Wake (32 page)

The object in question this morning appears at the kitchen door just as Elise pours her second mug of coffee and Eric goes for a fourth muffin. Jem looks like hell ; the circles under his eyes couldn’t possibly get any darker and he shuffles his feet instead of walking.

“Morning, sweetie,” Ivy says. Jem doesn’t respond. He just stands in the door like an idiot and stares at me.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He looks at the breakfast table suspiciously, like this is all an elaborate ruse to conceal some ulterior motive.

“Sit down,” Eric says. So he does. Slowly, like he’s wary of his own family.

“Plans for today?” I ask. Jem studies my face and shakes his head no. “We’ll stay here, then.” Jem nods and Elise slides the tub of yogurt his way for breakfast. It takes him a few minutes, eating plain yogurt amid his family’s morning chatter, but eventually a smile does creep onto his face.

We spend the day on his turf, moving at his pace. Most of the morning is wiled away at the piano, messing around together or listening to him play. He’s totally transported when he plays. Something about music takes him to a higher plane while I stay below, watching him float with that special smile on his face. When I ask Jem where he ‘goes’ when he plays his face turns red and he shrugs. “Nowhere, I guess.” I let him have his secret.

“Can I hear you play your cell o some time?”

“I haven’t really played it since last fall .” Jem extends his hand to me, palm up, and shows me the damage to his skin from graft-versus-host. “It hurts to depress the strings for more than a few minutes.”

“You’ll get back to playing eventually.”

Jem shrugs like he doesn’t care, but his eyes are sad. He misses it.

*

After lunch Jem and I go for a walk. The rain holds off long enough for us to stroll to the corner and back, discussing bands. He likes The Eels but can’t stand Spiral Beach. He knows Great Big Sea but has never heard of Spirit of the West (how is that even possible?) and he thinks that
Beggar’s Banquet

is the best of the Stones’ albums.

“Nuh-uh,
Exile on Main Street.
Maybe
Emotional Rescue
as a close second, but only maybe.
”

“Oh what do you know?” he dismisses me with a scoff. “I bet you can’t stand Neil Young too, right?”

“Are you nuts? Who doesn’t like Neil Young? I bet you think Wintersleep is fluff.”

“Nuh-uh. The Tragically Hip are over-rated, right?”

“If you honestly think that you’re a stunned twat, Harper.”

When we get back to the house, Ivy is singing country music in her office. The night of rough sleep and an active morning have tired Jem, so we go into the living room and put on a movie. He chooses
Addams Family Values.

“Seriously?”

“Why not?” He smiles. I sit at the end of the couch while he lies down on his side. He curls up at first, trying to give me space, but he looks so cramped that I take his ankles and pull his feet onto my lap.

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” I’m probably spoiling him, giving him a day of my undivided attention and a foot-rub too, but I really should make up for trying to cut him out last week, and he basks so sweetly in the attention that I can’t help but give him more.

“Thanks,” he murmurs as I massage his soles. I try to pull his sock off but Jem draws his foot back to stop me. He winces at my questioning look and says, “I’m anemic. My feet are always cold.”

“Okay. Socks stay on.”

Jem has very ticklish feet. I have to massage slowly and carefully or he spazzes all over the couch and makes the funniest little ‘ack!’ sound. I don’t do it on purpose…much.

Jem is fighting to keep his eyes open when the movie ends, but he tries to stay awake and be a good host. He’s obviously tired so I offer to leave.

“No, stay, please. Do you want to look around the library?”

He knows how to tempt me.

When we go upstairs I head straight for Dickens. Ivy’s anthology has better footnotes than my second-

hand novels, with beautiful prints of important scenes inserted throughout the chapters. It’s a lovely book, with a leather cover and strong spine.

“You’re quite an adorable nerd,” Jem tells me. He slouches against the bookcase, smirking at me. The poor guy looks ready to drop.

“You need a nap.”

Jem’s smirk falters, but he doesn’t argue outright. “I’ll be okay.” I can’t decide if it’s sweet or stupid of him to lie just because I’m a guest.

“Come on.” I link my arm with his. “I’ll read in your room.”

*

I make myself comfy against the headboard while Jem excuses himself to the washroom. Beyond the bathroom door I can hear the sound of a pill sorter being opened and a cup fill ing at the tap. He doesn’t want to take his medication in front of me. I guess I owe him one now, since he’s being so considerate.

He understands that it flips a switch in me to know what poisons he’s taking.

When Jem comes out of the bathroom he tries to sit next to me against the headboard.

“Your neck will cramp if you fall asleep like that.”

He grimaces. “You don’t mind if I sleep a little bit?”

“Of course not. You need it. And I’ve got Pip and Company for entertainment.” I tap the cover of the collection. I decided on
Great Expectations
while arranging the pillows.

Jem lies down on his side, facing me, and folds his arms loosely around his front. He closes his eyes and sighs purposefully, but the silence is awkward.

“You don’t have to stay in here if you don’t want to,” he offers. It would be rude to say, “Shut up, you goof,” so I open the book to the first chapter of
Great Expectations
and read aloud.

He’s asleep in less than five minutes. Absolutely no appreciation for classic literature….

I read the first few chapters of
Great Expectations
before my back starts to cramp from sitting against the headboard. I close the book softly and very carefully move off the bed to stretch. Jem slumbers on without the slightest hint that he registered my movement. still , I don’t want to disturb him by climbing back onto the mattress, so I pull out his desk chair and turn it around so I can watch him sleep. I enjoy doing that far too much.

The first time I watched Jem sleep, it was on the couch that first Saturday he showed up at my house.

His feet twitched in his sleep and his mouth fell open slightly. He looked like a little boy, tuckered out and bundled up. And then there was Easter weekend, when he had the blankets pulled up to his chin and his cheek squished against the pillow. I thought it was funny that he napped with his hat on, but Jem is so self-conscious that I shouldn’t have been surprised. He probably only takes his hat off to bathe and sleep through the night.

“What a strange creature you are,” I whisper to his sleeping back. His breath comes softly through parted lips.

The last time I watched Jem sleep, just this past Saturday, he did so with the defeat and peace of a dead man. He didn’t twitch or stir, except to whimper in pain. His cheeks were still lined with red tracks from crying—it’s the poisons in him; his own tears are enough to burn the skin slightly. The tracks ran directly down both cheeks from his lids because his sparse, fledgling lashes weren’t enough to funnel the moisture out the corners of his eyes.

Jem’s fingers twitch. Maybe he’s dreaming about music. They flutter and relax several times, but he doesn’t wake.

His breathing changes after a while. No longer quite even, he makes little snuffling sounds when his fingers twitch. When his hands quit, his feet start. They tremor just slightly and his toes curl. I wonder if he’s a sleep-walker, because most people can’t even twitch in deep sleep.

“What are you dreaming about?” I whisper with a smile. If I asked waking Jem, he probably wouldn’t tell me. He would call me nosey and demand to know why I was watching him like some sort of creep.

Maybe I am a creep. I do enjoy watching him sleep. When his face is relaxed it’s easy to see what he must have looked like as a little boy.

As long as I’m being a creep, I might as well make it worthwhile. I open the drawer of his nightstand and peek at the contents. Harper is quite the packrat. I carefully sift through three half-empty medication bottles, a lot of crumpled receipts, notes-to-self composed in acronyms and half-sentences, and elastic bands of all shapes and sizes. There’s also a postcard wedged in the back of the drawer. It’s one of those generic ones with a picture of a sunset over the beach and
Wish you were here!
on the front. I flip it over and find a short note in very feminine penmanship:

Hey, Cancer! Give up while you still can! You’re never going to beat him. He’s too strong for you!

I throw the postcard back in the drawer and shut it tight. Jesus Christ…

Jem snuffles again and I lean over him to make sure the pillow isn’t blocking his airway. His jaw is relaxed, but his eyes are tight and worried-looking. His fingers twitch again. Whatever he’s dreaming doesn’t seem pleasant.

I put a hand around his shoulder and call his name softly.

Jem wakes with a gasp and jerks his arm up, like I’m a threat that needs to be pushed away. I grab his wrist before he can hit me in the face and push it back down.

“You’re okay. It’s me.” He still isn’t quite awake. I hold both his wrists against his front like a human straightjacket. “You were dreaming.”

“Shit,” he whispers, and pulls in several deep breaths as though he’s been starving for air.

“Nightmare?” Elise said he’d been having them lately. Jem makes a hum that passes for yes. “What was it about?”

“Drowning,” he answers shortly, and sucks in a steadying breath.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re alive and well.”

Jem turns his head to look at me over his shoulder. “I’m not well.” He says it with the surprise and disappointment of a kid learning that Santa isn’t real. Break my heart, why doesn’t he?

“Regardless, I’ve still got you.” I give him a little squeeze to prove it. Jem turns his face away again, but squeezes me back where our arms overlap across his front.

“You must have been cold. You’re more likely to have nightmares when you are. I’m sorry I didn’t realize—I would have covered you up.”

“Why are you so fucking nice to me?” he says bitterly. I smile at the back of his head and nudge his temple with my nose.

“Because you’re such a fucking peach.”

That deflates him a little. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Jem carefully dislodges my arms and sits up. He scrubs a hand over his face to clear his eyes and pulls his hat lower over his ears. “How long was I out for?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t keeping track.”

Jem swings his legs out of bed and stops there. For a moment he just sits there and studies me, frowning slightly, like there’s something puzzling about the way I look. Then he reaches out and grabs the sleeve of my sweater. Jem pulls on me so hard that I practically fall off the chair and onto his lap. He couldn’t just ask for a hug like a normal person—if this can be called a hug. It feels more like he’s trying to squeeze the living breath out of me.

“Air!” I gasp, and he lets go all at once. I lose my balance and fall flat on my ass.

“Shit! I’m so sorry.” Jem puts a hand on my arm to help me up but I brush him off.

“Screw it.” I lay back on the floor to regain my breath. “I’ll be down here.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. My ass broke my fall .” He doesn’t appreciate my attempt at humor. He looks sick with worry, which makes me laugh.

“It’s not funny.”

“Sure it is.”

“Let me help you up.” I all ow it this time. He refuses to try to sleep some more, but he’s too tired for us to do much. We end up playing crazy eights on his bed. It’s the dorkiest, most calming afternoon I’ve had in quite some time.

We play for about an hour before Jem’s eyes really start to droop again. I talk less, wondering if he might fall asleep without conversation to keep him awake. His is a subtle transition between waking and sleeping. His eyelids close, but he holds onto his cards awhile before his wrist relaxes and they slip through his fingers. I gather up the cards and set them on the nightstand. He doesn’t need more nightmares, so I cover him up too.

I consider seeking the company of Ivy or Elise while Jem sleeps, but I don’t really want to leave this room. Jem has a knack for objects. He knows how to arrange otherwise random, meaningless things to reflect his personality. Why should a scattered collection of bottle caps on his dresser say
Jem
? I don’t know, but it does. So I study the room, studying him.

He isn’t big on books, but there are a lot of notebooks on his shelf. They’re the kind designed for music students, with blank staves instead of lines. I flip through a few and find compositions I can’t read.

The pages are thin with countless erasings and there are slash marks across sections that he scrapped in a rush. I wish I could read this. I want to know what kind of sounds creep through his mind when he’s in a creative mood.

Then I find the black notebook. It’s set up like a day calendar. It started last July, and on each day he has kept a record of what medications he took, how much and what he ate, and his symptoms. I shut the book as fast as I can and put it back on the shelf. Mom kept a book like that for Tessa, to show the doctors what was happening when they weren’t around. I don’t want to look at his book, and I bet Jem doesn’t either. That part is behind him.

I take Jem’s desk chair into the corner, where the sun shines in warmly, and open his nightstand drawer. I bet I can make a ball the size of a plum with all the stray elastic bands he has in here.

*

It’s almost an hour later that Jem wakes with a yawn. He looks around the room blearily, moving his eyes from the deck of cards on the opposite nightstand to the closed door, and sits up on his elbow with a defeated look.

“Do you need more sleep?”

Jem jumps when he realizes that I’m in the corner behind him. “Shit, Kirk,” he curses. He looks at the ball in my hands and says, “What are you doing?”