The doctor had wanted to check her into the hospital right then. He’d said she needed immediate, extensive care—not treatment but simply care. To ease her end.
It made no sense. She was getting frail and weak, yes. She was struggling in obvious ways, but Nolan couldn’t understand how the girl sitting at his side, the girl he’d slept curled around the night before, was so sick she needed that level of care.
Analisa didn’t believe it either. She’d laughed and said no, absolutely not. As long as she could get around on her own power, she was going to stay free. She had, she’d told the doctor, things to do.
But she’d asked for Oxy, and he’d prescribed her a large supply at a high dosage. There was no concern that she could become addicted.
Nolan sat at her side while she told her family. Tristan jumped up and left the house. Everyone watched him go, no one taking offense. Tris took drives to work out his head. Nolan understood that impulse on an instinctive level.
As a boy, he’d walked and walked, usually at night, leaving the house while his mother slept. They’d called it, creatively, ‘nightwalking.’ It was how he’d gotten hit by a truck, walking on a country road in the dark of the night. But he’d needed it to keep things in any kind of order inside his brain, and his mother had understood. Once he’d had a bike, he’d ridden his thoughts out. He still did that, sometimes getting hundreds of miles before he was ready to turn toward home.
Donovan sat quietly, his head in his hands. And then he crossed the room and sat at Analisa’s other side, pulling her into his arms. He tucked her head under his chin and sobbed.
Analisa held him, her eyes closed, but she didn’t cry. She rarely did.
Nolan sat, his hands in his lap, fighting tears of his own, feeling for the first time like an interloper in her life.
And then Analisa pushed her father gently away and stood up. She turned to Nolan and held out her hand. “Come to the beach with me?”
He took her hand.
They walked down the sand to the surf’s edge. The sun was huge and low, halfway below the horizon, making the sky a deep orange. The air was chilly, the breeze strong, and the waves rolled in. She shivered, and he pulled her close. She snuggled tightly to his chest and slid her thin arms up into his hoodie.
“I need to tell you something, and I need you to be okay with it. Okay?”
“Okay.” There was no other answer he could give her, although the question made him anxious.
“If It gets into my head, I’m going to take all the pills I have at once and be done with It.”
He pushed her back. “What?”
She stepped close again. “Don’t freak out, please. I’m dying anyway. ‘Any time,’ apparently. I can’t let It do to my brain what It’s doing to everything else. My brain is where I live. I won’t let It take me away from me. You can’t talk me out of this, and I won’t sit around and let you try. I just want you to know so you can help my dad and Tris understand. I think Tris might understand on his own, but I know my dad won’t.”
“It’s not in your head, though, right? Not at all. So we don’t need to worry about this.”
“No, It’s not. And maybe I’ll croak before It can get there. I hope that’s how this winds up. I don’t want to rush the end, but I absolutely want my last thought to be my last thought. Me. Who I am. I didn’t get long to be this person, and I want to be me all the way to the end. I want to remember everything. Do you understand?”
“I guess. Yeah, I do.” His mom had tried to kill herself once, right after Havoc’s funeral. He’d been furious, and he still didn’t completely understand how she could have tried to leave him and Loki behind. But that was different from what Analisa intended. “How will you know?”
“I’ll know. I know the parts that don’t feel right. I wasn’t surprised by what the tests found.”
“I fucking was.” He was still feeling the effects of the adrenaline that had started coursing through his blood while he’d sat listening to the doctor’s incomprehensible words.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just…I didn’t want you to have the sad eyes any sooner than necessary. I liked that you’ve been just my boyfriend, and everything we’ve done hasn’t been about you feeling sorry for me. Even crossing things off my list, we’ve had fun. You’ve treated me like a regular girl, not a dying girl. It’s been more like a scavenger hunt than a kick list—which, by the way, now that it’s almost finished, I’ve realized is a really stupid thing to be worried about.”
“It’s not, though. I admire your list. The way you decided to live as much as you could. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you feel sorry for yourself. It’s pretty amazing.”
She shrugged. “It’s just self-defense. Being sad makes me feel sicker. Being happy makes me feel better. Basic arithmetic.”
“Most people don’t get that, though.” He cupped her head in his hands. “You amaze me.”
~oOo~
“And we went to the zoo and the museum and we had lunch at the museum. And Mom says when you come home we can go to the zoo and see the Christmas lights because they put Christmas lights on the trees and the buildings and maybe even the animals.”
“Probably not the animals, tough guy. They’d get tangled up.”
“I know, but it would be funny if they did.”
“Yeah,” Nolan chuckled. “It would. So school’s good. Made any friends?”
“I like Jacob and Andy and Chase. I don’t like Isaiah. He cries all the time. It’s annoying. And last week he peed his pants in school.” Loki giggled. “Jacob called him Wee-Wee all day after that. It was funny.”
Nolan hated to hear his little brother sound like a bully. “Hey, guy. Don’t pick on other kids. You know who picks on other kids?”
“Who?”
“Pussies. Real tough guys don’t have to pick on people to be tough. Real tough guys take up for kids who can’t defend themselves.”
A pause. “Does that mean Jacob’s a pussy?”
“Sounds like it.”
Then, much more quietly: “Does that mean I’m a pussy?”
“Maybe. You laughed when Jacob called Isaiah a name. That’s not tough. If you stop, though, you can be tough.”
“Okay. I’ll stop.”
“That’s my guy. Hey, Loke. Put Mom on.”
“Okay. She’s making Sloppy Joes for supper. I like those.”
“I know. I’ll be quick.”
“When are you coming home? Mom says for Christmas. Christmas is in thirty-three days. I count on the calendar and put Xs.”
Nolan closed his eyes, twisting his ring. “I don’t know if I can get home that quick, guy. But if I can’t, I’ll send good presents, okay?”
“I don’t want presents. I asked Santa for you to come home. Jacob said there isn’t a Santa but I know there is and I asked him for you to be home. He was at the mall.”
Nolan fucking hated this Jacob kid, whoever he was. And he hated himself, too, for letting his little brother down. “I’m sorry, Loke. I don’t think I’ll make it.”
“Does that mean Jacob told the truth?”
He couldn’t deal any longer. “I need to talk to Mom, Loki. I love you.”
Loki didn’t say anything more. The phone rustled in Nolan’s ear, and then his mother’s voice was there. “He’s upset. What happened? What’s wrong?”
“I told him I didn’t know if I’d be home in time for Christmas. I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve got things I need to do here.”
“Goddammit, Nolan.” Her voice then was muffled as she said, Sorry, Loke. That’s a grownup word. “You promised, Nolan. A promise. You’ve been gone a whole year now. We need you home.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m needed here more. I’ll be home when I can. That’s all I can promise.”
“What’s there that’s so much more important than your family?”
He had family here now, too. Important family. “Mom, please. Please understand.” He knew she wouldn’t, not now. Not yet.
/>
“I don’t, Nolan. I’m sorry, but you’re not giving me anything to understand. We miss you so much.”
“I know. Okay. I’m sorry. I love you.”
There was nothing more he could say.
TEN
“That is not a color food should come in, Spot.”
Tristan looked over her shoulder as she moved the big plastic container of her own personal soup recipe to a different shelf so she could make room for the cranberry sauce, which she hoped would be set in time for dinner.
“Shut up. Nolan says it’s delicious.”
“Yeah, you could serve him boiled dog shit, and he’d tell you it tasted like chocolate.”
She elbowed him in the gut. “You’ll eat it and love it.”
The soup was a weird kind of orangey-greenish grey, it was true. The color hadn’t turned out very well, but it was good. There was pumpkin and a bunch of different squashes, some apple puree, ginger, chili paste, and some other stuff. She’d just sort of started with something called ‘squash medley’ and improvised. As for the color, well…she’d—as her father would say—‘fix that in post.’ A dollop of sour cream in each bowl, some garnish, it’d be fine. It wasn’t like her dad and Tristan wouldn’t eat it, and Nolan already knew it was good.
She hoped it would be good after she’d reheated it on the stove. She’d been right that cooking a big meal on a small range would be difficult. But she was making do.
“Okay, since you’re resorting to physical violence…what can I do to help?”
“You can put the leaves in the table and put the linens on it. The tablecloth and napkins are folded up on it now.”
“It’s just the four of us, Spot. Isn’t the table big enough?”
She wheeled on him, waving her spoon. No, it wasn’t big enough. She wanted a big dinner. She was making a big dinner. Just because she knew only three people to share it with didn’t mean that she wasn’t going to make the dinner she wanted to make. In her fantasy, she’d had a house full of people, but that was just a childish, stupid fantasy. She was making do. “There’s a lot of food, dumbass. I want the table stretched all the way out. Into the living room.”
“Okay, okay. Bossy.” He turned and went to the little ‘dining room.’ She got out her phone and took some footage of the kitchen in mid-prep, then turned the camera on herself and smiled, waving her wooden spoon.
She put her phone away, checked the huge turkey that she’d recently started to roast, and then went back to her stack of recipes. Pumpkin pie—check, done the day before and chilled in the refrigerator. Cherry pie, too, though she’d have to remember to warm that before dessert. Cranberry sauce, yep. The turkey, okay.
The stuffing had surprised her. It had had to be done before the turkey could go into the oven, and it had taken almost two hours to chop and mix and cook. And now half of it was taking a burner on her range. Not anticipated. She should have read that recipe more closely. Nolan had suggested Stove Top. She’d thrown a jar of nutmeg at him.
What was left? Rolls—the dough was rising. They’d have to bake on the rack under the turkey. Sautéed Brussels sprouts. Mashed potatoes. Gravy.
She herself wouldn’t be able to eat almost any of it. Her Thanksgiving dinner would be her lately usual, easily-digestible protein shake. But since it was a small miracle she wasn’t eating through a tube and pooping into a bag, she wasn’t about to complain.
Her father hadn’t arrived yet, which would have worried her except that she’d called, and he’d told her all was well, that he had some things to take care of first. She didn’t know what things that could be—it was Thanksgiving Day, and his only job was bringing the wine from his cellar. Nolan was out running errands that he wouldn’t describe to her. The men in her life were getting mysterious all of a sudden, and she didn’t like it.
She heard the television turn on, and the sounds of a football game wafted to her. The linens were still folded neatly on the table. “Tris!”
“What?” he called from the living room. “Just getting the right ambiance!”
She laughed to herself, and then felt the coughing roll up from her chest. Grabbing an inhaler from a cupboard shelf, she took a couple of hits and then leaned on the counter, waiting for the medicine to work.
These days, she was running on nothing but meds. Meds kept her lungs open, her joints working, her digestion doing something that vaguely approximated working. And most of all, they kept her feeling well enough to keep going. She was taking Oxy around the clock. It gave her a fuzzy feeling, like someone had smeared Vaseline on her lens, but otherwise, the only effect seemed to be actual pain management—which was good, because her pain, in those moments in which it was unmanaged, was unbearable. Her body felt full of hot lead.
Oxycontin was keeping her in her life.
Once her lungs settled down, Analisa decided that she had time to take a break. Except for keeping track of the turkey and the bread dough, everything else needed to be started closer to dinner time. So she poured herself a glass of water and went to watch the game with her brother.
He was just spreading the tablecloth over the extended table when she came in. She smiled and went to the sofa. She wasn’t a huge fan of football, but she’d watched enough with her dad and brother that she understood it, more or less.
He joined her on the sofa and put his hand on her knee. “How’re you holding up today, Spot? You’re doing a lot.”
“I’m okay.”
“I heard you in there with your inhaler. I know I can’t cook, but I can stir or something, if it helps.”
“Actually, I needed the inhaler because I started laughing about something you’d said, so the last person I need in the kitchen with me is you and your smart ass.” She wasn’t trying to hide the extent of her illness any longer. There wasn’t any point. The end was nigh, and everybody knew it.
Tristan chuckled. “Point taken.” He affected a serious face and a proper accent. “I shall endeavor to be solemn for the remainder of the day.”
“Don’t you dare. No solemnity.”
They sat and watched the game for a while, and then Tristan put his arm around her. “I love you, Analie.”
She leaned away from him and punched him in the belly. “Cripes! What did I just say?”
“No, shut up. I’m serious. I’m not gonna get all tearjerker on you, but I want to say this. Since you moved here, we’re not alone together much anymore, and I want to say something. I just…I love you. I admire you. It’s cool to be your brother. I wish I was more like you.”
“Tris, Jesus…”
He turned on the sofa to face her. “No, really. You’ve been sick for six years. But you don’t act like it. Even now, when it’s all over your face how bad off you are.”
Self-conscious, she put her hand to her face, wondering what it was he saw.
He chuckled and took her hand from her face, holding onto it. “You’re beautiful. That’s not what I meant. You just look…you look tired. All the time.”
“That’s just the Oxy. Makes me a little spacey.”
“Yeah—you need Oxy all the time. That says a lot. But you’re still being you. Buying this house, making this dinner, having a relationship. Most people would be doing this because they were in denial. But that’s not it with you. You’re doing it because you know what’s real. And me—fuck. I’d run. I’d run so far. Even knowing I couldn’t get away, I’d still run. I’d run until I dropped.”
“That’s not true.”
“You know it is.”
She did. His mania about fitness, his constant excursions—skiing, climbing, sailing, literally running, doing Ironmans and Tough Mudders. He’d started all that after she was first sick. She’d figured out a long time ago that part of his impulse was to assert his own health. And to give him a place to be that wasn’t a House of It.
She tucked herself under his arm again. “You know, every time somebody tells me how awesome I am lately, I feel like they’re giving me the L
ast Rites. It’s macabre.”
He laughed and gave her a squeeze. “Sorry. You suck, Spot. You’re boring and ugly. You’re dumb. And you smell. That better?”
“Much. Thanks.”
~oOo~
Nolan got home—she liked thinking that, ‘Nolan got home,’ even if it wasn’t really true—about halfway through the turkey roasting time, when she was peeling potatoes and washing sprouts. He came in, kissed her on the cheek, and washed his hands, then took the peeler out of her hand and picked up the job himself. She let him; she was starting to feel like she needed a stool or something in the kitchen to finish the job.
Today & Tomorrow Page 11
