by Lily Jenkins
“Should I call Rachel?” I ask. “Do we need to go to the ER?”
“No,” he says bitterly. “This is normal. Try to get back to sleep.”
*
October is a bad month. Adam loses weight as if the pounds are evaporating off of him. This is a bad sign, and we are told if he can’t keep his weight stable they may have to stop treatment altogether. Adam takes the news without surprise.
I work distractedly on school assignments. Midterms approach and pass. Adam helps me study, holding up flashcards during the hours he spends each week undergoing chemo at the hospital.
I am amazed that all through this, Rachel doesn’t miss a shift at work. I know there’s a practical reason for it: she has told me privately that the health insurance at her work is surprisingly good. She can’t chance losing it. Plus she has to work extra to cover all the out-of-pocket expenses. But I also think there’s more to it.
One time I stopped by the diner after classes. I needed to use the car to run some errands, and had to pick up the keys from her. But before I went inside, I caught a glimpse of Rachel—that is, Waitress Rachel. Regular, everyday Rachel has been a sad, exhausted woman, preparing herself for the possibility that her only son will die. Waitress Rachel is completely different: she’s perky, she jokes with customers, she laughs. I recognize that being “on” is part of the job, but I also think she needs the break. To get through this, she needs to be around strangers who don’t feel sorry for her.
I guess my classes are like that for me. I’ve had a few study dates with a group of people from class, and I haven’t told them anything about myself. I don’t say where I’m from, where I’m staying, or talk about Adam. It’s not that I’m embarrassed. It’s more that sometimes it’s nice to not have to be that person.
It’s thinking about this that makes me wonder: what is Adam’s escape? For the last few months, he’s been cooped up in the house or at the hospital. I don’t think that’s good for him. He’s weak, but more than that he’s depressed. I can see it in his eyes.
He needs a project.
*
It takes two weeks to arrange. I have to let Rachel in on it. She’s worried at first that Adam might not be well enough for it, but eventually I convince her. With Levi’s guidance, we manage to piece together a collection of motorcycle parts and equipment. On Halloween we make the big reveal.
When Adam sees the bike he is to fix up, his eyes light up in a way that I haven’t seen for months. He talks about it nonstop over dinner that night, and the next day—under the promise that he won’t overextend himself—he begins to work again.
In November, Adam starts to get a little better. He switches to meds that reduce his nausea, and his weight stabilizes. He even has a plate of food at Thanksgiving.
Then December hits, and there isn’t a day we aren’t in the emergency room. He doesn’t lose weight from his new round of chemo, but it does have other side effects. I learn about these one day when I come home from class, scared when I see he isn’t in his bed.
I find him in the bathroom, an electric razor raised to his temple. He’s already buzzed off a third of the hair from his scalp.
“Adam?” I ask.
He jumps, then turns to me. He gives me his usual weary smile and shrugs his bony shoulders. “I hope you like guys with shaved heads. I’m losing it anyway.”
I put my hand to my mouth. I don’t know what to say.
He turns back to the mirror and raises the razor to his head again. He buzzes off a line of his messy brown hair, sending it into the sink. Then he laughs, watching himself.
“Well, now you know what you can get me for Christmas.” He buzzes all the way past the crown of his head, and then flicks the hair into the sink. “Hats. Lots and lots of hats.”
My mom goes all out with the Christmas decorations. She doesn’t say it, but we all know it’s because she thinks this holiday season might be my last.
We get a tree, a real one, and I sit in a chair while my mother insists I join in the only way I can: by pointing to where I think the ornaments should go. I can’t hop up and down anymore. I don’t have the energy.
After four months of radiation and chemo, most of the cancer cells are gone, but there is a new dark cluster on my lymph nodes. The doctor points to it on the x-rays and tells me this is what worries him.
No shit. It worries me too.
Another surgery is scheduled for the week before Christmas. Meanwhile, I putter around with the bike, barely able to last an hour outside anymore. Some days I just flip through books about motorcycles. Erica’s checked me out a whole stack of them from the library. It’s not the same though. It only reminds me what I can’t do.
My mom bakes cookies: gingerbread men, sugar cookies shaped like candy canes and snowmen, white chocolate macadamia nut. They smell good, but I can’t keep them down. I eat mostly rice and chicken cut into cubes. I’m always thirsty though.
My bones and joints ache. I feel like an old man.
I don’t complain though. I remember how my father gasped and shuddered. I don’t want their last memories of me to be like that. I want to give Erica one last Christmas. I want to give her at least that.
Then I don’t know. I’m not sure how much longer I can last.
My Christmas gift to Adam is a perfect report card. His mom, as per his request, gets him an assortment of beanies and hats.
Of course, the rest of the holiday doesn’t go according to plan. We were hoping to have Adam home for Christmas, but his recovery is slower than expected, and the doctors say he’ll be in the hospital until shortly after the New Year. At this point, we’re just happy to have Adam alive, wherever he is. I think he is a bit disappointed though. He’ll be missing two holidays this way.
On New Year’s Eve, I receive an unexpected phone call. I am just getting into the car, heading home from the hospital after a visit with Adam, when my phone vibrates. I look down at it, expecting Rachel to be asking me to pick up milk or something on the way home. But the Caller ID says something different.
I almost press the button that sends it to voicemail. Then I reconsider, and answer.
“Hello.”
There’s a half-beat of silence, then Nicole says, “Hi, Erica.” She sounds nervous. “Is this a good time?”
I take the keys out of the ignition. “Sure.”
“Um, well, I meant to call earlier, but so much time went by, and I didn’t know if you even wanted to hear from me, and—not that I’d blame you, with everything I said and all that you’ve got going on.”
I’m silent, waiting for her to get out what she’s trying to say.
“I just want to say that I’m sorry. I was a bad friend. I didn’t know what was going on, or how serious you were about Adam. I take back every stupid thing I said.”
I blink. Such open apologies are rare. “Uh, thanks.” Then I think about it, and add, “I’m sorry too.”
“Oh I’m so happy you said that!” she says, and giggles a little. “Because if you were still mad, I would have been totally screwed.”
Now I’m confused. “Nicole?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise, but I was really worried you’d still hate me. Actually, it was supposed to be a Christmas surprise, but that turned out to be too expensive.”
“Nicole,” I say firmly, “what’s going on?”
“Well, like I said I would have called earlier, but—I traded in my plane ticket. The one you got me, so that I can visit you. I traded it for one to San Diego.”
“You’re coming here?” Whatever awkwardness there was inside me is quickly dissolving. I’m so desperate for a friend here that the idea of seeing Nicole again almost makes me want to cry.
“No. Not exactly. I’m kind of already here.”
I laugh. “What?”
“Yeah, I’m at the airport, but I don’t, like, know where to go. I thought about asking for your address from your parents. Make it seem like I wanted to send you a card, you know? But
I was afraid they’d tell you.”
I shake my head. Oh Nicole. So impulsive and irresponsible. “Well,” I say, looking down at the keys in my hand, “I’d really like to see you. How long are you in town?”
“Until tomorrow. Or longer. Whenever. The tickets are easy to change.”
I nod, taking this in. I’m starting to get really excited to see Nicole again. “Do you have money for a cab? It might be easier than for me to come across town to pick you up. I’m not—I’m a good driver now, but I don’t really feel comfortable on the freeway yet.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Great. There’s a coffee shop right by the hospital. I’ll text you the address and meet you there.”
And with that, we end the conversation. As soon as we disconnect, I call Adam. I can’t wait to tell him the good news.
*
Being closer, I beat Nicole to the coffee shop. I’ve got so much to think about that it seems like no time before she arrives. She gets out of her cab wearing a flashy new outfit: a wide-brimmed white hat, dark sunglasses, and a beige trench coat with the collar turned up. She looks like a celebrity trying to avoid notice from the paparazzi. On the crook of her left arm she has a few shopping bags, and with her right hand she pulls along a wheeled suitcase.
A little old man exits at the same time she enters, and he holds the door open for her. She gives him a small nod, like she’s used to having doors opened for her by staff. I try not to laugh.
Nicole has never flown on a plane before. To her, it must seem like an extreme extravagance.
She catches eyes with me and gives an overexcited scream, throwing her hands up and waving them until she gets close enough to throw them around me in a hug. I don’t scream myself—I just don’t have the energy for it anymore—but I do give her a hug back. A real one.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she says. Then she glances to a table, and we both sit down.
“You look fancy,” I say.
She gives a coy grin. “This was actually my arriving in New York outfit. Samantha wore something similar in Season Two.”
I roll my eyes. “I should have known.”
Then she looks at me, taking me in, and her smile drops. “Oh, Erica. You look exhausted.”
I give a weak smile back. “I feel exhausted. These last few months have been… rough.”
She takes my hand from across the table. “I want to hear all about it. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
We order drinks first, so as not to be taking up a table for free. Nicole is ever mindful of coffee shop etiquette. Then I tell Nicole the basics: that I’ve been staying with Rachel and taking classes, and that Adam has had just about every kind of treatment and is currently recovering in the hospital.
“On New Year’s?” she asks, as if that’s the worst part of it.
“Christmas too,” I say, and she waves it off. She’s never been into Christmas. She doesn’t like holidays where you don’t get to go out and dress up.
“We should have a little party for him,” she suggests. When I start to object, she holds up a hand. “I mean, just us. Maybe turn the TV to the ball drop in Times Square. We should do something.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Something normal, I mean. He’s been through so much. And the last thing any sick person wants is to be treated like a sick person. He’s eighteen, for crying out loud. Let’s do what he’d do normally.”
I’m surprised that I agree with her. “I think we can do that. He can’t stay up late, usually, with his pain meds. But it’s midnight in New York three hours before here. We could just do it at nine.”
“Or tape it, even,” she says. “And celebrate tomorrow.”
I nod. This is why I like Nicole: she brings such energy to every place that she goes. It’s impossible to be upset around her. Already my thoughts are lighter, my attitude better.
“So,” I say, grinning, “have you been seeing anyone lately?”
She smiles. “You’re going to think this is bad,” she starts, and then goes on to tell me how she’s dating not one, not two, but three guys simultaneously.
Oh, Nicole. How I’ve missed you.
*
The New Year’s party winds up being the highlight of an otherwise bleak winter. Adam is too tired for the midnight celebration, as Nicole anticipated, so we celebrate the next morning: Adam, Nicole, Rachel, and me. Nicole and I buy cheap party hats and confetti and noisemakers. Nicole originally wanted a cake too, but I had to explain that Adam’s stomach is too sensitive for cake right now.
The only downbeat moment of her visit is when she tells me that she heard Watson’s is closing. The owner, Watson, was finally moving to Florida and leaving the shop behind. I tell her not to mention it to Adam. Then I send a text to Levi, telling him that I’d heard and that I was sorry. And to please not mention it to Adam. He’s already got so much disappointment. He can deal with Watson’s when he’s stronger.
After Nicole leaves, Adam starts chemo again, and things return to the way they were before. Except that Adam is growing even worse. He returns home finally, and we sleep in the same bed again. He says he’d rather chance me rolling over on him than miss the time we could have together.
But I wake up in the night hearing him crying next to me, trying to be quiet, trying to hide it. He’s in so much pain that I begin to feel selfish for keeping him alive. But the thought of losing him is too much for me to deal with. He spends the nights next to me, sweating and shivering and suffering. He’s so thin that I can feel the nubs of his spine when he lies next to me in bed. His face is hollow, his cheekbones prominent and his eyes like empty sockets. He barely eats. Everything makes him sick. By the end of January, the only thing we buy for him anymore is tapioca pudding.
He doesn’t complain.
It’s March. We’re back at the hospital. Rachel is with us and the air is tense and nervous. We are in the oncologist’s office, waiting for word on the last round of CT scans and MRIs and x-rays and blood work. I am almost too afraid to be hopeful.
Adam is wearing long sleeves, even though it’s nearly 80 degrees outside. A knitted cap is pulled down over his ears. He’s always cold now. Even with his oxygen tube, he has trouble breathing. He walks slower, delicately, like an old man. There’s been talk of a wheelchair.
Then Adam’s primary oncologist comes into the room. Dr. Henderssen, resident pulmonologist, is a thick-built man in his fifties. He has on thin glasses, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. That’s not to say he’s unfriendly. His demeanor is more like exhausted professionalism.
He sits down at his desk and asks us all how we are doing. Adam doesn’t answer—I know this question seems stupid to him. I can’t answer either, because I am too nervous. His mother manages to get out a small “Fine” which makes it obvious that she’s far from fine.
Dr. Henderssen coughs and opens up Adam’s file, glancing at the contents. Adam grips my hand. Then the doctor takes in a deep breath.
“I’m afraid you’ve failed chemo,” he says, his voice soft.
Rachel gasps. Adam’s hand goes limp in mine, and I start shaking my head, feeling the tears flow instantly.
He continues. “The malignant cells have not responded to treatment, and have entered the lining of the lung wall and expanded. This represents a new growth, and because of the size and placement of the tumor, a second lobectomy isn’t an option.”
Dr. Henderssen is turning a scan around on his desk so that it is facing us. He’s pointing to something on it, but I can’t focus on it because I can see Adam out of the corner of my eye. He’s watching me. And I realize he cares more about my reaction than his own.
“What does this mean?” I ask, interrupting the doctor. His eyes turn to me, a gleam of pity behind his otherwise calm exterior.
“It means that we can continue with radiation and chemo if you wish, but I wouldn’t suggest it.” He looks at Adam. “No, from this point forward, I would suggest palliative care.”
&nbs
p; I blink. “What?”
“To make Adam as comfortable as possible,” the doctor explains, although I already knew what he meant. I just can’t believe it.
Adam speaks. His voice is strong and even. He’s looking the doctor right in the eye. “How long?” he asks.
“It’s hard to say. Anywhere from two weeks to two months. It’s not likely to be much longer than that. It might be sooner too. You should make arrangements with the mindset that it would be sooner.”
Rachel is hunched over on the other side of Adam. I’m not faring much better. The doctor says something else, but I can’t hear it. I can’t listen to any more. I look at Adam, holding his hand tight. It can’t be. It isn’t possible.
Adam turns away from the doctor, looking at me. His mouth lifts up into a half-smile. A shrug of the mouth, almost an apology.
He did his best, he’s saying. He did his best and it wasn’t good enough.
It’s actually kind of a relief to just be able to die. Not that I want to. Not that I didn’t try to live all this time. But sometimes it’s easier to know the worst is happening than to hope for the best. You can prepare for it.
I worry about Erica though. It’s been one month since that day in the doctor’s office, when I had my final diagnosis. Erica’s not taking it well. My mom isn’t either, but I know my mom will eventually be okay. The only thing I want anymore is to know that Erica will be okay. That she won’t be is the only thing that scares me.
It’s Spring Break. Without classes, Erica is spending all day, every day, with me in the hospital. Even though my room looks the same as the ones I had after surgery, this one is in a different wing. It’s the wing for people like me who aren’t going to recover.
I’m in a hospital gown that flows over me like a cape. My arms are connected to IVs. I look down at myself, seeing my pale skin that looks almost blue under the hospital lights. The bones of my wrists and knuckles are clearly outlined.
We’re watching TV without really watching. The evening news comes on, and there’s a report of a five-car pile-up on the freeway. Erica finds the remote and switches it off. I sometimes forget that she was in an accident herself. She never mentions Conner anymore. I know she still thinks about him though. It’s a look in her eyes she gets sometimes, a distant look when she remembers. I need to know she won’t be lost in that look after I’m gone.
