by Rue Sparks
All that’s left to do is wait. Wait, and hope, I guess.
Knowing sleep will elude him, Ezra wraps himself in the threadbare blanket and lets his head fall back on the chair. His eyes swim through the stars, his view slowly rocking in the dizzying sway of the ocean’s surface as he tries to name the constellations Jean taught him.
A successful trip and several priceless samples locked away in temperature and moisture regulated containers are enough to lift Ezra’s spirits into some semblance of awareness. It has been weeks of fitful nights and an unhealthy amount of black coffee.
The mood doesn’t last.
The hospital called as soon as he’d set his equipment inside his home. He assumes they’re going to discuss Jean’s recent test results, and he feels the fear like swallowed nails in his gut.
He makes it to the hospital within the hour, bringing with him another book of crosswords for Jean and a book for himself. That Jean doesn’t look any worse than the last time he’d been there gives him a bit of hope, but by the time the doctor makes it to Jean’s room he’s had enough hours to gnaw down his thumbnails.
The news is grim.
“I’m sorry, but the latest scan indicates that surgery is no longer a viable solution. The chemo and radiation therapy did buy us more time; however, the cancer has progressed further than we had hoped at this point. We cannot remove the tumors without causing irreversible brain damage. I would recommend continued chemotherapy to prolong for a few weeks, but there is nothing more we can do.”
Jean watches the doctor explain with hooded eyes. The acceptance and apathy in them make Ezra want to vomit, throw something, rage at the doctor, and demand more testing.
Say something, do something, there has to be a solution. Please, don’t give up.
Seemingly unaware of Ezra’s internal struggle, Jean nods, tight-lipped but clearly not at all angry at either the doctor or the news.
“I see,” Jean comments calmly as if viewing unfavorable results from an exploratory study. “I … thought as much, to be honest. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
And Jean, sweet naive Jean, holds his hand towards the doctor as if he were receiving a rejection on a funding proposal instead of a death sentence. His once firm handshake is frail and jerky as he shakes the doctor’s hand, inclining his head slightly.
Dismissed, the doctor stands from his seat, gathers his clipboard and folder, and makes his way towards the door in his pristine white coat and black leather dress shoes.
Don’t just shake his hand, Ezra implores Jean with his gaze. Don’t give up. You can’t. This can’t be it. I need more time.
He stands sharply but is startled as Jean’s right hand grabs at his forearm, his grip stronger than the handshake he’d witnessed.
“Stop,” Jean says, tone unflinching, “Stop, Ezra. Don’t make things worse.”
Ezra stares at Jean’s pale, gaunt face. Jean’s eyes, once sharp and analyzing, are now murky and dull from the chemotherapy. They stare forward as if the walls of the hospital room are the only thing in the world worth studying anymore. Even though Ezra is certain he knows the sight well enough to draw a diagram without looking.
“Make things worse?” Ezra says, barely processing Jean’s words. “How could things be worse? Jean, he told you he’s giving up on you. They’re not even going to try anymore. They’re going to let you die. How can I make that worse than what it is?”
Jean closes his glacier-colored eyes, and Ezra pushes down his relief at not having to see them so lifeless. He doesn’t want to remember Jean’s eyes any other way than the ones he stared into during their wedding vows.
He’s determined to see them like that again.
“It can’t be a surprise to you, Ezra. We’re both scientists. We knew it was a long shot the moment I was diagnosed. What was it Maddie always said? Numbers don’t lie; don’t be mad at their honesty. They really don’t give a fuck.”
Ezra shakes his head fitfully. Maddie had said that on many occasions. None of those occasions had meant the death of the love of his life, though.
“So that’s it? You’re going to give up, let cancer win?”
Jean opens his eyes, turning towards Ezra. His gaze is cold, purple rings like permanent bruises below his bottom lids. Ezra has never seen Jean so tired in his life. Not even when they’d both suffered through grad school and doctorate courses while working two jobs.
“Is that what you think? That this is some life-threatening game that I’m choosing to give up on because I don’t have the will to make it to the finish line? Don’t be stupid, Ezra. This isn’t a problem you can solve or a test you can study for or retake. We tried, we failed, it’s done. I don’t want to spend what time I have moaning about what little there is left of it.”
Ezra feels like all his bones have been removed at once, yet still hears his knees cracking at the suddenness of him sitting in the creaky folding chair.
“Jean, please,” is all he can manage to say, voice weak as if his vocal cords are locked tight.
Jean shakily grasps Ezra’s hand and pulls it onto the edge of the bed over the covers to save energy. Ezra stares at their clasped hands, wondering when his husband’s bones became visible on the surface.
“Ezra,” Jean starts. He pauses. He inhales slowly, and Ezra can hear the shakiness of his lungs in that breath. “There are some things we need to talk about beforehand. I know you’re upset; I know you’re angry. You can’t think I’m not too.”
Ezra can’t lift his gaze. Can’t watch that mouth he’d kissed so often form these words. He watches as Jean gives his little remaining energy to trace circles on the back of Ezra’s hand.
“But if we don’t talk about it, it will make later on so much harder for you. Please, I can’t be the cause of that. I love you. You know I do. I will fight to stay with you as long as I can, I promise. But you need to fight too. You need to fight to stay with me too.”
Ezra lifts his chin slightly, eyes searching for Jean’s.
“Doing this to you is my biggest regret. We said till death do us part, and I guess I never thought of the parting portion of that. That one of us would be left behind. For that, I’m sorry. I don’t regret marrying you, never, but I’m so, so sorry Ezra. I wanted to see you finish your research, see you bald and get laugh lines and wrinkles.”
Jean pauses with a wet inhale. His hand squeezes Ezra’s briefly, clearly holding back emotion and fear.
“I wanted to grow old with you.”
I’m making this harder on him. I can’t let him despair. I can’t break him more before I fix him.
“Okay,” Ezra finally says. “Okay. I guess we have some plans to make.”
The syringe is surprisingly unremarkable and easy to sneak through hospital security.
It contains a world-changing concoction of genetically modified cells that would render humanity biologically immortal, packed away with care in the inner pocket of his jacket.
It isn’t until he is yards away from Jean’s hospital room door that his excitement gives way to an unfortunate flaw in his plan.
Getting the injection to Jean isn’t the issue. Human trials are inherently different from animal trials, and as confident as Ezra is in his serum, testing his first formula on the love of his life is out of the question.
But so are human trials. He no longer has the funding or reputation to even approach a research team. His obsession with finding a cure for Jean’s cancer led to cutting ties with all those relationships, even the ones he most cherished.
At first, it had been arguments and petty disagreements. Ostentatious ridicule of his theories and well-meaning interventions to keep him focused on his real work, to keep living even though his partner was dying. As if the rest of the world simply kept rotating on its axis, but Ezra’s was tilted towards ruin.
He couldn’t deny that the final cuts had been all him. There was anger after he’d been forced to scavenge much-needed supplies from the laboratories of collea
gues. It was only the last vestiges of their friendship that stopped Liz and so many others from pressing charges.
On top of that, none of his research had been sanctioned, so it would have to be redone. Ethics committee would never even let him go near a trial for the lack of ethical considerations from the start. Even if they were able to find the funding or resources, it would take a monumental amount of time — far more than the days or weeks they had. The actual trials would take time, too. Going from rat to human would take years, plus the difference in mass alone … There were so many variables and so many ways it could veer off-course.
He didn’t have that time.
It didn’t take long after Jean’s devastating test results for his condition to decline. Despite Ezra’s protests, he was refusing further treatment, wanting to spend the rest of his time with Ezra free from the effects of chemotherapy.
The first week had been manageable, spending time holding each other, Ezra reading aloud to Jean — who could no longer focus on the printed word — and listening to albums from their youth on Ezra’s phone.
After nine days, Jean didn’t recognize him. While that first episode hadn’t lasted, they became more frequent.
He is out of time.
Out of time and out of options. Ezra’s fingers rub the bridge of his nose habitually. But I can’t inject Jean with an untested formula. I can put my ethics aside, but my heart just can’t do it. It could kill him quicker than the cancer.
He leans against the wall across from Jean’s doorway, eyes unfocused and half-lidded, something he did when he wanted to absorb himself in his thoughts without too much visual stimulation. His “problem-solving face”, Jean had called it.
He is running through the composition of the formula and effects on the rats he’d tested on when he faintly hears the voice of Jean’s doctor. Looking around, he realizes the door for the room across the hallway from Jean’s is half-open. Inside he can hear Jean’s doctor speaking to another patient.
“We’ll continue with chemotherapy and radiation. The tumors have progressed quite quickly, but we’ll be doing everything we can to prevent it from metastasizing so we can perform the surgery.”
Ezra strains to hear the doctor’s words even as his chest constricts, hands trembling at the plan forming in the back of his mind.
The child is no more than eight. The monitors beep like a metronome, a steady rhythm that belies the sight of the weak and broken boy lying on the rough sheets of the hospital bed. His face is pale, lips ghostly, bruised eyes the only contrast to the white of the pillowcase.
It figures it would be a child. Ezra knows that even if the child recovers from the cancer because of his formula, following through with this plan will break something in him that can never be repaired.
No matter what happens moving forward, he can never breathe a word to Jean for fear of the horror in his face.
This is crazy. He clenches his teeth, hoping to squeeze the thoughts of terror and self-loathing out of his head. This can’t possibly work. This formula is for a body twice this kid’s size, to begin with, ignoring all the other uncountable factors I haven’t calculated for.
He isn’t going to do it.
He isn’t going to.
He won’t.
He remembers Jean’s eyes, the bottomless pools of their wedding day. The murky, infected, frothy waters they are today.
I have no other choice. Sorry, kid. Either you become a part of history today or your story ends here.
In retrospect, it is far too easy. He waits until the end of visitor hours, the child’s family slow to leave and every second they dawdle leaves another crescent shaped mark on Ezra’s palms from his nails digging in. When they leave, he makes his move.
Now, his body moves disconnected from a mind that refuses to face the choice he’s made.
He silently makes his way towards the IV drip, uncapping the syringe with minimal noise. He gently picks up the medical tubing between his thumb and forefinger, setting the needle next to the plastic tubing and bracing himself for whatever comes.
The needle pierces the tube in a short, fluid motion. He presses the plunger down slowly, allowing the clear formula to slowly mix with the saline a bit at a time, hoping the slow injection will allow the boy’s body time to adjust.
As the dosage tapers off, Ezra’s gaze flickers toward where the boy lies still. He pulls his eyes back quickly, not able to handle watching the face of the boy he may be poisoning. He removes the needle and carefully places the syringe into a small acrylic tube.
Better to not leave this here as evidence. I’ll keep it on me until I get to my workshop.
He carefully releases the medical tubing, shuffling back away from the IV and the hospital bed, careful not to rustle any of the other equipment as he retreats.
I should know within minutes, Ezra considers. The process of reverting the cells back to their initial stage will take time, but whether his body is able to absorb it … that won’t take long.
The previously continuous rhythm of the boy’s heart rate monitor suddenly staggers, then starts to flutter quickly, warning beeps sounding. Ezra has no time to process his mistake.
Keeping his pace steady and purposeful, gaze at his feet, he leaves.
He failed. He failed, and someone — no, not just someone, a child — died because of it.
Ezra’s mind spirals. There is no time to create a new formula. The only possibility he can actually take action on is that the dosage was too strong for the small, frail body.
It’s something. Hope is fading, but some part of Ezra still clings to it. I have one dose left.
The call from earlier had been grim. There was a very real possibility that this trip will be the last time he’ll see Jean alive.
Ezra grabs an overstuffed duffel bag and fills it with anything he thinks he could possibly need for the last night with his husband. He wedges the syringe in an inconspicuous side pocket.
Even if I don’t go through with it, well, better to have it just in case.
Ezra swears he can smell the life dripping out of Jean’s pores in his cold sweat. It permeates the air and lays thick like an invisible toxic gas in the room, odorless and yet ripe like crumbling bones to the touch. As if even his senses are confused and backward with the impossibility of what is happening.
They play whatever simple card game they can that requires little movement or sight on Jean’s part — which turns out to be a somewhat stilted yet intimate game of Go Fish. Ezra carefully ignores when Jean mistakes one card for another even as he holds it inches from his face.
Little white lies.
When that becomes too much, Ezra makes up stories about the progress of his research. Faces they have in common come and go as he spins his tales, even making up new characters that flit in and out of the stories. Jean smiles softly, chuckles lightly even in his weak state, makes the appropriate frowns, and slight shakes of his head where appropriate.
More lies, but not the worst he’s perpetrated in recent months.
When Jean starts to have trouble following the stories, Ezra pulls out the portable turntable and sets it up to play softly near Jean’s bedside. Pulling out an LP of The Clash from Jean’s teenage years, he drops the needle onto the record and settles his chair close enough to Jean to hold his hand as Jean’s head lies back, eyes closed.
Ezra studies Jean’s face as he dozes. His Jean. Nothing at all like the quietly confident man with a slightly hunched posture and day-old stubble he’d loved for so many years. The bulky glasses are gone, his barely-there eyebrows the only hair that managed any sort of regrowth after stopping chemo.
This is not the Jean he married. This Jean is his husband, the one he would sacrifice all he’s earned and everything he hadn’t in order to save.
“I talked to Liz, you know. And Ivan.”
The words are slow, stuttered. They catch Ezra by surprise, his brain momentarily disconnecting from his mouth long enough for Jean to continue.
“Ivan said you haven’t been focusing on your research for months. Since I was admitted. That you lost your funding and your license and are in danger of losing your boat too. And our home.”
Ezra’s blood becomes sludge, hypothermic before, like a jetstream, it starts to flow quickly through his heart.
“Liz said you stole from her. And Michael, too.”
Jean’s eyes are still closed. He is even paler than before like his skin could go translucent at any moment.
“Ezra. I don’t … you have to tell me. Explain it to me.”
Suddenly, the toxicity in the air burns down his throat, the thoughts of ‘I can’t let him die like this’ and ‘now he knows what a monster I am,’ and ‘please not now’ filling his skull.
“I can’t let you die.” The words are out of his mouth before he can pull them back. They’re like a lighter in a room of noxious fumes.
Jeans’ eyes open. They are murky with pain. Ezra can see the sadness and bone-deep acceptance in them. He hasn’t seen that same pain since Jean’s sister cut herself out of his life — when she finally understood that Ezra wasn’t going anywhere.
Jean turns his head slightly towards him, and Ezra inches off the chair to lean over Jean’s form so he can stay put.
“It isn’t up to you, Ezra. It’s not up to me either.”
A pause, Jean inhaling slowly. His eyes are wet, but his body can’t do more than that in this state. The cancer won’t even let him cry.
“Let me go, Ezra. Please. Don’t make me the reason you fail what we tried so hard to complete. I’ve fought so hard. Please. I need you to let me go. I need you to fight too. Don’t let me die thinking I’ve destroyed you.”
When Ezra’s fingers trace Jean’s cheek, locking eyes with his husband’s, he sheds tears for both of them.
“Okay,” Ezra says. “Okay. I’ll finish what we started Jean. I won’t stop fighting.”
