by James, Ella
“Anyway, that didn’t happen, did it?” he says. “I was fucking bitter after he died. I was here for a while, inpatient. I had left the hospital the day he died. Just took off, onto the subway and shit.”
“Wow.” That’s a big no-no for a bone marrow transplant patient. We can’t even leave this room. Something as minor as a cold could be serious for Kellan right now. Until he gets my marrow and his immune system re-starts.
“I got sick,” he says. From going out on his excursion, he means. He goes on, “Not just from skipping out that day. Before then, too. Ly and I switched places after transplant, see. His took, and he was better fast. Angel marrow,” he murmurs, nuzzling my head with his chin. “Mine wasn’t such a good match, my donor. There was only one 10/10 match for us. Twins, right? And Ly was worse, so he got you.”
I look up at him, bug-eyed. “What?”
“My donor was a German woman,” he explains. “An 8/10 match. Still good, but not you.” His hand comes into my hair. I shake it off.
“You’re telling me I could have helped you last time?”
His lips twist up on one side, in a tired smile. “You mad now?”
“Hell yes. Why didn’t—”
His eyes shut. He interrupts, “It wouldn’t work. We needed marrow at so close to the same time. The more the better, for each patient. Willard didn’t think you’d have enough. And 8/10 isn’t bad. Sometimes it’s fine.”
“But it wasn’t,” I fume.
He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “Yeah. I needed you.”
“You don’t look pissed off!”
“I’m not.”
“So zen.” I look at his face: pale and tired, like usual right now. So fucking hot, my guy. Why is he here?
Before I get a chance to get all philosophical, he rubs his foot against my leg and goes on. “Right about then is when I asked for your info. I was here, just me. Pissed off. And I was going to write you and say ‘Guess what, it didn’t matter, he died anyway,’ but I don’t know…” He shrugs. “I guess I couldn’t.”
I smile softly. “No. Of course you couldn’t.”
His eyes flare a little. “I wrote you more letters.”
“What do you mean?”
He rubs his eyes, looks into mine. “I wrote to you all the time from my family’s cabin. After I got discharged last time, I was so fucked up. My head was fucked. I was up there by myself, until they brought me Truman. I started telling you things, talking to you like you were all I had. I didn’t send that shit. But you’re how I ended up in Georgia. Figured at least one good person was there. Barrett’s stationed there, Ft. Benning, but he’s never stateside.”
“Wow.” My eyes sting as I prop my head in my hand and look up at him. “I didn’t know that. I would never guess. Can I…sometime can I see the letters? The ones you didn’t send me?”
“Yeah. I’ve got them.”
“Here?”
He nods. “Manning sent them. I asked him to.”
That really…makes me feel good. And more secure. As if he really does care for me.
I smile—almost grin. He liked me. Kellan liked me, way back when.
“I’m really glad,” I say. “What are the odds, you know? It’s almost unbelievable that we met at school. That we were both dealing. I’m sorry,” I correct, smirking. “You were supplying and playing Robin Hood, and I was dealing like the bad bitch I am. It’s like one of those cheesy local news stories.”
He nods. “You being a dealer and at Chattahoochee College—that’s some crazy shit. A hell of a coincidence.”
“Because it’s not…”
Chapter Sixteen
Cleo
“What makes the desert beautiful,” said the Little Prince, “is that somewhere it hides a well…”
– Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
September 25, 2014
Today is Kellan’s last day of chemo. Yesterday after we talked, we had our best night here so far. Arethea gave us a chess board, and Kellan was a shark, acting like he felt shitty and then checkmating my sad self in no time flat.
We played three times before bed, and every time, he kicked my ass. And then the lights went out, and we had such a good time. So much better than I ever would have thought would be possible in a hospital.
It wasn’t just what we did—although that was pretty damn good too—it was the time after. Kellan stretched out on his back and pulled me to his chest, and wrapped his arms and leg around me and played with my hair. And as we fell asleep, he made the ASL sign for “I love you” with his hand...and followed it with the sign for “I’m sorry.”
“Kellan—no. You’re not sorry. No sorry. I reject your ‘sorry.’”
He sighed, but I got him to agree. We fell asleep with him more in my arms than me in his. Dr. Willard lowered the dose of steroids he got through the IV overnight, so he slept peacefully and woke up before mid-morning, for once.
He woke me up with a cinnamon roll he ordered for me from a nearby bakery. Unlike the oblivious days at his house, I noticed when he didn’t have any breakfast besides a few sips of the TwoCal.
All morning, he talked to me and touched me and looked at the quotes I wrote inside another batch of origami sparrows. When the PT person came and made him do a shoulder workout, he didn’t complain. When Dr. Willard came in with a bowl of rice and awful gravy, Kellan downed most of it—and then lounged on the bed with a can of Dr. Pepper.
We watched the first episode of Orphan Black sitting side by side, shoulder-to-shoulder, and then Kellan fell asleep leaning against me.
Nice, right?
But not nice. Because about this time, the room phone rings. The transplant unit’s mail person tells me I have a package.
Gotta get it fast. It’s marijuana tincture from Manning.
I slip my Ugg mocs on, strap on a face mask, shimmy my hands into gloves, and walk to the opposite end of the BMT ward. I get my package, and on my way back to the room, I notice a homey little sitting area, where I decide to stop off and call my mom.
She knows nothing about my situation. Just that I came to New York about a week ago. Now that Kellan and I have talked more, I’m feeling braver, so I drop into a leather wing-backed chair and dial her number.
And, surprisingly, I get her.
More surprisingly, instead of telling her a half truth, I tell her the whole damn story. It takes almost an hour and a half, and just as I get up to go—eager to see Kellan again—the phone rings. It’s Cindy from Be The Match, telling me what I already know: my recipient is at Sloan-Kettering Memorial.
I guess some of the stress is definitely starting to ease up now that Kellan’s talking to me some, because I chat with Cindy for a few minutes, telling her how he and I met each other. She says she wants to interview us both for Be The Match’s e-newsletter.
“You have quite a story.”
I agree.
I hustle down the hall, worried about how long I was away, but telling myself I should obviously chill out. The first few days were bad, yes—apparently Kellan had a strong dose of radiation before I arrived, and that made his bone pain much worse—but everything is so much better now.
So of course, as I open the door to our room, I can hear the awful sound of retching. I race to the blue-tiled bathroom and find Kellan curled up on his side between the shower and the toilet, unable to even lift his head as spasms wrack him.
“Kell... oh shit.” I drop down and touch his sweaty back.
“Cleo!”
“Oh. Shhh, baby…” As his shoulders clench and harsh gags echo off the walls, I try to clasp his forehead so his face is off the floor. He pulls away.
“No, don’t.” I gather him against my knees me as he trembles and groans. “Oh baby—” God, I need to get a towel—a “It’s okay…” He manages to stop the heaving, breathing hard and hoarsely. “Can you get up? Let’s get you to the bed.”
I try to help him off the floor and have to page Arethea because he’s so he
avy, so unsteady. The two of us get him up and moving toward the door, but after just one small step, he stops to curl over the sink.
The retching is relentless. There’s nothing in his stomach now but bile, which burns his throat. Arethea starts another anti-nausea drug and gives more Zofran too, and brings wet rags and stickers we put on his wrists.
But nothing really helps. I find myself holding poor, exhausted Kellan by the shoulders, bracing his head against the bed rail as he gets sick so many times, he actually starts to drop off to sleep between dry-heaves.
I clean his face and throat, and wash hair. Arethea brings another bag of the offending chemo.
“The last one,” she offers sadly.
Kellan rouses around midnight. When he tries to talk, his eyes spill tears.
“Damn it. I’m so sorry...”
I spoon a shard of ice into his mouth, then drop the spoon in my lap.
“Holy shit! I’m such an idiot.”
The package I originally left the room to get is the marijuana tincture, one Manning told me Kellan made himself, for chemo patients.
I call Arethea in, propose a plan, and when she doesn’t come back for an hour, I know I’ve been given my signal. She asked Dr. Willard, who felt no bad would come of it. It’s permission, if not an actual endorsement.
I give Kellan two droppers full and after that, he sleeps.
* * *
He wakes up in the early afternoon on the official “rest day,” and blinks at the ceiling. I can tell he’s high, and not from Morphine or one of its icky derivatives, but from good ole fashioned reefer.
His face is looser. He’s more apt to smile. Like when he sees the origami sparrows shivering over us.
“Birds,” he whispers. “Lot of birds.” He blinks at me, a little smirk on his face. “I want to... get up,” he whispers.
I help him out of bed, and we walk to the window. I can feel him trembling.
“You want to try to get a shower? You sit down in there? I’ll help you?” He nods, taking a handful of my hair and looking down at it.
I giggle. “High Kellan. Sit here in this desk chair first and let me change the sheets again.”
I put on the Batman sheets I bought him, just for fun, and then we get into the shower. He holds onto my shoulder, and I bathe him carefully. By the time we’re ready to get out, he’s pressing his dick against my thigh. His eyes are dark with desire.
He takes my hand as we walk to the bed. He hands a condom to me—one of the flavored ones I bought—and I smile. “Yeah?”
He nods, and works his pants down chiseled hips.
“God, your dick is beautiful. If you want this, I can’t wait to give it to you.”
I roll the rubber over him and suck him into my mouth. After a few thrusts, a few sharp moans, he stops me.
“Not feeling well?”
He shakes his head and puts a hand on my arm. “I don’t want to come,” he whispers. “I don’t want to fall asleep.”
“Why don’t you want to? Sleep is good.”
He shakes his head and pulls me down beside him on the mattress. “I don’t like it. I can’t feel you there.”
Chapter Seventeen
Cleo
The marijuana tincture is a game-changer. After a long night’s sleep, Kellan wakes up feeling good. He seems so comfortable and happy when the doctors do their morning rounds, Willard decides to cut back sharply on the remaining IV painkillers. After a pancake breakfast he attacks with comical enthusiasm, Kellan nods off in the recliner, thumbing through The Wall Street Journal. I use the quiet time to sit on the love seat near the window and have a text with my sister.
Around lunch time, I move over to the bed and bring my laptop out. I’m combing through my list of favorite quotes when Kellan’s eyes flip open.
“Cleo, fuck. My dick…” He blinks around the room, looking dizzy. His gaze smashes into mine. “Is this a wean?”
“A what?” I slide down off the bed and stand over his chair.
He reaches for my hand and brings it down to his cock, which even through the cotton of his pants, is so hard I can almost feel his pulse in it.
“Dilaudid,” he rasps. “When they cut it back, I get these crazy fucking boners. I need to be inside you…now.”
His eyes are dazed from all the tincture he’s been taking. I grab a condom and urge him over to the bed, where he sprawls out on his back and draws his knees up. I can see his thick erection straining at his pants.
I rub my palm over the bulge and Kellan grabs my shoulders. “Fuck…please. Now.”
I giggle, cupping his balls. Kellan squeezes me between his knees and thrusts toward my face.
I throw the sheet over us, and, crawling in between his legs, I press my breasts against his cock as I untie his pants and draw them slowly down his hips.
His cock pops out, pointing straight up. I feel a throb of warmth between my own legs as I notice the pre-cum pearled over his little slit.
I touch my tongue to it and work his pants a little farther down.
“Shit.” He grips my shoulder, and I kiss his dick.
He groans. I plant my hand around his thick base, leaving his pants bunched underneath his heavy balls. I know I’m mean, but I love it. If he tries to writhe around, he’ll be restrained a little.
I suck his head into my mouth and start to lick around the rim. He moans and rocks his hips, forcing his thick rod down my throat. His head and shaft are pulsing as I take him deeper…move back up.
“Fuckkkk...” Just two times deep-throating him, and his legs are trembling. One more and I can feel him swell and tighten in the condom.
“Mmmmm.” I hum, and Kellan pants like he is running.
“Cleo…” I can feel how thick he is, how hard, how tight the rubber is under my tongue. He grabs my head and holds me down, filling my throat with so much dick, I’m gagging and my eyes sting.
“Jesus…Cleo… Ahh.” He thrusts, his ass lifting off the bed. His thighs quiver… He’s moaning like it hurts, except I know it doesn’t.
Damn, his cock is sexy buried in my throat. I love the way his balls draw even tauter as I tickle them. I run my fingertip along the seam and Kellan barks. A little half thrust and he’s gone, exploding in the rubber, pulling at my hair.
“Oh God…oh fuck!”
I run my tongue around him as he quakes beneath me.
“Fuck.” He strokes my hair. He grabs my jaw. “Look up here.”
I do, and find his eyes earnest. His cheeks are stained crimson. I stroke his thigh.
“You like that, baby?”
“Fuck yes.” He tugs my shoulder. “Get up here. Come lie beside me. Spread those legs.”
I do, and he fingers my pussy so expertly I’m biting at his chest to keep from screaming. With his fingers buried in me, Kellan starts to pant.
I reach for him and feel how hard his cock is. “Like a rock,” I murmur. He thrusts into my hand.
I stroke him. He fills me with his fingers, swirls his thumb around my clit. I come stroking his hard, hot cock. As I pulse around his fingers, Kellan jets into my hand.
Afterward, he’s still half hard. I laugh. “Are you serious with this?”
“I told you.” His eyes are wide and brighter than I’ve seen them in days. “All day. Tomorrow too. Is tomorrow the rest day?”
“Tomorrow is your first day after transplant, K.”
“Fuck. So that’s today.” He wraps a tissue around himself. I move his hand and clean his thighs.
“Too stoned to keep track of the days,” I tease him. “It’s okay. I’ve been taking my pre-donation meds, and I feel fine. I’m all ready. In fact, I think I’m supposed to get a shower.”
He’s quiet as we walk into the bathroom. I start the water, strip my clothes off, and pretend not to lust after his gorgeous man meat as he drops his pants. I catch his eyes flick to his reflection in the mirror before I help him remove his shirt, while being mindful of the IV lines. The left side of his ches
t is still bruised. Shoulder too.
He’s leaner. Leaner in the legs and hips. He’s still wide up top, but it’s a different kind of top-heavy. His arms are more sinewy, his shoulders squarer.
“Mmm,” I kiss his bicep, “that’s a .gif right there.”
He rocks himself against my leg and wraps his hand around my breast. “You’re a .gif. I need a file for when you’re not around.”
“I’ll always be around.”
I strip out of my clothes. He whistles. I move the IV bag to its hook inside the shower and we step in, clutching each other.
I giggle at his dick.
He smiles a little, looking tired around the eyes.
“You feel okay?” I touch his forearm.
“I like being with you.” An earnest answer. Thank you, marijuana. His hungry hands wash me. He fingers me again until I come under the shower spray. Then he strokes himself until his lids are low, his nipples taut.
“Why are you still here?” he asks as he works his cock.
I grab his balls and kiss his chest. “Because when we get out, I get to take this home.” I grin. He smiles a little. “What a horny boy, and feeling so good too. Why don’t you sit down on this bench?”
He does so without question. I climb up on his lap and sink down on his tortured cock. We come fast, both gasping. We step out onto the rug together, tangled in each other. I dry myself and then help him.
He leans down so I can dry his hair, and when I rub the towel over it, it comes away in patches.
He lets me shave his head with shears I ordered for this very day, and when I present him with the soft gray beanie hat I ordered on my second day here, he shuts his eyes and pulls me up against him. His lips move gently over my cheek.
He sits by the windows as the sun goes down. After a few minutes cleaning up the room and rearranging the pillows and covers, I join him on the little love seat, which we have pointed toward the window.
“So…no hair,” he murmurs.