Wake (93 page)

“Take all the time you need.”

Ivy brings a three-inch binder with her to meet Dr. Burke. I’d bet my left boob that it contains Jem’s medical records for the last six months alone. She kisses his forehead softly before departing and Jem doesn’t even stir.

We’re alone, and this feels very familiar. The heart monitor’s periodic beeps, the whirring of the IV pump, the rasp of unhealthy breathing. If I closed my eyes I could well be back in St. John’s, three years past. Even the blue blanket is the same.

A thin nurse with dyed red hair pushes back the curtain around the bed and comes up to the side table with a plastic kit in her hand. She says hello to me quietly and calls Jem’s name, but he’s thoroughly unconscious. Her task still has to be done, though, and she pulls back his blanket and hospital gown to clean his Hickman.

It’s amazing what Jem can sleep through. Either he’s really drugged up or exhausted, because he doesn’t seem to register the removal of the adhesive patch, or the open air that makes goose bumps rise on his skin. What finally does make him flinch is the cold swab around the catheter entry point. His eyelids flutter, but he quickly realizes what’s going on and relaxes. Maintaining the machinery in his chest is nothing new and exciting.

“It’s good that he sleeps so soundly,” the nurse says as she flushes the catheter. I just nod, not really in the mood to make conversation. The nurse tidies up her contaminated surfaces and snaps off her gloves.

“I’ll cover him back up,” I say before she moves to do it. She nods before moving on to the next task on her busy shift.

I take Jem’s wrist and gingerly guide his hand through the arm of his gown. He makes a plaintive noise in his throat as I move him, so I leave the tie behind his neck undone. I don’t want to bother him any more than necessary.

“Just sleep,” I tell him, and kiss his forehead.

“Eh?” Jem reluctantly opens his eyes and gets this look of outright panic when he sees me. “Where’s Mom?”

“She and your dad went to go talk to Dr. Burke.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Ten minutes?”

“Did you see…?”

“Yes.”

Jem turns his face away from me to cough. His whole frame shakes with the force of the fit.

“I didn’t want you to see that,” he says when he regains his breath. I offer him water for his throat and he has to suck on the straw in quick bursts between shal ow breaths.

“Oh hush, you’re beautiful.”

Jem closes his eyes and winces. He’s reached his limit, and he’s starting to shiver. I pull the blanket back up and tuck it around him.

“Please leave,” he says softly.

“I can’t. I promised your parents I’d stay with you till they get back from dinner.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’ll let you stay up late and watch cartoons.” The joke falls flat; Jem isn’t in the mood for humor.

“Please, Willa.”

I sit back down in the visitor’s chair and scoot closer to the bedside, even though I know I should leave space. “I don’t find it gross.” I take his hand and he squeezes me back. “I don’t care that you’ve got hardware in your chest. You’re still sexy. You’re still my favorite.”

“Please don’t try to justify it.”

“Okay. But I did promise your parents I’d stay. They won’t be gone long. They’re meeting with Dr.

Burke and then grabbing something to eat.”

Jem’s only response is to turn his face back up to the ceiling and close his eyes.

“Is Dr. Burke the guy taking care of you here?”

“He’s my hematologist,” Jem says simply. “The guy taking four vials of blood a day since I’ve been here.”

“They’re worried about relapse?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs. What he means is that he doesn’t want to think about it. “I was waiting for you to come today.”

“Yeah?”

Jem nods. “You should have gone home last night.”

“I felt better here.” I wouldn’t have been able to sleep at home, anyway, and if something happened to him I might get the chance to say goodbye.

Jem tugs on my hand. “Can you just…?”

“What?”

He sighs. “Hold me?”

The request makes me wince. “I can’t.”

Jem looks like a puppy that’s just been kicked. “Please?”

“I’m not even supposed to be touching you right now.” I squeeze his hand. “I shouldn’t even visit yet, really. Yesterday when you coughed some fluid went into my mouth and I’m supposed to keep my distance until I’m sure I didn’t catch the same infection.”

I trace little circles on his wrist with my gloved hand instead, trying to offer some small comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Jem murmurs.

I shake my head. “You were unconscious; couldn’t help it.”

“It was blood, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were bleeding.”

“No big deal if I do.”

Jem slowly rolls onto his side, coughing slightly with the change in position, and draws his knees up for warmth. I help arrange the blankets over his body and tuck him in as best I can without getting too close.

He’s lying on the absolute edge of the mattress, as close to me as possible without actually touching.

“I’m scared,” he whispers.

“I’m with you,” I whisper back, because nothing is more meaningless than ‘It’s going to be fine.’ I’m not going anywhere, no matter how bad things get; once I commit I can’t flake.

“Thanks for being with me,” he murmurs. I smile and pet his warm cheek.

“Where else would I be?”

*

The Harpers return an hour later, somewhat recharged and fed. Ivy settles in like she plans to stay late or even spend the night. Visiting hours are almost over, so Dr. Harper offers to walk me to my car—like a dark parking lot in Smiths Falls is unsafe.

As we pass through the automatic doors he slyly mentions that the meeting with Jem’s doctors went well. “Their primary concern is treating the pneumonia,” he says. I read between the lines and take that to mean Jem hasn’t relapsed. Cancer would trump pneumonia, right? Dr. Harper says Jem will be kept as an inpatient for a few more days, at least. He talks about bruised kidneys and forcing the phlegm out of Jem’s lungs at regular intervals. He tells me how fragile Jem is, even though he seems to be getting better. These things feel so routine to me that it isn’t until we’re halfway to my car that I realize he’s testing my mettle—whether I can stand Jem’s baggage, or at least refrain from making him feel ashamed of it.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I assure him. Dr. Harper gives me an appraising look, probably trying to decide if I sound disgusted.

“You’re good for him, you know,” he says. “You cheer Jem up.”

“I try.”

“He needs that sense of normalcy.”

I stop with my hand on the door of my car. “You know he’s really hard on himself for not being normal, right?”

Dr. Harper nods. “When he was an inpatient on the ward and had friends there it was easier. But now he feels those differences strongly.”

“Tell him he looks good more often,” I encourage. “He needs to hear it until he believes it.” Because he’s going to, damn it.

*

When I get home, Frank is waiting for me. He has coffee and cookies on the kitchen table, which makes me think this is an intervention. He even looks a little bit like Dad, except this time there’s pastry instead of drug paraphernalia on the table.

“Have a cookie. We need to talk.”

I trudge to the table and take a token bite out of one of the cookies. I don’t have an appetite when I know I’m about to get in trouble. I do, however, take a few sips of coffee. I’m sleep deprived and that might impair my ability to argue.

“Where were you last night?”

“At the hospital with the Harpers.”

“Al night?”

“Al night.”

“You should have call ed.”

“I’m sorry.”

Frank gives a frustrated shake of the head and sips his over-sugared coffee. “How’s Jem?” he hedges.

Semi-lucid. Coughing up phlegm. Running a fever. beautiful when partially clothed.

“He’s fine.”

“There was an ambulance called to his house yesterday.” Such things don’t escape notice in a small town, let alone a paramedic’s attention.

“He wasn’t quite ready to come home from the hospital yet, so they took him back.”

“In a speeding ambulance?”

“He has a lung infection.”

Frank gives me a pressing look. He knows I’m not telling the whole story and wants me to cut the bullshit, or else.

“It’s pneumonia. They’re keeping him as an inpatient for a few more days.”

“Are you okay with this?” What a strange question. It’s not like my permission matters in this affair.

“Uh, of course?”

“I suppose this means you’ll be at the hospital a lot.”

“Yeah.” That’s a given.

“And you’re going to be…okay?”

“I won’t unplug anything, if that’s what you mean.”

Frank gives me a withering look. “I’m trusting you with this,” he says seriously, “because I know he’s important to you. And you’re stubborn. But mostly because he’s important to you—and I need to know that you’re not going to become…
troubled
over seeing him…like that.”

I can’t guarantee that it won’t upset me if Jem takes a bad turn, but at the moment I’m comforted by the knowledge that he’s in the care of professionals and that his condition is treatable. I’m holding out on faith that I won’t have to watch him die. I simply can’t contemplate going through that again.

“I won’t.”

“Just don’t be spending all your time there. You’ve got homework.”

I take another bite of my cookie. “So how’s Doug?”

Monday

Paige passes me a note in Math class. She’s been very friendly since she lied to bail me out of trouble on Friday, and now seems to be the moment to repay the favor. The note says:
I tried to call you
yesterday.

Apparently I’m already late in repaying this favor. I write back,
I was at the hospital with Jem. No cell
phones allowed.

Is he dying? Are you okay?

It’s nice of her to ask, though
is he dying
looks odd in her tidy purple penmanship.

I slide the note back to her with a firm
No
.

*

I find out what Paige wants after class, when she asks me to take a walk with her before we go to the cafeteria. We end up sitting in my car, and it takes Paige a few false starts to tell me what she needs.

“I know what you’re going to say,” she says.

“Then let’s assume I’ve already said it.”

“I wouldn’t ask, but my aunt works at the drugstore.”

Now that she’s mentioned a location, I can see where this is going. “You want condoms? For prom night?”

Paige turns bright red and buries her chin in her col ar. “I’m not
planning
anything,” she squeaks. “I’m just…not ruling it out.”

“It’s good to be prepared,” I agree. I don’t care whom Paige screws, much less why. I can hardly judge her for her love life given my track record.

“Any particular brand you want?” I hold out my hand for the money and she slips me a ten dol ar bil .

“Um, no?”

“You’re not all ergic to latex, right?”

Paige shakes her head. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Nope. But take the time to read the directions on the box, eh?”

She nods and wrings her hands. “Do you think I should go through with it?”

How should I know that? I sigh and shrug. “Do you want to?”

“I don’t want to go to university totally inexperienced,” she says. I remind her that she has an entire summer between now and frosh week, but she seems to find something special about prom night and wants to make an occasion of her cherry.

“Have you ever?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“With Jem?”

“No, before I met him.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not if you do it right.”

She gets that fretfull look again. “Right? Like, how?” I have a chuckle at her nerves, even though I know I shouldn’t find this so funny.

“Like, don’t let him lead. And don’t rush. Get yourself on top and make sure you’re wet enough.” Paige nods like I’m giving her the secrets of the universe. I smirk as I tell her, “Make sure you come at least once before taking a run at home plate. You probably won’t come during, at least not the first time.”

Paige blushes, but smiles timidly. “Thanks.”

“Don’t screw this up.” It’s the best warning I can offer her in light of being a horrible influence.

“I won’t,” she says timidly. “Hey, Willa?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you with Jem? Really?”

Because he loves me, warts and all.

“Because I love him, warts and all.” Paige doesn’t really get it, but that’s to be expected. She knows what lust and affection feel like, not love. Hel , I didn’t properly know what love was until someone I loved was taken from me.

This train of thought only makes me miss Jem more. I have the urge to cook—maybe his favorite sweet potato soup with carrot puree, or peas and spinach with honey. It’s a wasted thought, because his food intake is control ed and monitored at the hospital.

But when I stop by to see Jem after school, I take a little Tupperware of sweet potato soup with me, just in case he feels like being a rebel. It’s only a small amount, less than the contents of a pudding cup, but it makes his day. Jem can’t eat it immediately because he’s still hooked up to a dialyzer when I get there, but he makes me set the container on the side table and calls it his ‘light at the end of the tunnel.’

Apparently soup is a heavenly experience.

He’s looking rough today. He complains of joint pain, chest pain, head pain, fatigue, and dizziness. But the doctors insist his condition is improving, so I try to stay positive. He hasn’t had another black out or stopped breathing in the last forty-eight hours, so they’ve dialed back some of his monitoring equipment;

he’s no longer buried in nodes and wires, and those that are present have been consolidated into a neat little bundle.

Jem gets a little self-conscious when the nurse comes in to disconnect the dialyzer because it means his Hickman needs to be exposed, but thankfully he doesn’t make a big deal of it. The nurse is barely out of the room before Jem turns to the side table and makes a grab for the sweet potato soup.