by Julia Whelan
My steps falter. William tightens his grip on my waist, keeping me moving. I try to breathe through my astonished anger. You don’t often get blindsided in slow motion.
“I understand the appeal of lineage,” he murmurs. “Privilege. Access. Believe me. We’re more alike than you realize. My father, too, was a barman.”
My heart nearly explodes out of my chest. How does he know this?
“We both know the embarrassment of a meager upbringing.”
Instantly, my hackles go up. “I am not embarrassed by my father.”
“Had he lived longer you very well might have been.”
I stop dancing and move to wrench my hand out of William’s grasp. His grip turns to iron and he bites out, “Keep dancing, Eleanor. We shouldn’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”
He’s right. I can feel the eyes on us, the curious stares. I seethe as we continue to dance. Face to face. Eye to eye. I silently dare him to say more. He finally continues. “What I mean to say is that we can understand each other. We have both suffered a significant loss in our lives—”
“We’re not going to talk about my father.” My voice is steel. “William.” I call him by his first name because if he can talk to me like this then I can dispense with the formality bullshit. “Just because you somehow have some facts about my life doesn’t mean you know me. Or what I feel for your son. I have no interest in your money. Or you, for that matter.”
“You feel for my son, do you?” The word “feel” oozes disdain. “You have inserted yourself into the very thick of our lives. But you are transient, a squatter in our house. We, Antonia and I, are here for the duration. We are responsible for our son’s life. For his life. Do you hear? Listen carefully. You don’t take a son, an ill son, my-unfortunately-only son away from his mother for Christmas. You don’t tell a father who’s been down this blasted road before that you’re ‘handling it.’ You are fleeting. You, dear girl, are a distraction. A potentially fatal one. Can you live with that? Is it worth it? Riding in crested limousines and going to balls in yellow frocks and having your poor man’s grand tour? Is it worth my son’s life?”
I take a steadying breath. He’s being brutally unfair and insulting, but I understand where he’s coming from. If I were in his position I’d be worried about the sudden appearance of a girl in my wealthy, dying son’s life as well. In retrospect, I can’t believe I didn’t expect this response from him. The unexpected response is actually Antonia’s effusive welcoming.
I center myself, mentally editing what I really want to say. The ugly thing I want to say.
But then I look into his eyes, and I see the deadness there, the smugness, the righteousness, everything Jamie constantly battles when he shouldn’t have to—when he should just be assured of his father’s love—and it makes me angry. And I say the ugly thing anyway. “You know, it’s funny. I didn’t understand how Jamie could have such little regard for his own father. Until now.”
William’s face instantly reddens. Those dead eyes spark to life. “Who do you think you are?” he seethes. “I have already lost one son. I do not intend to lose another.”
As if a glamour had magically dropped away, I suddenly see how ravaged he looks. His eyes moisten with angry, frustrated tears, which I know must embarrass him. It softens me a bit. Just a bit. “You don’t get it. If Jamie wants to do chemo, I’ll sit with him. If he wants to do stem cells, I’ll wait for him. If he wants to swim with dolphins, I’ll get my towel. This isn’t about me. It’s Jamie’s choice, not mine. You have to let—”
“I have to let those choices be guided by an artful little girl who hasn’t the faintest bloody idea what she’s talking about? No, sweetie, I don’t believe I must.”
And I no longer care about appearances. I’m done dancing. I start to pull away, but he tightens his hold on my waist. “Wait—”
“No, sweetie, I don’t believe I must,” I hiss, pulling away from him and leaving the dance floor. William immediately follows. He won’t be left standing alone. The illusion only works if we both leave at the same time.
I’m almost to the safety of the ladies’ room when I feel William right behind me. His voice, though quiet, cuts sharply through the din, right at my ear. “Are you listening to me?”
I bang into the restroom and say, over my shoulder, “No. And neither is Jamie.”
Chapter 22
Madam Life’s a piece in bloom
Death goes dogging everywhere:
She’s the tenant of the room,
He’s the ruffian on the stair.
William Ernest Henley, “IX–To W.R.,” 1877
We’re about thirty miles outside of Oxford when Jamie says to me, for the hundredth time, “You have your passport?”
I take a moment, as if I’m thinking about it. Then I sit forward suddenly, straining against the seat belt, frantically patting the pockets of my jeans and jacket. “Oh no!”
Jamie tries to stay calm. His eyes snap to me. I raise a wry eyebrow. He exhales wearily and faces forward again. “Not the first time I’ve asked?”
“Not even close.”
“Sorry,” he mutters.
We call this “chemo brain,” his uncharacteristic forgetfulness. Sometimes it’s as simple as not remembering he’s already asked a question; sometimes it’s hours of not being able to locate his keys only to open the refrigerator and find them sitting next to the cream that’s still in a grocery bag.
I reach over and playfully tousle his hair. When I pull my hand back, I notice a few strands on my fingers. Jamie’s final round of treatment was three days ago and I know he feels more ill than he’s letting on. Still, there’s an air of victory in the car, and we couldn’t be doing anything better for him, for us, than driving through the countryside to Dover to catch a ferry to France.
We’re still going away for the holidays.
While locked inside a bathroom stall at Blenheim, I thought long and hard about telling Jamie everything that had transpired between William and me. I decided absolutely not. Not only do I refuse to throw more logs on whatever fire smolders between William and Jamie, but I also refuse to play any part in manipulating Jamie’s choices. It would have been playing directly into William’s hand, and that’s not how this is going to work. Not on my watch.
So I downed a glass of champagne and danced with Jamie until he said he was “rather tired” and we left. Jamie located Antonia—who was luckily a good distance from William—and gave her a kiss good-bye. She then turned that warm, smiling, welcoming face to me and insisted that I take her card, call her, and she’d take me to tea. I put her number in my phone, but haven’t called her yet. Because one thing William said stuck with me: that I am, to a certain extent, a transient. I don’t know the history between William and Jamie, I don’t know why things have deteriorated as they have, and I won’t be here to deal with the fallout. I’ll be pulling up stakes eventually.
So if Jamie’s fine not being with his parents for the holidays, then so am I. In fact, I’m excited. So excited.
We’re starting in Normandy for two days, then heading to Paris for four. Then we’ll head south, into Jamie’s beloved wine country, and end up along the Riviera for New Year’s. Every time I say this (out loud or to myself, doesn’t matter), I giggle. Legitimately giggle. After New Year’s, we’ll decide where we go for the next two weeks. No plans, just wandering. Perhaps Switzerland, or down into Italy, where it’ll be warmer. I’m game for anything.
I look out my window at the passing scenery. Beautiful. Rolling green hills dotted with oak trees and fluffy sheep. There’s a fine winter mist caressing everything. The sky is broken up into pockets of light gray and stormy blue, like a quilt. “I love this,” I murmur. “This country is a novel come to life. It’s timeless. It’s rugged and slightly wild, but elegant, too. Hmm, sounds like someone I know,” I tease. Jamie doesn’t respond. “Hey, you wanna stay in your lane, buddy?” We’re starting to inch over the solid white line of the motorway�
�s shoulder. A slight curve in the road puts us solidly over it. “Jamie, seriously.” I glance over and find that his face has gone ghost white, his eyes hooded, a sheen of sweat covering his brow. “Jamie?”
His head drops to his chest.
“Jamie!” I shout, lunging for the wheel. He startles awake, but just as quickly drops out again. “Jamie, brake! Brake!” He jerks his head up and pounds his foot onto the floor, missing the brake. Instinctively, I grab the wheel with one hand while lifting his foot onto the brake pedal with the other, the car kicking up gravel on the shoulder. I press down on his leg as hard as I can and we start slowing, but not quickly enough. I yank up the emergency brake. We skid to a stop in a cloud of dust.
Jamie flops forward like a rag doll.
I unbuckle my seat belt and grab him, taking his head in my hands and forcing him to look at me. “Jamie!” He mumbles something that sounds like “sorry.” I keep a hand on his chest to brace him upright and dig into my back pocket for my phone. “Jamie. Jamie! Stay awake! Please!” He attempts to speak, but his head falls to his chest again.
I gently lean him against the driver’s-side window. “It’s okay, it’ll be okay!” Hands shaking, I start to dial 911, but stop myself. Shit! Is 911 the emergency number in this country? How do I not know this?! How can I have a boyfriend with cancer and not know how to call for help?! Idiot!
I start slapping the side of Jamie’s face, staccato little strikes, trying to wake him. “Jamie, Jamie!” His eyes open. Barely, but open. “How do I call an ambulance?” He mumbles something. “An ambulance, Jamie! How do I call?!” I slap him again. Harder this time.
“Nine-nine-nine . . . and stop. Slapping.” And out he goes again, this time with the faintest of smiles.
“Funny,” I croak. “Jerk.” But it gives me a momentary reprieve from my panic as I dial. When I have the phone to my ear, I grab one of his hands and bring it to my mouth, kissing it. “Everything’s gonna be okay, just try to breathe. All right?” My heart has left my chest. It’s flopping around on the floorboards. “Don’t worry. Help is coming. Stay with me, Ja—Yes, hello!”
Just as I connect to the dispatcher, Jamie faintly squeezes my hand. I look up into his eyes, searching. “Don’t call my parents,” he breathes with his last bit of strength.
Then he passes out for good.
Chapter 23
Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been, things remain.
Arthur Hugh Clough, “Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth,” 1862
You can do this. It’s just a car.
A car that probably costs more than my entire education, but, still, a car.
A car with everything reversed. Like a goddamn fun house.
I check the mirrors yet again, automatically and absently reaching to the right for the shifter. Instead, my hand hits the door.
Jesus. Focus.
When the paramedics had asked me if I wanted to follow, I had nodded. Why did I nod? Because I’d needed to feel useful. They said the hospital was only three miles away. I can do anything for three miles.
But now the ambulance’s lights are flashing and the siren comes on and it’s go time. I depress the clutch and, with my left hand, shift into drive. I follow the ambulance back onto the motorway and we slowly pick up speed. The transmission grinds and I cringe.
As if driving a stick for the first time since I learned to drive on my aunt’s old Volkswagen Beetle wasn’t bad enough, driving on the opposite side of the road, sitting on the opposite side of the car, takes every single ounce of attention. The problem is, I don’t have an ounce left. Every part of my mind is consumed with Jamie. What signs did I miss? Is this normal? Is he all right? Is this just a glimpse of things to come?
We have to switch lanes and my eyes instinctively glance up and to the right, seeing nothing but the patchy clouds. Forcibly, I look left, to the rearview mirror.
I’m not cut out for this. I’ve never been around illness before. I’m useless. And for whatever reason, I’m the only one Jamie wants near him.
And I’m leaving.
Someone will have to take care of Jamie when I’m gone. Whether he wants to admit it or not, as he gets progressively worse, he’s going to need more help. It’s a fact. Decisions are going to have to be made.
Jamie’s going to need his family.
Oh God. A roundabout. White-knuckled, I follow the ambulance through it.
This is how crisis works, I think. In one instant, priorities can change.
Beliefs can reverse.
Somehow, some way, his relationship with his parents has to be fixed. I can’t leave him, come June 11, like this, like some animal slinking off into the woods to die alone.
Miraculously, we’ve made it to the hospital. The ambulance driver sticks her hand out the window and points at the adjacent, nearly empty parking lot. We’re somewhere in the wilds of Kent and it appears that we’re pretty much alone in the world.
Even without having to navigate around other cars, I swing too wide into the parking spot, and end up straddling the line. Screw it. Let them ask me to move. I’ve parked right in front of a sign that cautions no overnight parking and I think, Oh God, I might have to drive at night. With Jamie in the car.
Distracted, I turn off the Aston and open my door, stepping out into the crisp winter air. The distant sound of a train whistle reminds me, for the first time, of the ferry we’re not catching. Should I call the company? I don’t have the number. I’ll look it up on my—
The ground moves beneath my feet. An optical illusion. In reality, the car is rolling forward. “Shit!” I leap back into the car and yank the brake. But not before the Aston rolls into the “No Overnight Parking” sign, tipping it backward thirty degrees with a mournful creak.
I drop my head onto the center console. I don’t even want to look at the bumper. I take a deep breath.
Knowing what I have to do, I pull out my phone.
“I AM SO bloody sorry,” Jamie mutters yet again as I arrange and fluff a pillow behind his back, doing my best to make him comfortable on the couch in the drawing room.
“If you didn’t want to go you should have just said so,” I joke. “You didn’t have to pull a stunt like this.”
He sighs heavily with the faintest sound of a laugh.
Anemia. Severe anemia. Turns out he’d been feeling faint and lethargic for the past week, he just didn’t tell anyone (i.e., me). Before we left this morning, he’d been dragging, which I’d noticed but thought was just a side effect from the chemo. Or maybe I just didn’t want to notice. He didn’t tell me he’d nearly passed out in the shower. I feel horrible, as if this were my fault. Was I being selfish, or stupid, or . . . ?
The doctors had wanted to give him a blood transfusion, which would have involved staying in the hospital and had potential repercussions that made his oncologist nervous. Plan B was a series of shots that encourage the body to create more of its own red blood cells. Which is great. Except it’ll take two weeks before they can tell if there’s any improvement. So Jamie’s relegated to the couch. Indefinitely. We’ve been home for about an hour and so far Jamie’s really pissed and I’m really disappointed and both of us feel guilty about the way we’re feeling.
That’s as far as we’ve gotten.
“There’s no point in you being here. You should go,” he says.
I stop my fussing. “Go where?”
“On holiday, you dolt!”
“Don’t call me that!” I snap, nerves beyond frayed. The teasing grin on Jamie’s pale face instantly drops, and I take a breath. “I’m sorry. About everything, okay? I should have realized you weren’t—”
“No, please. Stop right there. You feel bad, I feel bad, but we will not plague each other with guilt. It’s an absurd emotion, reserved for those who we fear might feel less than they ought.” He looks in my eyes. �
��You and I, we carry on. If we stop, it is to only catch our breath. Well, breath caught.”
“Jamie, I’m not leaving you.”
He groans slightly. “You have our itinerary, everything’s confirmed. Please.” I straighten and sigh. He takes my dangling hand. “I couldn’t live with myself if you didn’t get to travel because of this.”
“So much for no guilt, huh?” I tease. He rolls his eyes. “We still have the Easter vac in March. It’s not a big deal.”
“No, Ella.” He sweeps a hand over himself. “This is not a big deal. I simply overexerted, that’s all. By the time you get back in a month, I’ll be right as rain.”
He looks so much like a little boy right now—optimistic, vulnerable, and so completely untethered from reality—that tears spring to my eyes. Tears that I turn away from him to hide. “We’ll see.”
He tugs my hand, urges me look at him. “Carry on. Yeah?”
Before I can reply, there’s a knock at the door. “That’s the food, be right—Sit!” I bark incredulously when he moves to get up. Worst patient ever.
We’d ordered Indian food as soon as we got home. I can’t vouch for Jamie’s appetite, but I’m starving. All I want is a huge bowl of rice and tikka masala and approximately fourteen pieces of naan. I reach into my pocket for some money and open the door, muttering “Sorry, I don’t have anything smaller than a fifty—” I screech to a halt.
Antonia.
And William.
Antonia exudes calm, but her face is etched with worry. “My dear girl, how are you? Is he all right?”
“Yes, yes, he’s fine.” Then, reflexively, we throw our arms around each other. I don’t know who initiated it, but it causes me to tear up again. I had long since forgotten the relief and comfort a mother can bring to a situation. I’m shocked to discover how much I needed it. “I’m fine,” I breathe into her hair. “I just wasn’t expecting—”
“You’ll pardon me.” William pushes past us, his impatience as obvious as his anger. “James?”