Never Eighteen

by Megan Bostic

  "Austin, where the hell have you been? Do you know what time it is? And it's a school night," she says, as if I don't know.

  "Sorry, Mom," I say.

  She sees my battered face. "What in God's green earth happened to you?" God's green earth, a phrase spoken only by mothers, and they alone know its secret meaning. She runs over and inspects every scratch, every bruise, every wound. Her touch hurts.

  "Mom," I say, pushing her hands away.

  "Jesus, Austin, who did this to you?"

  "An old friend," I answer trying to be funny.

  "An old friend? I'd hate to see what your old enemies would do to you." I laugh, and upon seeing that I'm really not that damaged, she does as well.

  "You should go to bed," she says.

  "We need to talk."

  "Tomorrow," she says.

  "This is important."

  She stares up into my face for a moment then says, "Hold on a minute." She gets up, heads to the kitchen, and comes back with a glass of red wine.

  "The tone in your voice sounded as if I'd need this." I chuckle. "So talk."

  "I just want to make sure you're okay," I say.

  "Okay? Why wouldn't I be?" she asks.

  "When I'm gone."

  She quiets, breathes, sips. "I don't want to talk about that. Why do we have to talk about that?"

  "I need to know that when the time comes, you'll let me go, move on. I don't want you to give up, to stop living, like Jake's mom."

  "Move on? I'm your mother. You're my only child. How am I supposed to move on? You can't just move on from something like that. I don't want to talk about this."

  We're silent for a moment, then I decide I just need to tell her. "I'm not doing another round of chemo."

  Her eyes widen. At first I'm not sure what I see in them—surprise, yes, but then I think I see anger. No, that's not right. Fear, that's what it is. That fear quickly dissolves though, and she locates her sternest, most I'm-the-mom-I-make-the-decisions voice. "Yes. Yes you are. It's already scheduled."

  I understand why she wants the chemo, but her reasons are selfish. I become frustrated, angry, I raise my voice, "No, I'm not. I don't want to." I begin to cry, and then sink to my knees in front of her and beg, "Please, Mom, let this be my decision. I'm dying. I'm never going to make it to eighteen. My body can't take any more treatment. It's tired. And what's it going to do for me? What did the doctor say? Maybe give me another three or four months."

  "But those are three or four months of you still being here. With me. Don't you want to be here as long as you can?" She's crying with me now. I feel for her, but I have to make her understand how I feel.

  "No, I don't, not like that. Those won't be comfortable, dignified months, no. They will be painful, horrible months spent in a hospital bed where I will be poked and prodded, and sick and miserable. It's not worth it to me for just another couple months of life. It won't be much of a life at all. I'm ready to go, I want to go, but I want to do it on my own terms, in my own house, in my own bed, my family and friends by my side. But I have to make sure you'll be okay."

  She hugs me tightly. Her tears wet my cheeks, drip onto my shirt, sink in. Her lips right next to my ear, she whispers, "I won't be okay. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. I don't want to let you go."

  "It will be okay," I whisper back, for both of us, the tears now flowing freely, like rain.

  She repeats the word no what seems like a million times.

  "It's okay, Mom. It will be okay, I promise."

  "You can't promise what you can't possibly know. Please don't leave me yet, Austin. I don't want to be alone."

  "You won't be alone," I tell her.

  She's listening to my words, but not to what I'm saying. She pulls my head in to her breast, kisses the top of my head. Now her tears stream onto my bare scalp, trickle down my cheek.

  I pull away, grab her shoulders, look in her eyes. "You need to hear me." A confused expression spreads across her dampened face. She stays silent, so I continue. "Everything will be okay. You won't be alone."

  "What do you mean? You're all I have in this world. Without you, it's only me."

  "I've made sure," I tell her.

  "Made sure?" she asks. "What do you mean, made sure?"

  "I told Grandma to call you."

  In a quiet voice she says, "Don't call her that. She's not your grandma."

  "Yes, she is."

  "I hate her."

  "You can't. She's your mother. And whatever she did, I'm sure she's sorry for it. You should forgive her."

  "It's a little too late for that now, don't you think?" she says.

  "No, I don't think that. It's never too late for forgiveness." Mom lets out a deep, echoing sigh. "I think you'll be hearing from her soon. If she comes or calls, promise me you'll hear her out."

  "Well, how can I turn down the request of a dying boy?" She says this quietly still, yet so sharp, it pierces my heart.

  "Ouch," I say.

  "I'm sorry, Austin."

  "You may want to hold your apology."

  "What? On second thought, hang on," she says. She gulps down the remainder of her wine and goes back to the kitchen for another pour. She sits back down, takes another sip, and says, "Go on."

  "I talked to Dad today."

  "Jesus, Austin. Why?"

  "Because you still love him, and you need him," I say.

  "Austin, sometimes things are best left in the past. This is better for both of us."

  "No, it's not. He loves you too, you know."

  "He has a funny way of showing it."

  "You hurt him. Bad."

  She stands up, drops her glass. It tumbles through the air, as if in slow motion, and bounces silently off the carpet, wine splashing and seeping into the beige shag. I look down on it. It reminds me of blood.

  "What did he tell you?" she says, her appearance calm, but her emotions I can tell are roiling right under the surface.

  "He told me a lot, but I pushed him. Like you said, you can't turn down the request of a dying boy," I tell her, smiling.

  "That's not funny," she says.

  "It's not supposed to be, and it's okay. He forgave you a long time ago."

  "Why didn't he ever tell me?"

  "He thought you'd moved on."

  "That's ridiculous. I was miserable, and he just up and left."

  "You didn't stop him."

  "He could have stopped himself," she cries.

  "You broke his heart," I say.

  "Yes, but he broke mine too."

  "But now you can put them back together. You'll need each other. Soon."

  She quiets, picks up the glass and refills it. "Yes, we will."

  "He'll be by. I would bet tomorrow."

  "Oh, you would, would you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Okay, genius, fine. I'll open my home, my mind, my heart, if it will make you happy."

  "It will."

  "I can't make any promises, though. It's been five years," she says.

  "I'm not asking you to."

  We sit quietly, she drinks her wine, I watch. Study. My dad's right. She's beautiful, with shiny black hair; of course, she's grayed a little the last couple years. Her eyes still shine like emeralds, and her skin is fair, like a doll's, but not pale. I've never noticed. I have her eyes; I used to have her hair.

  "You want a snack?" she asks.

  "It's late," I remind her.

  "Yes, but I'm hungry. What do you want?"

  "I'm not very hungry, but I'll stay up with you as long as you let me see your wedding pictures," I say.

  "What?"

  "Your wedding pictures. I want to see them. Dad showed me one with you guys and Elvis. I want to see the rest."

  She smirks. After going over to the ottoman in front of the high-back chair, she lifts the lid. Funny, I guess I never really thought about what was in there. She reaches in, grabs the album, and brings it to me. She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a few crackers and sl
ices of cheese.

  "You have to have cheese and crackers with wine," she says. We sit silently. I flip through wedding pictures while she daintily eats her snack and finishes her wine. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. I think she needs this moment, when we just sit. It doesn't matter if we talk or stay quiet; she just wants to be with me not knowing how much time we have left together.

  I hope she'll be okay, this woman who has been my anchor. I remember she used to cry a lot when I was a kid, out of joy or sadness I'll never know. She always made me feel so warm, so protected, so loved. I want that for her.

  When the last crumb has been licked from her fingers she says, "You should go to bed now. I don't want you skipping school tomorrow."

  We rise and hug, and I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  I examine my cancer-ravaged body in the bathroom mirror. To me, I'm unrecognizable. My now naked scalp used to be covered with thick black curls. My skin, pale from hours of chemotherapy treatment, once looked healthy. This body, thin and weak, used to be strong and fit. I used to be normal, before the cancer. Now I am the cancer. It has coursed through my body, taking over, transforming me into some other being, someone alien.

  I brush my teeth, my fatigue now catching up with me. I'm glad my body allowed me this weekend, kept going, didn't break down. I'm not sure if anything I did these last couple days made a difference. I wanted to reach out, let people know they still have a life to live, something I'll no longer have very soon.

  And Kaylee. I'll die happy knowing she loves me. I wish I'd told her sooner. We could have had more time together, like tonight. I'll take advantage of the time we have left. Every second.

  But first, I need to wrap a few things up, followed by sleep. I take the box I had shoved away up in my closet and place it on my desk. I take the DVD and concert poster that I purchased at the EMP and place them in the box. Removing the camera from my coat pocket, I also put it inside, on top of all my treasures. I sit down at my computer and begin to type.

  "Dear Kaylee."

  After I've said all the things I need to say, I fold the letter, slide it in an envelope, and place it on top of all my stuff, next to the camera. I put the lid back on but leave the box right where it is. Tomorrow I'll take it to Kaylee's and give it to her mother to keep until I'm gone.

  I stare at the box and wonder how I got here. I remember when I found out about the cancer, I was in ninth grade. It didn't really hit me at first. It was like being in a nightmare and thinking at any moment you'll wake up and everything will be fine. It wasn't a nightmare, though, and I didn't wake up.

  It was winter and I'd been sick. Since it was flu season, I thought nothing of it, just figured it would run its course. I hated being sick. Symptoms came and went, but eventually I'd been sick for so long on and off that my mom took me to the doctor.

  After a physical and blood tests, the doctor called me back in for more tests. He said I had leukemia and sent us to an oncologist. More blood tests and bone marrow tests and he diagnosed me with acute myeloid leukemia.

  I began chemotherapy treatment. Chemo sucked. I was in the hospital for nearly three weeks. I hated losing my hair, but the more I looked in the mirror, and the less people stared, the more I got used to it. The chemo made me tired, weak, sick. For months I dealt with it, and it seemed to be working, but then all of a sudden I relapsed. More tests, more drugs, and throw in some spinal taps and they found the cancer was growing again and it had reached my central nervous system. I was dying; there was no doubt in my mind.

  My mom has scheduled me for another round of chemo, but I have resigned myself to the fact that very soon I will no longer be a part of this world. I will be gone and it will have to go on without me. I've accepted that there are so many things I haven't done, seen, and experienced.

  And what about the rest of the world? What will things be like without me? I thought about all the people around me, the people I loved, the people I cared about. What would their lives be like when I was gone? That's when I started to worry. So many people I knew were barely even living their lives. Touched by addiction, violence, or loss, they had in a sense given up. I wanted to do something, to help, in whatever way I could. That's when I decided to take my journey.

  I slip into my pajamas and lie in bed, resting, relaxing, letting my mind drift off. I know my time is short. I'm scared, but I try to hide it. I need to be strong for my family, my friends, especially my mom and Kaylee, but I know it's coming. I can feel it.

  The End...

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I don't get to take that trip to the ocean Kaylee and I had talked about, because without any kind of treatment, the cancer moves quickly and I'm too sick. Instead she comes over and I make her describe in detail what it would have been like, from the car ride, to the weather, to the colors in the sky as the sun is swallowed by the horizon.

  As the cancer progresses, so does the pain. Morphine helps. The doctor has given me up to six months, but within weeks I'm bedridden, too weak to move much at all. Hospice comes in, sets me up with a hospital bed and oxygen tank. They care for me when my mom needs a break: rub my back, bathe me, help me use the toilet.

  The days are long and lonely, with everyone either at work or school. I sleep, listen to music, watch TV, and think about school, wishing I could be there. It's funny, actually wishing to be at school. How many times, sitting there in chemistry or history, did I wish I were somewhere else? Anywhere else.

  I was wrong about my dad. He didn't call the next day. He didn't have to. My mom called him as soon as I went to bed that night. He moved in the next morning. He sleeps in the guest room for now, but it's temporary I'm sure. I think once I'm gone, they'll sell this place and my mom will move in with him, into his cabin in the woods. The memories from this house will be too much for her. Death will linger here.

  Visitors come and go, family and friends, neighbors and teachers. Some mean more to me than others. Mrs. Briggs, Jake's mom, visits only once. The visit is short but significant. She looks better than when I saw her last. There's still sadness about her, but she's livelier, seems happier, halfway back to the Mrs. Briggs I used to know.

  She brings books, pictures, CDs, and photos all having belonged to Jake, things she thinks will hold meaning for me. They do. She wants me to enjoy them while I'm still here. She tells me to pass them to Kaylee or Justin, or whoever I see fit when I'm done. I promise her I will. I can tell the visit is difficult for her. She shakes, fights tears, paces. Watching me die is like losing Jake all over again.

  Trevor and Suz visit together a few times. They bring CDs to listen to, and Trevor reads graphic novels to me. Suz always cries. Trevor doesn't let his secret out before my death, and I take it to the grave as promised. Once he left Suz behind and brought Chris, his boyfriend, instead. He seems nice.

  Justin and Steph come to visit together, though they have broken up yet again. They have a crappy relationship. Maybe they should just break up for good. Steph cries while she's here. Justin says he'll think of me whenever he's on the soccer field.

  Mrs. Davis, Kaylee's mom, and her sisters, Jordanne and Maddie, visit a few times. Mrs. Davis brings me magazines and comic books and always sits quietly holding my hand.

  Maddie sits in the corner trying desperately not to cry, but I know the tears are there, just beyond her pretty blue eyes, eyes not so unlike her sister's. She doesn't speak. I'm sure she's afraid that if she opens her mouth, the tears will flow. She reminds me of her mother, after her dad's death. She's trying to be strong for me. She doesn't have to; I can be strong enough for the both of us.

  Other than the hellos and goodbyes, Jordanne is the only one who speaks when the three of them visit, talking endlessly about school. She sings to me Disney songs, "You've Got a Friend in Me" mostly. They've told her I'm sick, but not that I'm dying. Often she asks how long I'm going to be sick. I hope my death is not too hard for her.

  Yelling echoes throughout the house the first time Peg
gy comes to visit me. Not tended to, the wounds are still raw, like an unbandaged cut. Only a few words drift from the living room, up the stairs, and into my bedroom. I catch a few of them, the most memorable being "busybody," "bitch," and "why."

  After a while the voices calm, then quiet. It's a long time before Peggy shows up to my room, and when she finally does, she's crying. I'm sure the tears are a mixture of joy and sadness. For the sake of my family, I hope I go quickly. I don't like to see them hurting.

  Allie visits a couple times a week. She's letting her hair go back to its natural color, and it looks terrible, with light blond roots and jet black ends. I'm sure it will look fine when it's all grown out. When she comes, she's sober, something I haven't seen in a while. We talk about school, movies, and music. Stupid meaningless stuff. I think she likes to pretend that I'm fine and will be back at school in a day, a week, maybe a month, instead of dead. She kisses me on the forehead every time she leaves.

  Kaylee visits every afternoon. She's taken a leave of absence from work in order to spend every moment outside of school or sleep by my side. We kiss, she reads to me, we hold hands, she lies on my bed next to me, we listen to music together, watch movies. I get to watch Superbad with her two more times before death comes for me. She doesn't laugh as she usually does when we watch it.

  She cries when she thinks I'm not looking. I tell her not to be sad, to do it for me. I know I'm manipulating her, but I have to hear her say she'll be okay before I go. She says she will. I never let her leave without telling her how much I love her, which has become difficult because as the cancer worsens, I never know if it will be the last time I see her.

  The disease has completely taken over my body to the point that I can't move at all. The hospice nurse raises my morphine dosage. My mother thinks the morphine is making me incoherent, killing me. The nurse explains that it's not the morphine but the cancer. My body is shutting down. The morphine makes it as painless as possible, that's all. She stands in the hallway outside my door with my parents and tells them it won't be long now. She thinks I can't hear, but I do, and it doesn't bother me. I didn't lie when I told my mom I was ready.