Wake (85 page)

“My head hurts, too.”

He sits me down on the bed and takes my temperature. It’s only half a degree above normal.

“That’s promising,” he says. “Your immune system is weaker than normal, but your fever is so low that I think you’ll be okay. No need to worry.” So why does he sound worried? “Have some orange juice and rest, okay? Cal me if your symptoms change.” He thinks it’s probably viral, but if things get worse he’ll take me to the clinic to get tested and pumped full of antibiotics. There’s something to look forward to.

I head downstairs to find sick-food at Dad’s suggestion. There are oranges in the fruit bowl, but I’m reluctant to eat them. When I reach for the orange juice as a gentler substitute I find an empty carton in the fridge. Fuck you, Eric.

I go back to the oranges and consider making my own juice, but the result will probably have more acid than the store-bought stuff and will burn my tender throat. I’m already prone to mouth sores from high-acid foods, and having a swollen throat on top of that just adds insult to injury.

I grab the phone off the wallas Elise shuffles into the kitchen for coffee. If there’s a way I can get vitamin C without hurting myself, Willa will probably have an idea.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“What are you doing up this early? You get to sleep in.”

“I’m sick.”

There’s a pause, and then Willa spits “Fuck,” into the phone. “Do you think anyone would care if I murdered Diane in broad daylight?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m tempted.”

“I need to eat something with vitamin C.”

“Oranges,” she replies immediately.

“Oranges and I don’t get along.”

“Is it a heartburn problem?”

“Mouth sores.”

“Do you have carrots in the fridge?” It’s safe to say we do. Mom has been buying the five-pound bags at the grocery store ever since Willa got me hooked on vegetable soup.

Willa tells me to take out a pen and paper. She relays a recipe for carrot and orange soup over the phone. The way she uses vague terms of measurement makes it obvious that she’s reciting the recipe from memory. Maybe it was a favorite of Thomasina’s—or maybe ‘a handful’ of orange juice is an actual unit of measurement.

Willa makes me recite the recipe back to her to make sure I got it all.

“You can eat it cold, if your throat is too sore for hot foods.”

“Thanks.”

“Feel better, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” She says she has to leave for school. “Hey, Willa?”

“Yeah?”

“‘Everything’ by Morissette.”

Willa chuckles shrewdly. “As in Alanis Morissette?”

“Maybe.”

“I didn’t figure you for a fan of angry-chick music.”

“I’m not, Elise is.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“Enjoy your soup.”

“Willa—” She hangs up on me with a laugh. Cheeky imp.

Elise reaches across the counter and snatches up the recipe for soup. “What are we making?” She kindly helps me prepare the pot and ingredients. And by ‘help’ I mean she lets me sit down and juice oranges while she does the rest. Eric comes downstairs for breakfast, acting way too chipper for such an early hour, and asks what we’re making. I’m still pissed at him for taking the last of the orange juice.

“I hope you shart in a socially devastating situation.”

Elise’s hysterical giggle is somewhere between a squawk and a snort.

“What’s up his ass?” Eric asks her.

“He’s crabby ‘cause he has a cold.” The words are barely out of her mouth before Mom comes downstairs and descends upon me, feeling my forehead for fever and making me show her my inflamed throat. She suggests that everyone wear mouth and nose masks around the house until I kick the infection, since I’m so fragile. I tell her that’s not necessary—and completely humiliating—but my siblings support the idea. Fucking traitors.

*

Despite the aching in my throat and head, I try to make the most of a day in bed by catching up on my assigned reading. I’m three chapters behind schedule on
The Scarlet Letter.
That said, I really hate English. They make us read these classic novels as though anything in them is relevant to modern life.

Like any of us need to know how to go about shaming and punishing an adulterer—Jerry Springer does that for us.

I stop to look at my bookmark a lot. I use Willa’s photos for that purpose, mostly to motivate me to at least open the book once in a while. I love the one of her on her bike. I only wish I could see her face in that one. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever see her ride that bike in real life, and I kind of like her reckless side. It makes her interesting.

Willa’s other photo is in my nightstand drawer, tucked away and looked at only when I’m having an off moment. The snapshot was taken at her Group session, at a time when she was just as damaged as I am—and she got through it, is getting through it, in her weird way. If she can bounce back, I can too.

Sometimes I look at it and think about the faceless man sitting behind her in the wheelchair, and I tell myself that no one is ever going to hurt her like that again. Willa would probably call that stupid over-

protectiveness; she doesn’t like to admit that she’s capable of feeling hurt. I know just how strongly she can feel—I’ve seen it, and the photo in my drawer is a private reminder to myself not to hurt her with the failures of my own stupid body.

Between looking at her photo and the medications settling in my system, I read about four pages of
The Scarlet Letter
before I pass out again. Screw it, I’ll just watch the movie adaptation.

*

Dad calls from work at noon to check up on me. My symptoms haven’t changed—still got a raging headache and sore throat. The fact that my nose isn’t stuffed up seems to concern him. He promises to bring a swab kit home from work to sample the mucus at the back of my throat. Goodie.

“Have you been eating?’

“Soup,” I tell him.

“How’s your stomach?”

My headache and Oxy have a playdate right now, so my stomach is pretty pissed off at me. I’ve been working on the milkshake Elise left in the fridge for the past hour.

“It’s fine.”

“And your temperature?” He insists on waiting on the line while I take my temperature. It’s one degree above normal. Dad goes through so many questions I wonder if he’s working from a list, asking if I’ve cleaned my central line today and did the skin around the port show signs of inflammation or infection;

have I noticed any bruising on my body; am I resting continuously or in short blocks?

“You’re doing better than I expected,” he says, and asks me to put Mom on the phone. While they talk I head upstairs to take a shower, because I lied to Dad when I said there was no bruising—I really don’t know if there is or not. I’m still wearing the same pajamas I slept in last night and haven’t bothered to look at my skin all morning.

Upstairs, with my bedroom door securely locked, I strip down and stand in front of the closet mirror, inspecting myself for marks. The air feels cold on my bare skin, but I persevere. I still can’t look at my face in the mirror without cringing, but the reasons have changed—with the weight gain it’s becoming easier to see the old me in him. It’s like watching Frankenstein’s Creature take shape, cobbled together of disjointed parts to make a hideous whole.

I take a shower with the water turned on too hot, trying to relax my aching muscles. The pleasure of it is cut short after only five minutes as the inescapable weight of cancer-fatigue creeps up my legs and spine, making the sluggishness of a head cold seem like a day at Disneyland. It’s been nearly seven months—five or less of these miserable bastards to go, if the doctors are right and I really will adapt to the transplant. Somehow, I doubt it.

The walk from the bathroom to my bed is roughly ten feet. It might as well be ten miles, the way my feet drag and my shoulders want to col apse. I fall back onto the bed after a brutal trudge and consider just napping in my bathrobe. I lay there for a few minutes, too tired to even move the blankets over my body, before it becomes clear that the cotton bathrobe isn’t going to keep me warm enough for comfort. And the dresser is a whole five feet away.

I reach over to the nightstand and pick up my phone. Thank God Eric doesn’t have to work today. I cal him and the phone rings just across the hall .

“What’s wrong?” is his answer. He knows I wouldn’t call him from one room away without a good reason.

“I need help.” The words are barely out of my mouth before the doorknob rattles.

“Your door is locked.”

“I’ll open it.” Might as well climb Everest while I’m at it. It takes me awhile just to get up off the bed, and the walk to the door is painstaking. Every muscle in my body is demanding that I quit. I unlock the door and Eric doesn’t wait to push it open.

“What’s the matter?” He can see I’m ready to drop and puts an arm around my ribs, lending me a shoulder and practically dragging me back to bed.

“Fatigue,” I tell him.

“Should I call Dad?” I feel bad for worrying him like this. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s wearing one of those stupid blue masks around me, but his eyes are even more piercing than usual.

“No, it’s not the virus. Just regular transplant shit.”

Eric squeezes my shoulder—ow—and sighs. “Let’s get you dressed.” My brother treats me well ; I barely have to move as he helps me into pajamas and tucks me into bed. He even offers to set up a laptop on the nightstand so I can watch a movie while I rest.

“Thanks, but I’ll just sleep it off.” I feel bad that he’s so good to me. Eric is normally an open book, but his face goes blank whenever he helps me with something personal or medical. Sometimes his eyes tighten when he looks at me and I know he’s hiding disgust. I don’t want to bother him more than is necessary.

“I’ll let Mom know you’re up here,” he says. Eric goes to shut the blind and I ask him not to. I like the sunlight on my bed. It keeps me warm.

“Sure. Sleep well.” He puts my cell phone on my pillow, just in case, and leaves me to rest.

“Thanks, bro.”

*

When I wake up my head feels like a bowling ball and it is fucking
arctic
in here. I reach out a hand to grab my meds off the nightstand and why are they so far away? Come here. Come
here,
damn it.

Misbehaving fucking pill s.

My head feels like a bowling ball about to explode under pressure. I can’t keep my eyes open. The light burns and what time is it? Waking or sleeping? School or weekend? I reach out a hand and the pill s don’t come any closer. Is that my hand? It can’t be, it’s too small .

Why is there no water? I had a glass of water. Eyes aren’t open, that’s why. Open them and it burns and my head feels like a bowling ball about to explode under the pressure of Niagara fucking Falls. So cold…wet. I had a glass of water. Why is there no water?

Sound hurts everything, even the places that shouldn’t even have nerve endings. There’s pressure in my chest, but not nearly as much as in my bowling-bal -bomb-under-the-falls skul . Open my eyes and light sears straight through my brain.

Cover my head. That hand is moist. It’s heavy. Get it off the head, before it explodes and takes your hand with it. I knew a guy, once…

“Jem?”

Like it’s that easy to trick me into opening my eyes. Keep them closed. Where’s the water?

Blinding pain and arctic fucking cold. I have no head.

Metal on my tongue. Not this again. How many days this time? How much poison? No water, never mind, I’ll just throw it up. Am I going to throw up? Is that why I can’t breathe? Chest—stomach—chest?—

where’s the pain? Which of my overlapping aches spells trouble?

Drip, drip, drip down the back of my throat. My tongue is dry. My nose is bleeding backwards.

“Mom!” Sound shatters every nerve and how can my nose bleed when I don’t have a head? Am I asleep? I can’t taste the blood; my tongue is too dry. Water. Eyes open…

The shadow that blocks the sun can’t see the blood. It’s going to overflow my mouth. My swollen, dry tongue will choke it. The hand moves to make her understand—it didn’t get blown off.

Drip. Drip. Look at it—it’s right there. Blood. Blood. How much more chemo? Doesn’t matter. Gonna bleed to death.

The shadow moves and the light blinds. Grab. Don’t leave. It’s soft and my head is going to explode again. Shattered in the cold.

“Willa.” She knows about suffering. She’ll see it going drip drip drip down my throat. Did she make me bleed?

“She’s here.” The shadow is lying. I know it like I know there’s supposed to be water. Water and Niagara Falls and I knew a guy…

Elise: June 7 to 10

Wednesday the 7th of June. Windy.

We only crave

Peace

When we don’t have it.

When it’s shattered by the

Chaos

Of that thing called

Life.

Dad’s Beatles compendium makes good homework music. I round off my English homework as John tells me to give peace a chance, and I close my books with a satisfied sigh.

I head down the hall to Jem’s room, even if only to watch him sleep. He’s been doing pretty well with his cold so far, even though his immune system is weak. There’s nothing to be done for a virus except what Tylenol and orange juice can accomplish.

I find Jem curled up under his blanket like a mole in a hole. He coughs and I offer to get him some water as I circle the bed to face him.

Jem looks like death warmed over. Mom was just in here an hour ago. Why didn’t she do something for him? He’s shivering so badly that his teeth chatter and his skin is moist and clammy. He coughs again and won’t open his eyes when I tell him to.

“You feel really warm.” I go through his bathroom cabinet to find the thermometer and try to take his temperature. He keeps talking, saying “Poison, poison,” and won’t take the thermometer in his mouth. I have to hold his jaw like a dog’s and support the thermometer under his tongue myself. He’s burning up.