Wake (100 page)

“Can you stop embarrassing me now?” I ask Mom when she starts to tell Willa about how often I’m supposed to purge the phlegm from my lungs. We’re trying to eat here.

“I’m not trying to embarrass you. This is important information.”

“well , you are embarrassing me.”

She takes mercy on me and targets Elise instead. Elise isn’t actually
going
to prom, just working at it, but Mom still insists on taking pictures of her baby girl all dressed up for the event. Elise is doing the femme fatale look again. She curled her hair and wears her borrowed fedora on a slant over one heavily made-up eye. The black goes all the way around her eye and onto her cheek, while the other eye is almost makeup free. She only has one elbow-length black glove on, because it would look dumb if only her face were asymmetrical. Only Elise could pull off something so off-the-wall.

“You need to dress up like that to take tickets?” Eric says.

“Oh come on, it’s an occasion,” Mom chides, and snaps another picture.

“If you had a boyfriend, this would be the part where Mom takes out the old baby albums and humiliates you beyond recovery.”

“I would do no such thing.” Nobody buys that. Mom keeps snapping pictures until Elise is halfway out the door and annoyed enough to snap, “Are you giving me a ride or not?” at Eric.

The house is quiet once they’re gone. I immediately miss the sense of normalcy our obnoxious family dinners give to this house. Willa stands up to do the dishes. When I go to help her Mom says I look tired.

“Do you want to lay down, sweetie?”

“I’m fine.”

“Maybe you should take a little oxygen.” That oxygen tank is the bane of my existence. It’s annoying and uncomfortable and I hate that I need it.

“I’m fine.”

“Go lie on the couch,” Willa says, and kisses me. “I’ll be in soon.” I don’t want to go lie down. I want to do dishes with her, because that’s what normal couples do after a meal and I miss hanging out with her. I stubbornly stick around until the job is done. Willa does a good job of humoring me; I get all the easy tasks that don’t require much movement or effort.

“Now will you rest?” she asks as we close the dishwasher.

“I have an idea.” I take her hand and lead Willa to the front room. My stupid oxygen tank—I should name it something really awful for effect—is on the coffee table where Mom left it. I hand the carrying bag to Willa, who immediately starts to uncoil the tubing for me.

“How many liters per minute?”

“Hold that thought.” I open one of the front windows and turn a TV speaker to face it. Willa looks at me like I’m being an idiot.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” I plug my iPod into the auxiliary port on the stereo system and adjust the volume. “Come here.” I take Willa’s hand and lead her out into the porch. It’s the last warm hour of the evening, when the sky turns gold and red before setting. There’s a word for this time of day.

“I think it’s dusk.”

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” I tease, and take the black bag from her. I set the tank—I think I’ll call him Adolph—on the porch swing and fit the tube under my nose and around my ears. “A Mil ion Dol ars,” by Joel Plaskett, one of Willa’s old standbys, plays through the window screen.

“What are you doing?” she asks when I reach for her hand.

“Come here.” I pull her in and guide her arms around my neck. We can make this better than prom:

we’re both wearing sweats, which are way comfier than a dress and suit; the music doesn’t have to be censored by school administrators; no crappy lighting, we have the sunset; every song can be good for slow-dancing, because I’m not letting go of her.

“You can be disgustingly romantic, you know,” she says as we shuffle from foot to foot.

“You’re so observant.”

“What do you want to do tonight?”

“Just this.” I nuzzle her temple and Willa smirks.

“No, really.” We stay on the porch, dancing and rocking on the swing until the sky is more purple than red, quietly making plans. I want to meet her parents, even if it’s just through a phone conversation. We both agree that more time hiking along
our
creek is definitely necessary. I want to cook with her. She wants me to ‘outgrow’ the hat. I want to go swimming with her. She wants to see me naked.

“Willa.”

“Can you blame me?”

I never know what to say when she hints at sex, because on the one hand I’m flattered, and on the other I’m scared shitless.

Willa changes the subject. “I have some things planned for us tomorrow.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Let me surprise you.” I’m not opposed to that. Willa’s last surprise has already been transferred to my iPod…and has an embarrassingly high play count.

“Okay. But be gentle.” Willa kisses the corner of my ear-to-ear grin.

“I’ll take good care of you.”

Saturday

I wake up early to see Elise off, ignoring Mom’s nagging to get back into bed and rest. Eventually she concludes that I’m either too stubborn to move or temporarily deaf, because she quits harping on me.

Elise sits on my lap during breakfast, crunching on Cheerios. She doesn’t have a choice in the matter; I pulled her onto my lap and there she stays. Dad gives her a hug and a kiss goodbye before he leaves for work.

“Be safe, honey,” he tells her. I get a look of concern over Elise’s shoulder. What’s his problem?

Everyone has been looking at me weird since Elise told me she was working at that stupid camp. I don’t like it that she’s leaving, but we’ve been separated before—every time I went to music camp. The difference is that this time she’s the one going away, and I can’t protect her there.

“Relax,” Eric tells me as they climb into the car. “She’ll be fine. You were.” What the hell does he know?

He never went to sleep-away camp. My mind is a blur of memories that now seem like horror stories—

homesickness, injuries, weed, blowjobs behind the cabin after hours…. I hope they never let my sister out of the kitchen.

“Willa call ed, she’s on her way,” Mom says, and kisses me on the cheek. “Cheer up. The summer will be over before you know it.”

Yeah, right
.

They pull out of the driveway and I sit there on the porch like an abandoned dog, waiting for them to come back. I miss her already. I shouldn’t have put that toy wand in her backpack—condoms would have been more appropriate. What’s the spel for preventing teen pregnancy?

I’m still sitting on the porch swing, stewing in misery and panicking inside, when Willa pulls up. She comes up to the porch with her backpack slung over one shoulder and a full trash bag in the other hand. I ask her what it’s for and she says, “You’ll see.”

I’m fine with spending our day together in the regular living space instead of holed up in my room. Willa has seen me in bed enough this month.

“Do you have the breath to do stairs?” she asks.

“I’d need you to walk with me.”

“Okay. Wait here.” Willa takes her bags inside. I can hear her walking around in there for a few minutes, and when she comes back to get me she’s carrying Adolph.

“So I don’t have to explain to your dad how you passed out and fell down the stairs.” Willa holds the bag out to me. I take it with a sigh and unwind the tubing. Once I get the stupid thing fitted and turned on, Willa holds out a hand to help me up.

“We don’t have to spend the day upstairs,” I tell her as we cross the porch. “I’m not so sick anymore that I need to be in bed all the time.”

“Your dad said you’d say that.” Willa smirks and kisses my shoulder. I move my arm so she is no longer supporting my elbow and put it around her shoulders. This feels less like an invalid being guided and more like a couple stroll ing.

Willa works fast. My bed is made up with about six additional pillows—the contents of her mystery trash bag—and a TV dinner tray is set up with fresh sliced fruit and juice. Another short table has been set up near the foot of the bed with a laptop and a stack of DVDs. The window is open to let in the warm breeze.

“I thought it would be nice to spend the day in bed together,” she says. “Brought the living room and kitchen in, too.”

I kiss her temple. “You’re wonderful.” We get comfortable on the bed, propped up by pillows. There are four movies to choose from:
300
;
Anchorman
;
Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels
; and
Ocean’s

Eleven.
I take back whatever I said about Willa having lousy taste in movies.

We start with
Anchorman,
cuddled close and without risk of interruption. I put aside my oxygen for the time being. I can breathe just fine while resting and I want to be able to smell her. Willa pulls the container of fruit closer and calls it our movie popcorn. She even cut the fruit into kernel-sized chunks and used only what I can eat without hurting: kiwis, raspberries, banana, grapes, and peaches.

“I love you,” I tell her, and slip a cut grape past her lips.

“Keep grazing on this,” she says of the fruit. “It’ll keep your energy up and your stomach from hurting.”

Bril iant as that plan is, I enjoy this setup for other reasons. For every piece of fruit I eat, at least one is sacrificed to food play with my Willa. I trace bits of kiwi around her lips and kiss the juice away. Some peach juice drips onto
her
peaches, and she lets me lick it off. “Can’t have you being undernourished,

can we?”

Only half my attention is on the movie, and that’s fine, because I missed this holding and touching and teasing. We cuddle as close as possible, twining our legs together and nibbling fruit from each other’s fingers. The movie provides humor, and I missed laughing with her about simple things.

Willa is generous with her patience. She holds me when I cough, and every time I have to shift positions because of joint pain she helps me rearrange the pillows and snuggles up to me again. I love how she doesn’t fuss.

At the end of the first movie, Willa makes me sit up. I’ve been coughing more often since the beginning of the third act, and now it’s time to hack up as much mucus as I can.

“I can’t believe you want to watch this.”

Willa just kisses my cheek and pats my back with cupped hands to help loosen the phlegm. “If I was sick, you’d take care of me.” She does do a good job of that, I have to say. She stays with me until I’ve coughed up all I can, and then brings me my noon medication from the bathroom.

“You want a hit?” she says after I’m done swallowing pill s, and extends the oxygen tube to me like a stoner offering a bong. I take it from her and give my lungs some rest.

Ocean’s Eleven
is next, but I’m getting tired. I fall asleep with my head on Willa’s shoulder before Ocean has his full team.

Waking up is heaven.

Willa: June 24

Saturday

I turn off the movie when it seems Jem is really and truly asleep. He doesn’t stir when I slip away from him, or when I tuck a blanket over his legs. While he sleeps I take the opportunity to get up and stretch;

use the washroom; put the fruit in the fridge for later; and when all that is done, I sit against the headboard and watch Jem nap. He looks deceptively innocent in sleep—earnest and soft like a baby lamb. I take his hat off and his hair sticks up in all directions. It only enhances his overal cuteness.

Jem stretches his arm and leg to the side, looking for me, and ends up sprawled like a starfish. The position displaces his nasal cannula. I adjust it and he smiles.

“Looking for me?” I take his outstretched hand and Jem hums contentedly. “You awake?”

“No.”

“Too bad.” I run a hand down his back and he hums encouragingly. He’s only awake so long as I love on him and let him lie there. I pat his bum and his smile grows.

“You’ve got a cute butt.” The goof teasingly lifts his hips, pressing his cheek further against my palm.

“Like that, is it?”

Jem nods against his pillow. He hasn’t even bothered to open his eyes yet. I think a little fun is in order, so I slip my hand down from the curve of his cheek, between his thighs. That wakes him up. Jem’s eyes snap open and his fingers dig into the blanket as I run my fingers around his ball s.

“Cool, it’s an
On
button,” I tease him, and tug gently. Jem lies there like he’s afraid to move and end the moment.

“Kiss me?” he says. That shouldn’t be a question. I lie down to kiss him and Jem wraps an arm around me. I can’t quite reach between his legs from this angle, but I can touch elsewhere.

“You want to play?” he murmurs against my lips. He sounds nervous, and I don’t blame him.

“I’d love to play.”

“Can we keep clothes on?” By ‘we’ he means himself.

“I’d rather not.”

“But—”

“Relax, love. You don’t have to say yes or no to everything up front. We’ll go slow. Keep your oxygen on —I have to give you back to your parents in mint condition.”

“Give me a minute.” He leans toward the washroom and I unwrap my arms to let him go. Jem is gone for a few minutes, and from the bedroom I hear the faint sounds of the medicine cabinet opening and closing. When he comes back the buttons on his pajamas shirt are undone, but it’s such a loose garment that I can’t see much between the gap.

Jem crawls across the bed to me and I immediately slip my hands under his shirt to trace his bare skin. “I knew you’d go straight for that,” he mutters against my lips.

“It’s a novelty.” I run my fingers up both sides of his spine and he arches his back with a sigh. Jem leans down, planting little kisses along my neck and jaw, and whispers in my ear, “I love the way you touch me.”

“You should let me do it more often,” I tell him, only half teasing. Sometimes the touch of another is the only thing that can remind us that we’re alive; I love being able to give him that—to welcome him back to his body after a long dormancy.

As my hands travel across his shoulders the front of his shirt parts and I can see why he needed a minute in the washroom. Jem bundled up the end caps and catheter of his Hickman and taped it all to his chest under a patch of gauze. I pause to look at it and Jem smiles apologetical y.