by Cecelia Earl
"I've got some, thanks." I laugh when she takes the spoon and pours more sauce on my plate anyway. "How's your pizza?"
"Mmmmm. Good." She's trying the third of our pizza that has mozzarella, basil, and tomatoes. Normal flavors.
Once we finish, Margaret takes off to her room. She likes to draw, and her room resembles May's. Pictures torn out of calendars and magazines everywhere, her own artwork—framed and unframed—posted all over the place. Jax and I put plates and napkins in the garbage, store away three leftover pieces of pizza in the fridge. We'd already put away a personal pizza to bring back for my mom. Then, we meet in front of the stove and stand facing each other, inches apart.
"This is dangerous," I say. The electrical charge we kept at bay through dinner is revving up and no longer contained. The force field is going up around us, and if he's not careful, I'll lose my mind and won't care where I am or who else is around. I feel my self-control slipping off me, like a silk dress, down to the floor. This should scare me, but I like it. I like how letting go feels when Jax is here to catch me.
He puts his hands on my arms, steps into me, looks down. "So. Very."
If he puts those lips—Too late. His face lowers and mine rises, and we meet in the middle. My arms wrap around his middle and his hands spread out on my back, pulling me close. His lips are soft and gentle. Then, they part, strong and sure. My heart is racing, and heat is spreading across my chest, pumping warmth throughout my veins, coursing through to my fingertips, toes, the ends of my hair. Our lips were meant for this, for each other. A kiss has never been so good and right. I'm arching back, up, into him. He's lifting me, closer, closer until our chests press into one another's.
Tigger barks and wedges his wet nose between us. He jumps up on Jax, concerned, I think, about what we're doing. He's wagging his tail, but he's definitely giving me a speculative glance.
"I think I made your dog mad," I tell Jax.
He pats her head, keeps an arm around me. "She's pretty jealous and overprotective." He looks at me. "Not used to seeing me lose control."
"No? You and your ex didn't kiss in the kitchen?"
He laughs. "Never. We maybe pecked good night on her porch after watching a movie, holding hands, and having a short conversation about whether we liked the book or the movie better."
"I find that hard to believe," I say.
"Honest. Truth. Remember?"
"That's like our team motto, huh?"
"Team?" he asks.
"You know what I mean."
He steers me into the living room where we sit on the couch. I suggest we sit at opposite ends.
"Don't be ridiculous. Don't sit on my lap or anything, then we'd be in trouble, but sit here next to me. Hold my hand."
"I don't want to remind you of your ex."
"Not possible. Even touching your hand is more passionate than kissing her ever was."
I can’t help but smile. His admission that I’m something special to him, something different, means a lot. He’s why I was so able to tell Marc that it was over. Knowing Jax, having feelings for Jax, taught me that what I’d felt for Marc was over, never even came close to this while we were together.
The TV is off, staring at us. When we stop talking, there's silence. From the front hall, a clock is ticking away the seconds, but other than that, all I can hear is the current between us and it's calling for me to wrap my arms around him and get as close to him as possible.
"All I'm thinking about is kissing you," I tell him.
"Yeah, this is torture. Control is torture. How have you managed all these years?"
"Whatever. Control has never been an issue until I met you. I don't even know who I am when I'm with you, but I kind of like it anyway."
"Kind of?" he says, poking me in my ribs.
I squirm, ticklish. "Okay, I like it a lot. So much."
He turns sideways so we're holding hands, but he's facing me and our shoulders are no longer touching. Breathing room is good.
"Don't get the wrong idea or anything," I tell him. "I'm only talking about self-control with you. I plan to still hit all my other goals. Academic, work, and otherwise."
"Of course. I'd hate for you to become a lazy slump on my account."
"Slump?"
"Lump?"
"Yeah, I'd hate to be a lump," I say.
"So . . . tell me," he says.
"About?"
"Your lofty aspirations."
"Such as?"
"Next month. Three months from now. Five years from now."
I lean my head back and look at the ceiling. Tears form out of nowhere when I remember my rejection to Johns Hopkins.
"Hey, I didn't mean to make you cry." His voice is so sorry and so sweet. I’m almost sadder about that.
I shake my head. "No, you didn't." I shrug. "I didn't get into my first pick for college. I've never—" This is harder to say than I expected. "—I've never not gotten what I wanted before. I mean . . . something I've worked hard for. Something I thought I deserved. I haven't accepted it yet, I guess."
"Maybe because there's something better out there for you, you haven't considered yet. Another plan."
"A plan besides my plan?" I glance at him. "Oh, you mean God's plan."
He nods. "Just because you don't believe in Him, doesn't mean He doesn't exist. He still loves you just the same."
I look back up to the ceiling. "Anyways," I don't intend to brush off his words, but I don't know what else to say. "I have to make a decision about the other schools that did accept me. That do want me."
"How did you choose where you wanted to go in the first place?"
"I've always been interested in medicine and science. When I was fourteen, I decided I wanted to be a doctor of some sort. Two years later, May's little sister got really sick and needed surgery. That's when I became interested in specializing as a surgeon. Johns Hopkins has a special program. I could start out on a surgeon track even during my first four years while earning my bachelors. It's prestigious and hard to get into. I thought they'd take me."
"And now your dad needs surgery."
"Transplant, yeah. I'd love to be able to do that for another family someday." Except now I think about the family that loses. The family donating the organ. It's not win-win. It's win-lose. It was easier to think about being a savior, being the surgeon that's a hero.
"So you take the tragedy in your life, in the lives of the people you love, and feed your aspirations with it. You take tragedy and try to make something good come from it. That's admirable."
"Or just more of my crazy. I try to control tragedy the same way I control everything else."
"That's not just cute crazy anymore. That's crazy ambitious and loving. Crazy amazing."
"I don't know what I think about controlling anything anymore. For so long I had a grip on everything. Then, within one month, everything fell apart. Nothing I'd done made any difference."
"Elaborate?"
"Marc, my job, Dad, college, valedictorian. It all went south."
"If you don't get valedictorian, is it the end of the world? You're already accepted to the best colleges, I'm sure."
"You sound like Chase."
"Chase?"
"Another mistake . . . that turned into something good, actually."
"Should I be jealous?"
I laugh. "Nope. No, he informed me he was more attracted to Marc than he'd ever be to me."
"Got it. Well, I like him if he's been a blessing to you."
"A blessing . . . ."
"Amazing how God puts people in your life just when you need them."
I don’t respond, just let his words, his beliefs soak in, tuck them away to ponder later.
He clears his throat and says, "So, then. What is your gut telling you about where to choose?"
"Well, the other day I thought about Harvard, also the best med school, or Stanford or Yale."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes," I say.
"Contin
ue."
"But they're all far from here, and if Dad doesn't have surgery, he'll need me." My voice cracks, and I don't want to show tears again. "Or Mom will." I wipe my traitor eyes. "And if he does, I don't think I want to be too far away. I won't have enough money for tuition and frequent flights."
"So." He lifts his left shoulder. "That leaves?"
"University of Chicago. Also a good med school. But not the best."
"And . . . nothing but the best?"
I cover my face with my free hand. "I don't know anymore. Please, you talk for a while. Tell me about you."
"Ever since I was little I wanted to help my sister. When I got older, I wanted to be able to help all children with the same challenges as her. So, I'm going into education—special education. The teachers she's had have meant a world of difference."
"Have they all been good?"
"In their own way. Some we liked better than others. They all have their own ways of doing things. Some meshed better with Maggie than others."
"Where will you go?"
"Staying close to home. UW Madison."
"Go Badgers."
He smiles. "Yup."
"Not Milwaukee?"
"I thought about Marquette or UW Milwaukee, but when we visited Madison, I kind of felt at home. Something different, but not far away from family."
I nod. "May, my best friend, is going there too. She's into a little of everything. Music, art, theater, stats, marketing, you name it, she's tried it, and has been good at it. At everything. Her major will be undecided for a year or two, I think."
"And Chase?"
"He's a junior. I don't know what he's into. We've only just become friends. And, come to think of it, he's come to my rescue three times, but other than that, I don't know anything about him."
"Like I said, he's like an angel that God gave you in your time of need."
I smile. "Maybe St. Jude sent him."
Jax nods and says, "We should go." We stand, still hand in hand.
As if on cue, his aunt walks in. "Switch!" she says, looking at me with her eyebrows raised.
"Meet Laine. Laine, my tia. Tia Elena."
"Nice to meet you, Laine." She has a slight accent. I wish I'd taken Spanish and not French so I could impress her.
Instead, I smile and say, "You too."
"Mags is in her room," Jax tells her.
"Drawing, I'm sure," Elena says. "You had pizza?"
"And empanadas. Leftovers in the fridge."
"Gracias a Dios. I'm starved."
"The empanadas were delicious," I tell her. "I hear they're your specialty.
She waves her hand. "Next time you'll have to try my bunuelos and hot chocolate . . . or my guava paste with cheese and bread!" She heads down the hall by Margaret, and Jax retreats to the kitchen to grab the personal pizza we've been keeping warm for my mom.
I have yet to tell her about Jax, so instead I told her I was sick of the hospital food and was heading out to grab some pizza for us. She'd barely nodded but did ask me to grab her a Diet Coke, too, so hopefully it will be a bit of a pick-her-up.
Hospital folk have to take the good when and where they can get it.
Jax hadn't mentioned his dad during our talk about the future, and I hadn't wanted to push it. All I know is we're both staying closer to home because family means something important. Maybe more important than I'd ever realized. More important than plans and control.
Plans and control can be taken away.
And, cue ice-cold fear, I've learned, so can family.
If I have to choose which to be without, I choose plans and control.
If going to UW Chicago means keeping my family close, then that's the only choice.
Looking at Jax's peaceful profile as he drives us back toward the hospital, I can't believe it took me so long to realize what's really important.
As he points out his church—ironically St. Jude Parish—his favorite park, the local ice cream place he wishes we had time to get dessert at, I think he looks hopeful, and I'm feeling like maybe I've helped him find some of that hope. That in letting go of some control, I've allowed some promise, hope, and happiness into both of our lives.
30
daydream
My back is to the curtain again as I sit in my green chair. Mom has stopped journaling. Instead she's taken to playing music on her phone for Dad. He grimaced once when she played a country song. I've never seen her move faster. She fumbled with her phone until it stopped. I think she almost chucked it across the room when her fingers couldn't change the song fast enough.
They've started lowering his amount of sedative more during the day, so it's a lot harder to sit in and watch him. He coughs more since the tubes are bothering him, and his lips are dry, cracked, and bleeding. My stomach is in knots, worrying about what he can feel and hear. Worrying about what he knows and what he'll think when he wakes up.
My underlying fear is that he doesn't want to wake up to this. That he wished we'd let him go instead of forcing him to wait out this fight.
I don't know how much pain he's in.
Whether or not we're torturing him.
I tried to bring this up to Mom once, but she looked horrified, so I've suffered in silence ever since.
She's playing some instrumental piano music right now, and I'm about to nod off. The only thing keeping me alert is knowing Jax is with his mom and dad in the next room.
Since Dad was moved down this hallway, we've been near each other a lot more. I'd never seen him during the day because he and his mom stay holed up playing cards and telling stories throughout the eight to twelve hours of daylight. Not that we'd know it where we are. We're on the side of the hall without windows. Knowing how important my runs are in the sunlight, this bothers me about my dad's recovery.
From the little Jax has said about his dad, I'm pretty sure he's had head trauma and is kept in a coma until his brain swelling goes down. I don't think lowering his sedative is an option until it's safe.
Last night, at eleven o'clock, before heading down to the room where Mom and I try to rest at night, Dad's eyes fluttered open for a moment. I whispered, "Love you, Dad." And he'd smiled at me.
Mom had been in the bathroom and had missed it but was moved to tears. She hasn't left his side ever since, not even to sleep by me. I don't think she wants to miss the next opportunity to see him alert, even after Big Paul, the night nurse, assured her that his sedative was increased at night and he wouldn't be waking up until morning.
I think Sue is still worried about her mental strength, so I've been extra alert and controlled whenever she's near. I hope that if at least one of us seems sane, it won't mess up Dad's chances for a kidney.
I allow my tired eyes to close and, without prompting, daydream about kissing Jax the next time we're alone, but I’m bumped awake by a poke in my back. Then a folded piece of notebook paper skids across the floor in front of me. Mom notices and gives me a confused look.
I smile and stoop to pick up the paper.
"Rooftop. Ten o'clock."
Beneath the message is a face with hearts drawn for eyes and a grin that looks curvy and lovesick. There's a thought bubble above the face with my name written in it.
When Mom scoots out to use the bathroom and get more water, I tear a page out of her journal.
"Wouldn't miss it."
Beneath I draw a stick girl letting go of a kite with the word control written on it. On the girl's chest is an outline of a heart. Inside the heart I write "Jax". I fold it into an origami heart and walk nonchalantly past his dad's room while peeking inside. Aside from his dad, Jax is alone. He's in much the same position as when I saw him in the family center that first night. Arms on his thighs, head bowed, one fist inside the other. And there's that bouncing knee. I touch the curtain without making a sound, but like the hair on my arm that raises when he's near, he must sense me. He looks up and tears run down his face. He wipes his wet cheeks with the back of his arm and stands.
"Praying."
I nod and hand him the heart. Our hands brush, and the contact sends a now-familiar charge through me. He draws me into his chest, and I rest my head against his heart. It's erratic, but as we stand there, it slows down.
"That's better," I say. "Your heart was racing."
"Prayer used to have that effect on me. Used to bring me peace."
I look up, past his chin, to his eyelashes. He's looking at his dad. His lips droop. He looks so worn out and tired.
"Not anymore?"
"I've never prayed so much or so hard as I have these past two weeks. My brain is sore. My heart is sore." He lowers his teary eyes. "Now you relieve some of the intensity. Help me relax."
His lips come down to meet mine, soft and sweet, without passion.
"Thank you," he says.
"Teach me a prayer to say," I tell him. "I'll say it so you can take a break. Rest."
He looks to his dad, nods. "When I'm most tired, I say a prayer that's short and repetitive. Takes less thought, but I feel like there's a lot of power behind it." He rubs his eyes, maybe trying to wake himself up. "I don't know what you know as far as what Christians believe, but Jesus is the Son of God, both God and man, and he lived a human life, so he could suffer and die for our sins, so that even though we live sinful lives, if we believe and are sorry for our sins, we may go Home to God in Heaven when we die. We don’t deserve it, but he gained our eternal lives for us." He looks at me, maybe waiting for a sign from me to continue. "There's a prayer for mercy, for God to have mercy on us because of the suffering and death of His Son."
I nod. "Ready."
"O blood and water, which gushed forth from the heart of Jesus, as a fountain of mercy for us, I trust in you."
"I can pray that, keeping you and your dad in mind. I'll say it over and over."
