by James, Ella
But I know what to do for him this time. I know what comforts him. And I know how to wait.
I read, one book after another: romance novels, mysteries, and poetry. I touch myself under the covers, rubbing the sole of my foot over Kellan’s leg, as if that will make him more involved.
A whole week passes in this state: Kellan sleeping, giving me dazed, heavy-lidded looks, and leaning on me like a California redwood as he lurches to the restroom.
I get good at origami sparrows. After the aching quiet of his first few days asleep, I accept losing him to the Dilaudid again. Because I really think I’m going to get him back.
TWENTY
Cleo
October 12, 2014
For eight days, Kellan sleeps. On the ninth day, his mouth and throat seem better, so Dr. Willard starts to wean the pain pump.
The following few days amaze me. Kellan’s blood counts started rising—like they should—while he was on his Dilaudid vacation, but until Dr. Willard cut the dose, I didn’t get a chance to see him doing better.
After a week spent mostly in bed, I thought he’d be too weak to even move—and he is weak. We walk down the hall the first night he’s awake again, his arm intertwined with mine, and have to stop a lot of times for him to catch his breath.
We have to wear face masks when we leave the room, so I can’t see his mouth, but I’m pretty sure he smiles almost the whole time. We make a big show of looking at the pictures on the wall when he’s tired and needs to stop, and when we’ve walked enough to see them all, he stops and tucks my hair behind my ear as he catches his breath.
“You’re pretty.”
I tug his gray beanie down around his ears and kiss his chin. “You are.”
His happy eyes look sleepy. We walk back to his room with our arms around each other, Kellan’s free hand pushing the IV pole. Arethea whistles as we reach the door.
“The two love birds,” she teases, in the soft Brazilian accent that I’ve come to love. She smiles at Kellan, then touches his cheek. “Up and moving. Onward, onward!”
She comes into the room with us, and when she leaves, we stretch out on the bed together. I tug Kellan’s beanie off.
I swear, his lack of hair makes his eyes stand out more. All the weight he’s lost hones his features in the best possible way—showing off his beautiful bone structure. No one has ever looked so perfect. Now that he’s awake again and able to reciprocate, I can’t keep my hands off him.
* * *
Our next endurance exercise is the following morning, when we go down the hall to the kitchen to cook eggs and toast.
Kellan insists on eating a few bites, even though all he’s required to eat today is TwoCal and three cups of yogurt. We walk the halls for longer than I would have thought possible.
Kellan tells me where he grew up, in this cottage overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He tells me about a trip he took to Georgia with his family when he was little. About his first kiss—a girl named Molly, in the coat closet in his first grade class—and about his peewee, middle school, and high school football days.
He tells me about how his mother was an artist who got breast cancer. He says it “got her” fast. His dad was stunned.
“He felt like he failed her.” It sounds like Robert Sr. withdrew from his kids emotionally, but he tried to watch over them anyway. A control thing, I guess. The result was he used a heavy hand and little of what felt like love—and things are still that way. Kellan tells me he came here late the first night Kellan was here.
“He just…stood by the bed. I was…wearing oxygen or whatever. Because I’d had so much Dilaudid, and I wasn’t used to it yet.” I nod as we look out the window of our room. Kellan’s shoulders rise as he inhales. They sink as he exhales. I lean against him. “He did one thing. He messed with the oxygen tubing. Adjusted it or whatever. And then he left.”
“He didn’t say a word?”
I watch him swallow. Watch him struggle.
“It’s okay.” I take his hand. His longer, stronger fingers lace through mine. “It doesn’t matter.” I rub my lips over his knuckles. Then I press his hand against my cheek.
“He said you’re an asshole,” Kellan rasps. “And assholes win.”
I blink back tears.
All morning, he tells me all about himself. How much he loves the ocean. How he wants to smell the salty air, and how he scuba dives. How he can cure my fear of deep water. How we can fly kites over the sand. We sit on the love seat, looking at the city, and I shift so my legs are wrapped around him, and he lies between my legs. He’s looking at the ceiling and I’m stroking his shoulders when he talks about last time he was here. How Lyon’s room was right by his, down on the pediatric transplant floor, and he could hear his brother and Whit laughing while he laid alone in his room.
“I didn’t like the bed,” he says, quiet. “That’s why I didn’t get in it at first.”
I nod, pretending I’m not shredded, and blink back my tears. “You’ve got me now.” I rub his neck. “The bed is the best place.”
We move to it to watch a show, and even during that, he’s open in a way he’s never been before. He shares his thoughts and makes some jokes. He puts me in between his legs and folds himself around me from behind.
He falls asleep just after lunch and I tuck the fleece blankets around his shoulders, then curl up beside him. I’ve gotten used to napping, too.
I wake up to find him leaning his cheek in his palm, watching me. I lift my head and realize his other hand is stroking my hair.
I stick my tongue out, then grin, because I kind of love it—his attention. “You watched me while I was sleeping?”
“Only fair.” He smiles.
I run a finger over his cheek, where the bruises from the wreck are almost gone. “I guess so. I could probably sculpt you now, as much as I’ve watched you. I drew you lots.”
His eyebrows lift. “Is that right?”
I smile and nod. “You want to see? I’m not much of a sketch artist, but you might get a laugh.”
“Yeah, let me see.”
I go to the desk for my portfolio briefcase, and when I open it, I find three yellow legal pads. They’re filled with Kellan’s handwriting. I whip around toward him.
“What are these?”
I look back down and notice a sparrow tucked into the briefcase. It’s folded badly. “You did this?” I flash a grin at him.
He just smiles, and I bring the things back to the bed. “Shall I unfold it? Did you write on the inside?”
His mouth twitches a little with his tired smile. “Look and see.”
I unfold it to find a quote I wrote myself.
“Unless you love someone, nothing else makes any sense.” –e.e. cummings
Kellan’s familiar penmanship is below.
One night you fell asleep and you had written this but hadn’t folded it. I crumpled it up and threw it under the bed. You didn’t see it there for a day or two—or maybe one, or ten—but I found it again yesterday in the night stand drawer. I think I understand it now.
I understand, a little more, why this happened to me. Or if not that, I see the parts that are good. (Hint: The good part is all you).
The notebooks are from after last time, when I was at my family’s cabin upstate. After you wrote me back the first time, I wrote you every day. At the time I thought it was because I was so lonely. I had a hard time after Lyon’s death. I couldn’t leave the cabin much. These notebooks got me through. But now I think I somehow knew you would be mine. Maybe I could sense the way things ended up. I find I kind of like to think that.
I love you, Cleo Baby. Thanks for making things make sense.
I look up at him through tears in my eyes. “That’s beautiful. I love you too.” I wrap my arm around him and he wraps his arms around me. His hand cradles my head against his chest. His lips come down on my hair.
“The notebooks are yours. You don’t need to read them right now. But they’re yours. I wanted you to
have them.”
I lift the notebooks out. I was wrong at first glance; there are three of them, not two, and they are filled completely, back and front of every page. I blink against my tears. His tongue laps at them when they fall.
I cover my face. “Sorry, I’m being stupid.”
His hand rubs over my hair as his voice rumbles near my ear. “Not stupid. Tell me why you’re crying.”
“It makes me sad that you were lonely.”
He laughs, a rich chuckle. “Cleo baby... Don’t do that. I’m trying to say it helped. Writing to you. Made me better. That’s what you are. You’re my medicine.”
TWENTY-ONE
Cleo
October 15, 2014
“Oh my God, how did you knoooow? Chocolate caramel sea salt cupcakes. Mmmmm.” I swallow a bite of moist chocolate cake and luscious icing and flop back onto Kellan’s lap. “Total mouth-gasm.”
He arches a brow. “You want an orgasm in your mouth?”
I lean my head against his thigh. “Mmm. Maybe.”
“I know what I want...” He trails a finger down my chest and grazes my nipple.
“Shower?” I grin.
He squeezes and I struggle not to shriek.
“We had one...” he twists; I pant...”this morning.”
“But I’m dirty.”
I can’t resist delving between his crossed legs. He’s wearing lounge pants, so I can feel every line of his perfect cock.
“Okay...” I sit up. “Shower it is.”
We get off the bed, Kellan grabs a condom from their home in my purse, and he urges me toward the bathroom with his palm on my back.
I can’t help thinking, as he strips off both our clothes, that just a few weeks ago I was undressing him and helping him wash. Starting when he woke up after his mouth sores healed, we had sex dozens of times with Kellan lying in the shower and me riding his dick. But things are better now. He’s stronger. The last few days, I kneel on a folded towel while Kellan pushes into me from behind.
There are times now when the IVs aren’t hooked up, so no more watching for the IV lines. If we time it right with nurses’ shifts, we can have sex two times a day some days.
I turn around and run my eyes over his chest, down to his hips... then to his cock, which juts up to his abs.
I run my hands over his hard, lean sides... over his hips—such a perfect V—and take his dick in my hand.
“Mm.” He reaches for my breasts, then leans down and bites my neck. He walks me backward into the shower, snatches a towel off the top of the shower wall, and tosses it onto the floor.
“Get down there. Put your fingers in your pussy. Spread it open for me.”
He starts the water... kneels. I feel his hand brace on the shower seat and then he slams into me.
“You like that,” he says, husky. “I can feel you get all tight... your pussy grabs me.” He pushes deeper, and I slip down on my forearms.
“Bigger...” I groan. “Feels... nff. You... feel bigger.”
Kellan chuckles. His arm wraps around my waist, his hand splayed over my wet hip.
I push against him with my muscles, welcoming as much of him as I can take, until I’m so full I’m moaning, heedless of who hears. His hand slides down my belly, fingers parting my lips... He lightly touches my clit, rolling his fingertip through my slit where I’m slick, then rolling back around my swollen bud, just grazing it...
I thrust back against him. “Ohhh.... that’s good.”
“You’re so tight. Fucking... ahh. So—” he thrusts—“fucking tight and hot and wet for me... My little slut. Sticking things... into your pussy... while I slept. Sucking me off... Oh... couldn’t stay away could you?”
His finger rolls over my clit, causing it to throb... My cunt tightens around him. Kellan moans.
“I made you come in the hallway, didn’t I? Touching...your greedy little pussy...like right now. You’re sopping wet. I feel those hips shaking...so full...full of cock... I’ve got you all filled up...all stretched and swollen. All except your asshole.” His hand leaves my pulsing clit, grazing the base of his cock, stroking up...up toward my tight hole. His fingertip teases cruelly...applying pressure as my pussy clamps around his pounding cock.
“I think if I slide into you, your pussy would get real tight on my cock. Tight enough to hurt... Bear down baby.” I do, and he shoves inside.
“Ahh!” It always stings a little at first. He holds still, letting me adjust, then pushes in until he’s buried to the knuckle.
“Fuck,” I grunt. His finger’s wide.
I can feel him sagging over me. “So tight... oh God, I’m gonna come in you... I wanna fill you up...” I clench around his dick and push against him one more time, until his cock has split me open and his finger is deep in my ass. It feels so good. I quiver and keep thrusting my hips. His cock swells and hardens and I feel his finger curl.
“Fuck... fuck. Oh Cleo.” He spasms, and then I’m filled with pulsing warmth.
“Ohhhh, yes.” I sag. He holds me to him. “Ahhh.” He draws gently out of me and leans against the wall. I rest my cheek against his heaving chest.
His hand trails over my hips, between my leg. He cups me. “I can feel it dripping out of you...” He parts me with his fingertip and eases just a little of it inside, where—he’s right—I’m full and dripping.
“Mmm.” Inside I’m full... it’s warm... his fingertip feels good... the way they stretch me... “Kellan...” I giggle, pushing at, then pulling on his hand.
His mouth brushes my ear. He drags his finger up and down my slit. “What do you think? You want me to stop now?”
“No...”
His free hand cups my breast. His finger eases in... and then another one. I grunt. “You sure?”
I grip his forearm. “I want...” His fingers writhe. I clamp around him.
“Mmm... I could do this all day—and all night.”
“Forever,” I moan.
He kisses my neck, and fingers me until I scream. And helps me up, and wraps me in a towel. Then his robe.
We’re back in bed in time to play some Call of Duty before Areteha starts the next round of IVs.
I lie on my side with Kellan’s big, warm body tucked around mine. We both fall asleep, and when we wake up at half past nine, there’s chicken pizza on the table.
Kellan yawns and shrugs. “I got a craving.”
I drip ranch under the collar of his shirt and pull it up so I can lick it off his pec. We go to sleep like that, except I don’t need as much sleep as he does, so I’m up at three a.m.—just me and the hospital room. I slip out of the bed and walk over to the windows. Look down at the busy streets.
I wonder what it’s like, a night in New York? It’s so weird that I’ve been here for almost a month and haven’t even had a hot dog from a street cart.
I look over at the bed, where Kellan’s sleeping on his side. The tiny, plastic IV tube stretches over the mattress, delivering... hmm? Steroids? Or that drug for GVHD, a post-transplant complication that’s making his blood counts a little weird.
I walk slowly over to the bed and look down at him... really look at him. Now that he’s getting fewer fevers, and we’ve got our pretzel sleeping position established, he never wears the beanie when he sleeps.
I let my eyes trace the curve of his head. Perfect. The other day, Lora asked me how I handle being here. All the unpleasantness... the hard days and the pain and sweat and blood and sometimes tears. I couldn’t tell her. If you’ve never been here like I have, you wouldn’t understand.
How every drop of sweat is precious. The overpowering evergreen mouthwash... the scentless lotion I would rub on him a few weeks back when his skin got ultra dry and kind of chapped (the GVHD again). I’ve held him while he cried dozens of times. I know that when he’s done, he always hugs my neck and nuzzles up under my chin and strokes my cheek and often says, “sorry.” And I never care, because every tear is precious too. If I could bottle them, I would. Wear them
around my neck forever, like my origami sparrow.
I walk back across the room, to the little desk where I keep my portfolio. I sit down in the rolling chair and pull the yellow legal pads out of my folder. With my cell phone, I check each pad for dates.
I find the first one, then get up again to get my stuffed sloth from the foot of the bed. I curl my legs up in the chair and hug sloth while I read.
I read all night—and I realize, these aren’t letters. This is Kellan’s diary; it’s just addressed to me. To Sloth.
I smile and laugh and cry onto the pages. It’s not easy, reading all his pain. I can’t go back in time. I can’t even travel forward. I’m stuck here in this day. But in this day, I can do something. So I slip back into bed.
TWENTY-TWO
Cleo
October 20, 2014
First the dumbbells. Then the stationary bike. I watch him work out while I cross-stitch in the recliner. And when he’s done, we get a shower.
We dry each other, slip into our robes—he bought me one—and Kellan heads back for the bed, and Game of Thrones.
I head for the dresser drawers and thumb through his clothes until I find the ones I ordered just the other day. A pair of new jeans—32-32, rather than his previous 36-32s—and a soft, cream Irish Aran sweater. Wool socks, check. Ugg moccasins that look like bedroom slippers but have real soles, check.
I grab my own clothes, push a chair under the room’s doorknob, and slip into my leggings and my own green sweater.
Kellan whistles.
“I might need a shower.”
“Nope!” I drop his clothes at the foot of the bed, and he thumbs through the pile. “Going commando I see.”
“Whoops. Forgot your underwear.”
