Love Me Broken

by Lily Jenkins

  “Hi, Erica,” she says, and we stand for a minute just looking at each other. I actually feel a bond between us: we have Adam in common. She is the only person who could possibly mourn his passing as much as me. “I’m leaving,” she says without preamble. “Adam won’t listen to me, and he’s made it very clear he doesn’t want me with him at the end. I’ve decided to respect his wishes, only because I know I won’t be able to change his mind.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why can’t you? I don’t understand any of this.”

  “It’s because of his father,” she says simply.

  My eyebrows go up in confusion. “He’s never mentioned his father,” I say.

  “No, I don’t imagine that he would. Adam’s father, my husband, died twelve years ago. He was diagnosed with Stage Three lung cancer fourteen years ago and told he had six months to live. There was never a chance of beating it. We all knew that. But he fought long and hard to spend what time he could with his family. Adam was terribly young then. He never knew his father healthy. All he knew was someone who scared him, someone who never existed except as a figure of death. And later, as a legacy of debt that left both of us reliant on others throughout his childhood.”

  I try to process this, to picture Adam as a scared little boy. It’s a hard image to reconcile with the Adam I know. He was always so fearless around me. Was that an act? Was he secretly frightened the entire time we were together? And the thought of Adam in pain hurts me. I want to help him. I want to comfort him. And then I remind myself that I can do nothing.

  Rachel is quiet again, looking at a patch of bushes by the side of our garage. “Last April Adam collapsed,” she says finally. “We had been to the doctor a few months before that. Adam had developed a cough and was given antibiotics for pneumonia. He took the pills and we had all forgotten about it because the cough went away, and life went on. Then last April he was running laps in gym class, and became lightheaded. You know Adam—he ignored it and kept on running. He ran until he—” Her eyes look distant, recalling something she chooses not to say. Then she shakes her head. “So we went to the hospital. I remember he was very quiet as they drew his blood and took x-rays. Then they sent him to a specialist for CT scans. He was trying to be brave, even though I knew what this reminded him of. He was thinking of his father.” Her forehead wrinkles, and I think tears are coming from her eyes, but I can’t tell with the rain. “He was barely two weeks past his eighteenth birthday when he was diagnosed. The doctors—” her voice cracks, and she puts her hand to her forehead in a fist, touching it lightly on her brow until she can go on. “The doctors were surprised he was still breathing.”

  She shakes her head and looks up at me, her eyes filled with bitter anger. “We couldn’t believe it. When the doctors suggested chemo to shrink the tumor before surgery, Adam lost it. He screamed at them. He told them he didn’t smoke, that he ate right and worked out. That they were wrong. He screamed until he started coughing.”

  The rain lightens slightly to a fine mist. Little beads of rain are stuck to the ends of Rachel’s eyelashes as she looks away from me.

  “We had a big fight,” she says. “I asked him if he wanted a second opinion, that we should know our options, but he refused. He said it was all a big mistake. I tried to tell him that we can’t ignore this, that if it’s cancer we can’t wait. But he said it didn’t matter either way, because he wasn’t doing treatment. He was eighteen and an adult, and I couldn’t make him.” She shakes her head. “I kept pushing. We yelled some more and then went to bed. The next day I came home from work and—” she puts up her hands “—he was gone.”

  This is too much for me, and I have to take a step back. I run a hand through my wet hair and watch the rain collect on the driveway, forming little rivers to the gutter.

  Adam. All I can think of is Adam, but I don’t know what to think. There was so much more to his story than he ever let on. Why didn’t he tell me?

  But I know why. He knew I would try to stop him.

  Rachel puts a hand on my arm, drawing my attention back to her. “I came here to thank you,” she says. Her eyes are wide and insistent. “I never thought I’d see my son again, and you gave me one last chance to say good-bye.”

  “You’re leaving?” I ask, even though I know she already said this.

  She nods. “It’s what he wants. He’s a stubborn boy. He’s like his father in that respect. He figures if he has to die, he should get to die on his own terms.” She shrugs. “I guess I get that. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

  “But you’re his mother,” I say. “You can’t just give up.” I can’t imagine my own mother allowing Conner to die without a fight. She practically tried to follow him into the grave.

  She looks at me another moment, and then walks away without another word. She steps right into the middle of the puddle that has collected at the end of the driveway, crosses the street without looking back.

  She’s given up on him. I can’t believe she’s given up on him.

  Maybe, says a voice in my head, maybe she knows it’s a lost cause. Adam is going to die either way.

  “No!” I say, my eyes squeezing shut. “He can’t die!”

  I stumble back into the garage and collapse on the floor.

  “He can’t. He can’t.” My wet clothes stick to me and are quickly growing icy. Goose bumps have broken out on my arms, and my muscles start to shiver. I don’t make any move to get up, to dry off. I simply sit as the water drips away from me, and I try to think of a way to save Adam.

  I can’t help him. I realize this all at once. I can’t help him. He’s going to die and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m going to lose him.

  I wish—I wish it were me that died that night. Why couldn’t Conner be the one who lived? He was always so much stronger. Everyone liked him more. Conner would have been fine. He would have known how to help my parents through their grief. He would have made things right.

  But not me. I can’t help anyone.

  I lean down and sob into my hands. Someone else would have been able to help Adam too. Not his mother. Not me. But if he had met a different girl, someone like Nicole who could get men to do what she wanted, he would stay alive. It was because he met me that he will die. It was—

  There’s a scraping sound next to me. I open my eyes groggily, and look over to see Prickly Pete eating from the cat food tin. I collapsed right next to it without even realizing.

  “Good,” I say. He should have a last meal before setting off on his own. It’s obvious that I can’t help him. He hates me. “Good boy,” I tell him.

  He looks up at me, his face so close that if he moved an inch forward, his whiskers would be tickling my nose. His green eyes are focused on me, and I’m too exhausted to be scared. He licks his lips, and then lets out a tentative meow.

  Then, when I don’t respond, when I don’t even look his way, he steps forward and presses his head against my side. I’m sitting with my legs crossed, and he nuzzles his head along my body, then both knees. I hear a rumbling, and I realize he’s purring.

  “Pete?” I ask, turning toward him with surprise. And at my voice, he meows again and steps into my lap.

  He is light, but the feel of his weight against me is nice. Has he forgiven me? Had I not tried enough? His tail flicks slowly at his side and he looks out, watching the rain.

  Very carefully, I lift my arm and stroke the fur behind his ear. He closes his eyes and leans against my touch, then lies down in my lap, his front paws dangling over my legs. He is letting me touch him. After all this time, he is letting me touch him. Just when I was about to give up.

  I draw my hand slowly down his body. He purrs again.

  And I start thinking.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  I watch the screen of the machine that tells me I am still alive. I half-expect it to stop, to flatline while I’m watching. I’ve been watching it for hours. My mom left a little while ago, and I’ve be
en alone in my room, feeling sorry for myself.

  I don’t want to die. I don’t. But I don’t want to fool myself either. Besides, without Erica, what else is there to live for?

  Was I too harsh with her? I know I wanted to push her away. I know it’s better if she hates me. It will make it easier for her to forget. But I already miss her. I’m almost glad I’ll be dead, so that I won’t have to miss her like this forever.

  I turn on my side and stare at the screen.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  There’s nothing left to do but wait.

  *

  I must have fallen asleep. I hear footsteps in the room, and then the door closing. I know it’s not a nurse; the nurses leave the door open. So it must be my mom. I stay on my side, facing away. I consider pretending that I’m asleep. Then I decide I don’t want to make it easy for her, and keep my eyes open. I turn over, and—

  “Erica!”

  She’s in my room, her face serious. She has her hair hanging loose, and it looks wet and ragged. I lean forward a little in my bed, longing to touch her, to be close again. Then I reconsider and try to hide it by adjusting my pillow.

  She’s not smiling. She takes a look at me, at me in the hospital bed, and then crosses to my left to pull a chair up next to me. She sits, erect and stubborn, and crosses her arms. Her face is like stone—not harsh, though, just decided. This must be her game face.

  Well, two can play at this. I cross my arms and tilt my chin up. She only stares at me a moment, and for a brief second I’m so ashamed that I blush. I look away.

  “Adam?” she says, her voice in command. I look toward her. “We need to talk.”

  I don’t think that phrase has ever been the prelude to happy times. I raise an eyebrow. It’s my I’m listening and this better be good look.

  “Your mom came to see me.”

  I start cursing under my breath, and slam my hands down at my sides in fists. “For what? To beg you to get me to change my mind? Because it’s not—”

  “No,” she interrupts. Her voice is even, and after she cuts me off she waits a full beat before continuing. It’s a way of letting me know she’s in control of the conversation. “She came to visit to say good-bye, and to thank me for giving her one last chance to see you.”

  I try to imagine the two of them having a conversation, but somehow I can’t picture it. Then I wonder if my mom has left already. I haven’t seen her since earlier today.

  My stomach sinks a little. Then I reprimand myself. This is what I wanted, right? This is what I knew had to happen?

  Yeah, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

  I look back up at Erica. She obviously didn’t come here to tell me this. I ask, “So what are you doing here? Why did you come? I thought I made it clear that I never wanted to see you again.”

  She doesn’t even cringe. I think it hurts me more to say it than for her to hear it. That makes me feel worse somehow.

  “I know what you said,” she begins, “and I know that the right thing might be to follow your wishes. But, frankly, your wishes are bullshit.”

  She says this so tartly that I can’t help but be a little impressed. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard her swear before. She does it well.

  “Oh yeah?” I ask. I sit up in bed and meet her eyes, challenging her back. “Bullshit, huh? Why’s that?”

  “Because you need to accept treatment.” She’s talking faster now, losing her cool exterior. “You need to get better so that we can be together.”

  “Fuck that!” I snap. “It’s my life. I can die if I want to.”

  She puts a hand on the bed, and I avoid touching it, even a little. I pretend her hand is fire.

  “Your mom told me about your father,” she starts.

  “Oh, that’s low.” This isn’t funny or cute anymore. She’s fighting dirty.

  “She told me you had to watch him die,” she says over my complaints. “She told me he scared you. That you don’t want to be like that for me.”

  “Screw you.”

  “But I need you to listen to me.” She waits until I look over. “If you’re worried you’ll scare me, you won’t. If you’re worried about me being strong enough, don’t. I can take it. I’m stronger with you.” She grabs for my hand and I pull it away. “You taught me how to push past my limits, Adam. Now it’s my turn to make you push past yours.”

  I cross my arms again. “Erica, wake up. I’m going to die.”

  She nods. “Maybe. But you’ll die for sure if you don’t do anything.”

  My heart is beating like crazy. It’s making the machine go beep-beep-beep, and I’m hoping that she’s distracted enough that she doesn’t notice what she’s doing to me.

  “You don’t have to live,” she says, and this catches me off-guard. I look at her, paying full attention now. She continues. “You don’t have to do more than you want. But I know you can do more than nothing.” She gives a smile, and I feel like I might choke, I miss her so much. How can you miss someone before they’re gone? When they’re right here with you? Why does this still feel like good-bye?

  “All I ask is that you take the first steps,” she says. “Just ask the doctors what they can do. Find out. You might as well have all the information. Do you think you could do that much?”

  “Well, sure, but I don’t see the point—”

  “So you can do that. What if they said all it would take was one day of chemo? Could you do that? One day. Maybe not months, or years, but one time?”

  “I—that’s stupid.”

  “Could you?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “What about twice? Twice and you’re cured?”

  “If it were that easy.”

  “And then if you can do that time, maybe another? And another? Do you even know how much you can do without testing your limits?”

  My mouth closes. I see what she’s doing.

  She gets it. She finally gets it: treatment is my driving.

  I’m quiet, and she takes my hand. I don’t pull away, but I don’t squeeze back. I try to make my hand that of a dead person.

  “I’ll be right here,” she says. “I want to be here for you, with you, every day while you’re here on this earth.”

  “Erica,” I object, “I’m going to die.”

  She shakes her head. “I still want to be with you. It doesn’t matter if that’s only for one more day, or one more hour, or for the rest of our lives. You’re where I need to be.”

  She’s breaking me down, but that doesn’t change the facts. “There’s no point. I’ll die and you’ll forget me. As you should.”

  “I won’t!” She says this so loud and so high-pitched that it hurts my ears. I naturally start to pull away, and she tugs me back by the hand. I look at her, and her eyes are wide, intense, and sparkling with tears. “I won’t get over you,” she says desperately. Whatever calm she brought in with her has been used up. She’s frantic now, like she’s trying to talk me off a ledge. “This isn’t a crush or a fling for me. I—” she swallows “—I love you, Adam.” She lets out a deep sigh, the fight leaving her. “I love you,” she whispers again, the words lingering in the air.

  I can only stare at her, speechless. And for the first time I really wonder if she’ll be okay without me.

  She lets go of my hand. She looks down, and doesn’t bother to wipe the tears away. Then she places her hands on either side of the seat of her chair, as if debating whether to get up or not. Whether to leave. Whether I can be reasoned with at all.

  She stands, deliberately avoiding my eyes, and makes her way around the bed. She’s going fast, so fast she’s almost out the door before I realize what is happening. She has one foot outside when I manage to find my voice.

  “Erica.”

  It’s a low grumble. I’m not sure she hears the word itself, but it’s enough to stop her. She turns back to me, one hand holding the door.

  I look away, down at my body under the blank
et. I’m not sure why I stopped her. I just didn’t like the idea of her running out in tears. Of that being our last memory. But now that I’ve called her back, I don’t know what to say. I’m still not going to do it. If she wants to leave, that’s her right.

  I let out a deep sigh, but it does nothing to relieve the tension in my shoulders. I remind myself that I’m ready to die. I remind myself that she’d have to leave at some point anyway. That it’s not fair to make her watch me suffer. I wanted to die privately, didn’t I? Don’t I still? That’s what this was all about. Of course, I didn’t know Erica then. But even if I had, I still don’t want to do chemo. I don’t want radiation. I won’t—

  I look up at her face, and our eyes meet. Hers are sparkling green in a cold gray world.

  Fuck it. Fuck it all. I’d do anything for her.

  “Okay,” I say quietly. “Okay.”

  Her breath hitches, and for a moment it looks like she’s so happy that she’s about to jump right onto the bed with me, hopping up and down.

  I hold up a hand to stop her. “But,” I say, “before we go any further, there are some conditions.”

  She’s already nodding before I’ve said more, bending down to the bed and trying to hold my hand.

  “Focus, Erica. This isn’t a joke. You need to sit back down and listen, because this is serious. You can’t just agree to anything. You need to be sure.”

  This sobers her some, and I see her mind start to work on what the conditions may be.

  “This isn’t going to be fun or easy,” I say. “It’s a long ugly process, and—let’s be realistic—it’s going to end with me dead, and you alone. If I go in for treatments, it’s only going to buy us a few months. And they won’t even be good months.”

  She’s crying, nodding, but at least she seems to be listening.

  “We can’t look at this as me living. This is just me dying slower. Which you might think is better right now, but trust me, it’s worse. What you saw in the car the other day was just a preview. That’ll be pretty compared to what we have ahead.”