Forbidden- Our Secret Love

by Elise Quinn Larson

  CJ woke from a fitful sleep and took a few sips of water. I rubbed some medicated salve on his chapped lips and the sores on his gums. “What can I get for you?” I asked. “Juice? A milkshake? Some soup, perhaps?”

  “I could use a nice cold beer,” he replied.

  “Seriously? Will they allow that? If not, I’ll smuggle one in.”

  He managed a crooked smile. “I was kidding. Don’t waste a good beer on me. I’ll just throw it up. Even the thought of beer makes me sick right now.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could do something to help.”

  “You are helping, just by being here. I keep thinking about my mother. How brave she was with her cancer. She accepted her fate with so much grace and courage. I wish I had her strength.”

  “Well, I’m sure she was brave about accepting her fate and all that, but you won’t give up like she did. You’ll keep fighting until all those leukemia cells are dead and gone. You’ll win this game, because ‘All the way with CJ’ is your rallying cry.”

  He smiled again, no doubt recalling all those football games—from middle school clear through his eight years in the NFL—when thousands of fans screamed those words for their star running back. “That was a long time ago, Elise.”

  “Not that long. Quit thinking about your mother’s strength and focus on your own. CJ Larson has always been a winner. He still is.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk. I’m lucky you’re on my team.”

  I took his hand in mine. “Our whole family is on your team, and we Larsons are a stubborn bunch. We’ll never give up.”

  His eyes closed as he drifted toward sleep, but his lips moved in a near-whisper. “Glad you’re my sister,” he said.

  After three weeks in the hospital, CJ was released to his home in Boise for a few weeks, in the hope that normal bone marrow cells would return and start making new blood cells. Another bone marrow biopsy was scheduled for mid-February. CJ was very weak, and his low white blood cell count made him susceptible to infections.

  Trey and I resumed our normal lives for a while. I scrambled to catch up with my law school classes and research projects, while Trey focused on his goal of being not only the youngest professor at Boise State, but also one of the best. I never doubted it. His brilliant mind, coupled with a natural flair for teaching, made his classes enjoyable. (Though I privately wondered if his female students were more attracted by his good looks than his teaching abilities.)

  Was I jealous of the beautiful young women who flocked to his classes? No. I never doubted Trey’s love for me. Not for an instant. He showered me with love so often and in so many ways, both physically and emotionally, that I felt truly cherished. I could no longer imagine a life apart from Trey, the other half of my very being. We completed each other and reveled in our “oneness.” Though I seldom thought of him as my brother, I wondered if that biological connection somehow contributed to the strength of our bond.

  CJ’s illness had drawn our fathers’ attention away from our “situation.” Johnny focused all of his considerable energy on helping his firstborn son, determined he would not lose CJ to cancer the way he’d lost Elise. What Trey and I did was no longer Johnny’s main concern. Daddy still declined our dinner invitations but was not as distant as he’d been at first, so I hoped he’d accept our relationship in time.

  I convinced myself that our secret was safe, and my old fears of disclosure were groundless. Except for Daddy, Johnny, CJ and the genetic counselor in Eugene, no one knew we were siblings. To everyone else, we were cousins. Though Idaho law prohibits marriage between first cousins, sexual relations and cohabitation are allowed (strange but true). As long as we never married or had children, Trey and I could go on just as we were, living together and blissfully happy. No scandal would ever touch or harm our family—or so I thought.

  We celebrated Valentine’s Day with an intimate dinner for two at Cottonwood Grille, followed by a leisurely stroll along the river on the Boise Greenbelt. The weather was unusually mild for mid-February, with no snow and nighttime temperatures in the high forties, so I stayed warm in my coat and scarf with Trey close beside me. We walked for at least a mile before he stopped, taking me in his arms for a deep and lingering kiss. There was no one else around: just us, the shadowy trees and the soothing sounds of the river.

  “Are you happy?” he asked, finally breaking the kiss.

  “I’m very happy,” I replied. “I love you so much. I’m sorry my fears kept us apart all those months. Think of the time we wasted.”

  “We have the rest of our lives to make up for it, because I will never let you go again. Speaking of which . . .” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small box. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.”

  I gasped as he placed the box in my hand. “Trey . . .”

  “Go ahead. Open it.”

  The moon gave just enough light to reveal a ring of exquisite beauty, with two round diamonds set side by side, wrapped in a delicate swirl of rose gold on a band of white gold. Smaller diamonds sparkled on both sides of the center duo. I could barely make out the inside inscription: Forever Us.

  Tears filled my eyes, but no words came. What was he thinking? I wondered. Was this his idea of a wedding ring? A wedding we can never have?

  “Try it on,” he urged.

  I shook my head, finding my voice. “I can’t. We can’t. You know . . .”

  “I know we can’t be married, but this is not a wedding ring. It’s an anniversary ring. It’s a symbol of our love, Elise. Wear it on your right hand, if you’d rather. Every year from now on, we can celebrate our anniversary on Valentine’s Day, just as though we’re really married. Please, love. Take this ring and take me as your husband. Marry me in the sight of God, who can’t possibly find sin in the love we share.”

  Smiling through my tears, I gave in. “Yes, Trey Larson. I will take this ring and take you as my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward until the end of time. I will always love you.”

  Taking the ring from its velvet cushion, he slipped it onto the third finger of my right hand, where it fit perfectly. My tears fell freely when he pulled me into his arms.

  “Happy anniversary,” he whispered. “Let’s go home and consummate this marriage. What do you say?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. Let’s go home.”

  And that’s exactly what we did. We consummated all night long.

  Chapter 27

  CJ had another bone marrow biopsy on February 16th. The results were not good. The chemotherapy had failed to achieve remission, where leukemia cells make up no more than five percent of the bone marrow. CJ’s cells were over that amount. And his blood counts had not returned to normal.

  I was not involved in discussions about what to do next, but CJ decided to undergo another round of very high doses of chemo and a possible stem cell transplant. It was a bold and somewhat risky decision, because stem cell transplants can have serious complications, including death. But CJ figured he would die without the treatment, so why not give it a shot? His fighting spirit was strong, and he was determined to live.

  He reentered the hospital on February 20th, and we all resumed our rotating schedule of sitting by his bedside as he endured another grueling round of intensive chemotherapy. Knowing CJ, I was not surprised by his courage, but I still marveled at it. He suffered from weakness, weight loss, mouth sores, throat pain and vomiting, and yet he somehow managed to smile each time I showed up for my “shift.”

  “Hey,” he said when I sat down beside him toward the end of that week.

  “Hey, yourself,” I replied and took his hand—the one that wasn’t connected to the IV drip. Even his hand felt rather frail to me: his talented hand that could carry a football or create a drawing with equal skill. “You about ready to split this joint?”

  “Yeah. They’re cutting me loose tomorrow for a couple of weeks of R&R at home.”

  “Then what?”

  “Another bone marrow biopsy. If I’ve achieve
d remission, they might ease off on the torture for a while. But if things still look bad, I get to experience a stem cell transplant.”

  I maintained my outward calm, but I cringed inside. My online research was frightening. Possible side effects of a stem cell transplant included mouth and throat pain, nausea and vomiting, infections, bleeding and transfusions, pneumonia, and GVHD (graft versus host disease). Death was a possibility.

  I gripped his hand. “Well, let’s hope for good results from this chemo. Maybe you’ll be in full remission this time.”

  He didn’t reply as his eyes focused on my right hand. “Nice ring,” he said. “From Trey?”

  I nodded

  “What’s the story, Elise?”

  “No story. Just a Valentine’s gift. That’s all.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “Has our father seen it?”

  Our father, I thought. Johnny. “I don’t think he’s noticed. He’s too worried about you to concern himself with Trey and me.”

  “Maybe. Just be careful, okay? You two are treading on dangerous ground in Idaho. Don’t flaunt your relationship.”

  “We don’t. We won’t. Don’t worry about us, CJ. Just concentrate on getting well.”

  Our lives resumed a normal pattern during the two weeks of CJ’s “R&R” at home. But I worried about him constantly, along with the new worry he’d planted in my brain. Were Trey and I actually flaunting our relationship? Was my ring making a statement that we were involved in something illegal? Something forbidden?

  Surely not, I thought. There’s no law against wearing a ring from one’s cousin. Besides, taking it off would hurt Trey terribly. So I shrugged off my personal worries and focused on law school and my life with Trey, once again hoping for good results on CJ’s next bone marrow biopsy.

  Quinn called on March 10th. His Vikings had lost to the Philadelphia Eagles in the NFC Championship Game on January 21st, so they hadn’t made it to the Super Bowl this time. He’d been “hanging out” with friends in Florida since then, but he was bored and ready to fly home to revel in the devotion of his local fans for a few weeks.

  Knowing he disliked staying in Grandma’s house with all of Johnny’s “crazy rules,” I offered the use of our sofa. He laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of crashing your little love nest, Elise. I’ll set up a nest of my own in a Tower Suite at The Grove. That should suit me and the ladies just fine.”

  No doubt, I thought. No lady would resist a night with Quinn Larson on the top floor of Boise’s finest hotel. “Come for dinner, at least. Trey will cook one of his specialties, and we can talk about CJ.”

  “How is he?”

  “Not good. We’re very worried. When can we expect you?”

  “Tomorrow night. My jet touches down at five o’clock.”

  “Want me to pick you up?”

  He laughed again. “No thanks. My ride is all arranged.”

  Quinn drove up the next day in a jet black Porsche 911. “Where do they get these cars for you?” I asked as he hugged me in our parking lot. “They’re not standard rental cars.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. I tell ‘em what I want and they deliver. Where’s Trey?”

  “Slaving away in the kitchen. Come on. Our apartment is upstairs.”

  I’d never thought of our apartment as small, but it seemed to shrink in size when Quinn stepped inside. Between him and Trey—not a small man by any means—I had to squeeze sideways to reach the fridge for beer. No one ever asked Quinn if he wanted a beer, because he always did. Brand? He didn’t care, as long as it was cold and plentiful.

  Trey grilled steaks and asparagus on the outdoor barbeque, but we ate indoors (this was early March in Boise, after all). We also had twice-baked potatoes, homemade French bread, tossed salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing, and—for dessert—Ostkaka (Swedish cheesecake with caramel and apples).

  “I swear, bro,” Quinn declared, finishing his second piece of Ostkaka. “This is better than Grandma’s. Elise, how come you’re not getting fat from living with this guy?”

  “We get lots of exercise,” I innocently replied.

  “Exercise, huh? Lots of bed sport, no doubt. So how’s it going with you two, living together and all?”

  “It’s good,” Trey answered. “Real good.”

  “Yeah? Then how come that diamond ring is on her right hand instead of her left? Johnny still opposing marriage?”

  Trey stiffened. “Drop it, Quinn. What we do or don’t do is our business. Stay out of it.”

  “Seems I’ve hit a nerve. Okay, then. Tell me about CJ.”

  So we did. We told Quinn about the two rounds of chemo, the bone marrow biopsies, and the possibility of a stem cell transplant. We explained the need for a transplant donor—someone whose HLA tissue types matched CJ’s.

  “Whoa. Now you’ve lost me. What the hell is an HLA tissue type? Please enlighten me, brilliant brother of mine. But use words I can understand.”

  Trey sighed. “All right. HLA stands for human leukocyte antigens, proteins found on the surface of most cells. They make up a person’s tissue type.”

  “Why are these HLA things so important?”

  “A stem cell transplant won’t work unless the donor’s and recipient’s HLA tissue types match.”

  “Is it hard to find a matching donor?”

  “It can be. Since HLA antigens are inherited from both parents, the donor search usually starts with the patient’s siblings—you and me, in CJ’s case. So it’s good you’re in town. If CJ’s next biopsy doesn’t look good, they’ll want to test us right away.”

  “If one of us is a good match, then what?”

  “They harvest stem cells from our bone marrow and give them to CJ.”

  “Christ. I won’t even ask what that involves. Not sure I want to know.”

  “C’mon, Quinn. Big tough guy like you? Two Super Bowl MVP awards? Donating bone marrow should be a piece of cake for you.”

  “Never have cared much for doctors, bro. But anything for CJ, right?” He pushed back from the table. “Sorry to cut this short, but they’re expecting me down at the End Zone. Word somehow gets around as soon as I hit town. You two care to join me? Drink, dance, cut loose for a change?”

  When we declined, he stood up. “Thought so. You’re like an old married couple. You’ll soon be tied down with a couple of kids, having no fun at all. Anyway, thanks for dinner. I’ll see you around. Call me when CJ gets his test results.” He was out the door, down the stairs and roaring out of the parking lot before we could blink.

  “Well,” I said. “That’s our Quinn.”

  “Yeah,” Trey agreed. “He’s got everything a man could possibly want. With one exception.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let’s get these dishes done and I’ll show you.”

  And he did. He showed me love. More than once.

  CJ’s bone marrow biopsy on March 13th was better than the one in February. He was officially in remission, with leukemia cells making up less than five percent of his bone marrow. But the doctors explained that a relapse was almost certain unless the remaining leukemia cells were destroyed with further treatment.

  CJ was given two choices: three or four cycles of chemo at very high doses over the next four months, or an allogeneic (donor) stem cell transplant. Of the two choices, a transplant was more likely to prevent a relapse, but the risk of serious complications was greater.

  After a brief discussion with Stacey, CJ chose to have a transplant. He was tired of chemo; the prospect of four more months of very high doses was too much. He just wanted his life back, the sooner the better.

  Once the decision was made, CJ’s doctors wasted no time. Our family attended a meeting where we learned about the transplant process and the risks involved, not only to CJ but also to the donor.

  The doctors confirmed what we’d already learned online: the search for a donor usually starts with the patient’s sibli
ngs in the hope of finding a perfect match, when all six of the major HLA antigens are the same. A perfect match lowers the risk of graft rejection, graft-versus-host disease, and serious infections. Even so, the chance that Trey or Quinn would be a perfect match for CJ was only one out of four.

  “What happens if Trey and Quinn aren’t good matches for CJ?” Johnny asked.

  “We’ll screen other relatives,” the doctor replied. “Parents and half-siblings would be next, followed by children, aunts, uncles and cousins. If no relatives are a close match, we’ll search transplant registries.”

  Johnny glanced at me at the mention of half-siblings, but he quickly looked away. My stomach clenched.

  “Let’s take this one step at a time,” the doctor continued. “Stem cell donation is entirely voluntary. If one of you turns out to be a good match, the procedure and possible complications will be thoroughly explained to make sure you are making an informed decision, and you must sign a consent form.”

  “I want to volunteer,” Trey declared. “How will I be screened?”

  “You’ll need an HLA test, which looks at genetic markers on your white blood cells. A sample of your blood will be sent to a lab for testing, to see if your markers are a good match with CJ’s.”

  “That’s it? Just a blood sample?”

  “That’s the first step, yes.”

  “All right. Let’s do it.”

  Quinn, Elias and James also volunteered. Johnny and Jim were automatically rejected for testing because of their age; younger donors provided the greatest chance for transplant success. Johnny was not pleased, but his protests were futile.

  I went online again to learn more about the donor matching process. Sibling donors have the best outcome, with fewer complications and a better survival rate. If no sibling was a perfect match, a sibling with a fifty percent match would be considered for a “haploidentical” transplant.