pictures while she daintily eats her snack and finishes her wine. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. I think she needs this moment, when we just sit. It doesn't matter if we talk or stay quiet; she just wants to be with me not knowing how much time we have left together.

I hope she'll be okay, this woman who has been my anchor. I remember she used to cry a lot when I was a kid, out of joy or sadness I'll never know. She always made me feel so warm, so protected, so loved. I want that for her.

When the last crumb has been licked from her fingers she says, "You should go to bed now. I don't want you skipping school tomorrow."

We rise and hug, and I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

I examine my cancer-ravaged body in the bathroom mirror. To me, I'm unrecognizable. My now naked scalp used to be covered with thick black curls. My skin, pale from hours of chemotherapy treatment, once looked healthy. This body, thin and weak, used to be strong and fit. I used to be normal, before the cancer. Now I
am
the cancer. It has coursed through my body, taking over, transforming me into some other being, someone alien.

I brush my teeth, my fatigue now catching up with me. I'm glad my body allowed me this weekend, kept going, didn't break down. I'm not sure if anything I did these last couple days made a difference. I wanted to reach out, let people know they still have a life to live, something I'll no longer have very soon.

And Kaylee. I'll die happy knowing she loves me. I wish I'd told her sooner. We could have had more time together, like tonight. I'll take advantage of the time we have left. Every second.