Love Me Broken

by Lily Jenkins

  My life. My life has been here.

  I force myself go to bed, but the sleep is uneasy.

  Part of me knows that after tonight, I’ll never sleep in this room again.

  I am awake with the dawn.

  My parents are up too, waiting in the front room with me until we hear the car pull up outside. I look out to see that Rachel is driving. Adam’s in the back seat, and he stays there while Rachel gets out and comes to the door. She leaves the car running. It’s her way of politely reminding us all that time is short.

  I open the door before Rachel can knock, and then turn to my parents. My mother comes forward and kisses my cheek, and then pulls me into a tight hug.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, and I’m at first a little confused as to why.

  Then it’s my dad’s turn. His words are a little more practical: “Here’s something to cover gas and expenses,” he says, slipping a wad of bills into my hand. “And a little extra to help you settle in.”

  I tell him thanks, and try to slip the cash discreetly into my pocket. I feel awkward accepting it in front of Rachel, but when I glance at her, I see that she’s talking quietly with my mom.

  Then we grab my suitcases and head down the front steps to the car. It’s an older Volvo, gray, with untinted windows. Rachel opens the trunk and we slide in two suitcases next to Adam’s duffel and a small bag that must belong to Rachel. My dad has the cat crate, with Pete inside.

  “Is there room back there?” he asks Adam through the open front door.

  “Yeah,” Adam says, and slides over. I can’t really see him directly—his face is covered by the car hood—and he slides farther away behind the driver’s seat.

  Rachel slams the trunk and climbs back into the car. Then I turn to give my parents one last hug, the three of us embracing. It feels bittersweet; we’ve just healed our family, right at the moment it is to be separated.

  “Call me,” my mother says. There are tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t look blank or devastated. These are normal empty-nest tears.

  I promise to call every day, and then get into the car. When I close the door, the sounds of the outside world are sealed off, and the mood shifts instantly. We pull away, and I wave to my parents through the closed window. I watch them until we turn a corner, trying to form a vivid memory before they are gone.

  I let out a sigh. Then I turn toward Adam.

  At the sight of him my heart sinks. He’s pale and he looks utterly exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days. He has the oxygen feed again, the small plastic tubes running behind his ears and down toward a metallic tank at his side. He smiles at me. “Hey,” he says, and his voice sounds weaker too.

  “Hi.” We look at each other. I don’t know which of us looks more scared.

  Then Pete gives a small hiss, and we laugh, the seriousness of the moment broken.

  “This is actually a pretty nice town,” Rachel comments. We’re turning onto Commercial Street now, and I look right, trying to see the coffee shop that’s two blocks away.

  I realize that I didn’t say good-bye to Nicole. I know we were fighting, but I’d have liked to end it better than we left it. Now we’re driving away. She won’t even know that I’ve left town.

  Not that she’d approve. Maybe it’s best that I leave on my own.

  In another five minutes, we are on our way out of Astoria. We’re taking the 101 South along the coast, and we quickly pass by the turnoff to Seaside. I glance at it, imagining a different reality where Adam is healthy, and we ended up going to the beach picnic. And then we turn away, taking another road inland toward Portland to meet the I-5, which we’ll take the rest of the way to San Diego.

  Adam is asleep when we near Portland a few hours later. We won’t actually be driving through the city—it’s out of the way and traffic is bad—but I wonder if he’d like to see it anyway. We cross through a suburb of new builds and then merge onto the interstate. Not long after, we’ve left the sprawl of the suburbs and are passing tree-covered hills and expansive farmland. It’s beautiful and depressing to me at the same time, mostly because Adam isn’t seeing this, and I know it’s better to let him sleep than to wake him for the sights. And I wonder: Which way did he take to come to Astoria? Has he seen all this already? I hope so. It makes me less guilty about him missing it that way.

  Within another hour I’m past anything I recognize. I’ve been to California twice before, once for a school trip to Sacramento, and the other time for a family vacation to Disneyland. But mostly my family stayed close to home: the beaches of Oregon and Washington, daytrips to Portland or a night in Seattle. For as little as I know California, this might as well be my first time.

  We have to stop every few hours so Rachel can stretch her legs or grab a cup of coffee. I would offer to drive, but it’s a stick shift and this isn’t the time to learn. Rachel doesn’t seem to mind though. There’s something settled in her now that she has her son back, something that’s more at peace than the first time I met her.

  Adam wakes up intermittently, but even when he does, the trip is quiet. Rachel has the radio on to give us some noise, but I don’t think any of us are actually listening to it, all of us too lost in our own thoughts. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you a single song that’s played. As we drive, the sun rises higher in the sky, and I stare out the window at all the towns we are passing, wondering who lives there, what their lives are like. Have any of those people gone through anything like this? How did it turn out?

  And Adam—I don’t know where his head is. When I look back toward him, he gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He gets out with us at the Oregon-California border, but after that he stays in the back seat—sleeping, or pretending to sleep, I don’t know which. There’s so much I want to say to him, but I feel shy around his mother. The things I want to tell Adam are too personal. I’d rather wait.

  It’s dark when we reach Sacramento. Rachel finds a small motel and checks us into a room with two queen beds. She lets me share the bed with Adam, which I think is progressive of her—my parents would never do that—even though the circumstances aren’t cause for much concern. All three of us pass out the moment we hit the sheets.

  I don’t sleep well, though. I keep waking up every few hours, scared listening to the sound of Adam’s breathing. What if something happened while we were asleep and Adam couldn’t call for help? What if he doesn’t even make it to San Diego?

  Rachel tosses and turns as well, and as soon as dawn lightens the sky, the three of us are checking out and loading back into the car. This day’s drive is even more bleary and tired than the day before. As we get closer to L.A., the landscape turns from green to concrete gray, and there are so many cars and buildings that I find it a bit nerve-wracking. It takes us longer to get through L.A. traffic than it took to drive through all of Oregon, and it’s getting dark when a sign informs us that we have finally entered San Diego.

  Rachel’s home is a small pre-fabricated house in a community of other such houses. Adam called it a trailer park, but these don’t really look like trailers. They’re boxy and fixed to the ground with a foundation, and have small yards outside and a carport attached. Rachel pulls into the carport of a home that is faded blue. Its garden consists of three sparse rose bushes in the front. The rest of the yard is gravel. I guess Rachel doesn’t have a lot of time for gardening.

  I look to the backseat as we stop and see Adam looking toward the house with a mixture of disdain and embarrassment. I realize he’s worried about how I will think of him, of how much bigger my house is compared to his. But I don’t care. I’ll probably be happier here with Adam than I’ve been at my old home this past year anyway.

  There’s a small set of wooden stairs that leads up to the main door. We carry in the suitcases and set them down inside the door. The furniture and fixtures are old but clean. There’s a family room with a faded couch and a TV on a low stand. The room is connected to a yellow kitchen, with a small round table in t
he middle. I try to imagine Adam sitting down with his mother for countless meals here. It’s hard to imagine him in this space; his personality seems too expansive to be boxed in like this. This house doesn’t feel like the Adam I know. Maybe that’s why he ran away.

  There are two bedrooms, at either end of the trailer. Rachel’s is on the side with the living room, and Adam’s is past the kitchen.

  Adam’s room is small, half the space taken up by a twin bed. We set down our suitcases and Adam shows me a tiny closet that we will share. He’s avoiding my eyes, and I use the chance to look around. There’s a plain square window with cream-colored drapes across from the door, and a dresser and a short desk squeezed into the space. His bed is made; he has a dark navy comforter and white pillows. The walls are covered with various posters: The Dark Knight, Kurt Cobain, and Breaking Bad. There’s a jar of loose change and some deodorant sticks and cologne on the dresser, and a few books on his desk. The one on top is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I can’t see the others.

  Then we carry Pete, still in his crate, into a narrow bathroom next to Adam’s bedroom.

  “We’ll let Pete stay in here the first night,” he says, “while he gets used to all the new smells. Then when he’s ready we can introduce him to the rest of the house.”

  I nod. I wouldn’t even have considered that. “You’ve had cats before?” I ask, feeling stupid for not thinking of this already.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Two: Eggs and Bacon. Bacon was the shy one, kind of like Pete.”

  I hear footsteps and turn to see Rachel coming down the short hall. She’s barely past the kitchen when she starts talking, the space so small that she doesn’t need to raise her voice.

  “I just called the hospital to confirm our appointment for the morning.” She looks at Adam. “You’re not to have any food or liquid after midnight.” Her eyes drift to a clock on the wall. “So if you’re hungry, you should eat something light now.”

  “I just have to help Pete settle in first,” he says.

  “Okay.” Rachel looks to me. “I’m counting on you to make sure he sleeps tonight. He needs to be strong for tomorrow.”

  I nod, feeling the weight of responsibility. We are both taking care of Adam now. If I screw up, he’ll die.

  We set up food, water, and Pete’s litter box, and then close the door to let him adjust. I am about to head into the kitchen when Adam stops me. He puts his arms around me, leaning in for a hug that feels desperate and almost lonely. I hug him back, tight, and kiss his neck, trying to make him feel better. We’ve had so little time to talk, and even now I hear Rachel’s footsteps in the kitchen around the corner.

  Being here, relying on Adam, it feels like our relationship has suddenly gotten more serious. This is no longer the fun, easygoing dating period. It’s like we’ve fast-forwarded to the middle of a marriage, to a crisis moment. I am overwhelmed with feeling for him, but I have to settle for this silent embrace. Then we hear the creak of Rachel’s footsteps again and have to let go. We look at each other a moment. Adam looks like he wants to both apologize and thank me at the same time. Then we head into the kitchen, and his mom makes him a snack.

  At Rachel’s suggestion, I take a shower while Adam eats. She’s polite about it, but I get the feeling that she wants a moment alone with Adam. Or maybe she just wants to make sure that we don’t take a shower together. Not that that should really be an issue right now. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so out of the mood in my life. I step into the bathroom’s beige tub, listening to the sounds of Pete inside his crate as I wash myself.

  Definitely not feeling sexy.

  I come out to find Adam and Rachel sitting silently at the round table. There’s an empty plate in front of Adam. Rachel has a steaming mug with the string of a tea bag hanging over the side. They are both looking down in opposite directions, and when I come into the room, I have to announce myself before they notice.

  “What time do we have to be at the hospital?” I ask.

  Rachel blinks and then looks up at me. “Hmm?”

  I repeat my question.

  “Oh. Early. Eight.”

  There’s not much more to say, so Adam pushes back his chair and kisses his mother goodnight. I give a goodnight wave, and Rachel nods back at me, not getting up from her chair. She seems very tense, very tired. It reminds me a little of my own mother.

  Adam brushes his teeth and then takes a quick shower while I call my mom from his bedroom. She insists I try to rest after my long trip. I promise to try, and we say goodnight. After hanging up, the room feels very quiet and very foreign. I hear the shower turn off, and then the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back. In the kitchen, I hear his mother sigh. And I come to know that we won’t have any privacy in this house.

  I wonder how that must have been growing up for Adam. Bad, I suppose.

  Adam comes into the room and shuts the door behind him. He’s wearing pajama shorts and a soft t-shirt. He reattaches his oxygen tube and sets the tank by the bed. This means he has to sleep on the outside. I climb in and get under the covers. I think to myself: this is Adam’s bed. He has slept here hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. This is his home.

  Adam pulls the comforter over us, and he settles onto his back with his arm around me. I cuddle in close, resting my head against the nook of his arm and body. I have to be careful though. I don’t want to put too much weight on his chest.

  We’re quiet, both with eyes wide open.

  “This feels weird,” he says. “Being here.”

  “Having me here?” I ask.

  He turns to me, and kisses me lightly on the side of the head. “No. I like having you here. I think the old me would feel pretty proud, knowing that you’d be in this bed.”

  I chuckle, trying to keep my voice quiet. Then I grow scared, thinking of tomorrow. “Adam,” I say, and find his hand and hold it.

  “I know,” he says. He puts both arms around me, and I cuddle in closer. Our bodies fit together perfectly, and it feels so nice. We breathe together, and I feel his warmth.

  “Do you think Pete will be all right?” I ask.

  Adam smiles, and kisses me on the head. “Pete’s tougher than you think.”

  My eyes start to grow heavy, and I close them, lost in a space between dozing and thinking. As my head clears, a piece of knowledge rises to the surface, so sure and so true that it startles me awake:

  You should enjoy this, Erica. It’ll only get worse from here.

  I just assumed it was simple: once Adam started treatment, he would gradually get better. Like taking medicine. Apparently, cancer doesn’t work like that. He just keeps getting worse.

  The first surgery leaves him in the hospital for a week. Rachel and I take turns visiting him, waiting to learn the results. The plan for the surgery was to remove as much of the tumor as possible with a lobectomy, and then as soon as Adam is able, to start him on radiation treatments to kill whatever is left behind. Then, if that doesn’t work, we start immediately on chemotherapy to shrink the tumor and possibly go into surgery again. If he lives that long.

  That first week I spend alternating between hospital visits and quiet meals back at the trailer with Rachel. It’s slightly comforting to stay in Adam’s room. I like that I can be near his things, even if I can’t be with him. Pete adjusts to the new home without nearly as much trouble as he had in my garage, and soon I’m able to let him sleep in the bed with me at night.

  I think I know better how he feels now. We’re both strangers in a strange land, and it will take a while before it feels like home—if it ever does.

  By the end of the week, the news is mixed. Adam is recovering well from the surgery, but the cancer was also in areas that were beyond the reach of the procedure. They schedule radiation and chemo for the following week. The good news is that Adam will get to come home. He’s to rest and recover over the next two weeks, and even then they don’t expect him to have much energy. They emphasize that he’ll be weaker, t
hat we should expect it, and adjust our lifestyles accordingly. Rachel and I are just happy that he gets to come home.

  I end up sleeping on the couch once he returns. He’s still so sore from the surgery that any slight movement in the bed causes him considerable pain. Pete comes with me, to keep me company, but the couch feels even less like home. I feel like a bum overstaying my welcome, even though I know that isn’t true. But being on a couch just makes it feel like I don’t belong here.

  It’s around the time that Adam is well enough to start chemo that he’s also well enough to start hounding me about taking classes.

  School is the last thing on my mind, but we have a deal. I search online and find the local community college. I mention this to my mother, and she is thrilled. She even puts my father on the phone, and he reads off his credit card number so that I can sign up right then.

  “You don’t have to pretend to be so excited,” I tell him. “It’s not Columbia.”

  “Erica,” he says seriously, “an education is an education. It’s important, and you should remember that.”

  I agree with him, mostly to get him to change the subject. But it still feels kind of silly to think about such mundane things when at the same time Adam is in so much pain. I do it though. It’ll make Adam happy.

  *

  The summer passes by, from July to August to September. I begin classes on the same day Adam begins his second round of chemo. Rachel takes off from work to be with him while I’m away, and at school I feel incredibly out of place. Everyone is bright-eyed, chattering and excited for the first day of school. I’m the same age as everyone else, but I feel so much older. I don’t feel like a kid anymore.

  After my first day of classes—a required Literature course and a Calculus class—I take the bus back to the trailer, and spend the hour that Adam is able to stay awake telling him about school. This is what he wants to hear, and it seems to help him more than the pain meds to know that I’m going to be okay on my own.

  We’re able to sleep in the same bed that night. I wake up well past midnight to find him shaking with pain, his body wrapped into a fetal position. His coughing is getting worse.