Chapter Twenty-Two
Then
I brushed the tears from my eyes when Jamie began to stir awake.
“Hey,” he croaked, cracking one eye open. I scooted my chair a little closer to his bedside and grabbed hold of his hand.
“Hi.” I tried out a smile. “Good nap?”
Jamie stared at me carefully as he struggled to sit up in bed. I was instantly on my feet, my hands supporting his underarms and helping to lift him upright. Once he was settled against his pillows, I sat back in my chair and forced a cheery smile. He was looking back at me with sadness in his eyes, even as a small grin touched his lips.
“You know, don’t you?” he whispered.
He could read me so well. My eyes filled with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jamie scoffed. “Maybe because I didn’t want you to look at me with the exact expression you’ve got on your face right now?”
“Jamie—”
“And maybe because things are finallygoodfor you. You’ve got someone who loves you — which, let’s face it, is a miracle in itself. You’re applying to college. You’re happy. I won’t apologize for not wanting to ruin that.”
“James Arthur—”
“And also maybe a little bit because if I told you, it would be real.” Jamie’s voice broke on the last word, but his smile didn’t waver. “I really didn’t want it to be real, this time.”
My tears spilled over and I clutched his hand tighter. “How long have you known?”
“A few weeks.”
I pressed my eyes closed. With a cancer as aggressive as Jamie’s, weeks could make a world of difference. I always tried my best to watch for changes, to be on guard for signs that it had returned, but Jamie was rarely honest about his pain levels — ever one to put on a brave face or to “handle things like a man,” as he was fond of saying. But for the last week or so, he’d been sleeping more and more. Avoiding my eyes when I asked if he was experiencing any symptoms. Snapping at me to mind my own business which, frankly, was just not like the brother I knew and loved.
Did he torment me? Sure, frequently.
Butyellat me? That was something he never did.
After spending almost six months at the hospital and then in the rehabilitation center, he’d finally recovered enough to come home in late June. And for nearly five, blissful months, I’d had my Jamie back. In the summer, Bash would pick us up and we’d strap Jamie’s wheelchair to the bed of his truck, as had become our custom. Hot days were spent by the lakefront, rainy ones at the local movie theater. We laughed often, joking with the ease of old friends — often at my expense, of course, but I couldn’t complain when I saw Jamie grinning — and enjoying the freedom that only youth affords.
It was a picture-perfect summer. I was young and carefree, utterly wrapped up in a boy who’d flipped my world on its head. And for a while I let myself believe that Jamie had been cured for good this time, and that things might stay this way forever.
But inevitably, the days grew shorter and the temperatures began to drop off with the arrival of fall. Our summer days slipped away, Sebastian and I returned to school for our senior year, and, once again, Jamie found himself alone all day, which he complained wasn’t much better than being in the hospital. He’d opted not to return to Jackson High. Having missed so much school, he’d essentially have to retake all his junior year classes to catch up. Rather than be left behind as his friends entered our final year, he instead chose to work from home and complete his GED.
Each day, I’d spend time with Jamie before my shift at Minnie’s. Sometimes, if he didn’t have football practice, Sebastian would come with me and the three of us would do homework together, cramped over the tiny, wobbly kitchen table. And if Bash minded the less than elegant quarters, he never said as much to me. I think he was just happy to be out of his mansion, away from his parents for a while.
But now, the cancer was back. I’d called Jamie’s doctor earlier this morning to confirm it. Over a week had passed since his monthly check-up scans and it was unusual for results to take more than a few days, at most. Knowing Jamie, he’d intercepted the phone call in hopes that I wouldn’t find out.
“We’ll be fine, Jamie.” I stood and climbed onto the bed next to him, forcing him to scoot over to accommodate me. “We’ll beat it back again, just like last time.”
“I know, sis.” He sighed. “I’m just getting tired of fighting.”
We fell silent for a moment, lying shoulder-to-shoulder on his thin mattress — staring up at the ceiling, each lost in our own thoughts.
“They’re going to take my leg this time,” Jamie whispered. His tone wasn’t mournful or bitter. It wasn’t a complaint or a grievance. It was a simple acceptance of fact: he’d be an amputee at seventeen.
“You don’t know that.” My whispered assurance was more wishful thinking than actual truth. We both knew it was almost certain that he’d lose his leg with the next operation — it was the doctors’ only remaining recourse, after the bone grafts and salvage surgeries had failed.
“Did you tell him yet?”
I knew he was asking about Bash. “I wanted to talk to you first.”