“You aren’t going anywhere.” He grins. I grin right back. It almost feels like old times. Except for the teensy-weensy fact that he’s wearing a hospital gown, it’s attached to an IV, and he looks so, so tired.
I lay my head on his chest, and hear him breathe out a sigh of contentment.
We both needed this. The sense of being close, of physical contact.
Of love.
“How’s school going?” he asks.
“Ugh, don’t talk about school.”
My attendance this semester has been poor. I’m barely passing my classes, and some I know I’m failing. It makes me sick to think about it. But how could I possibly bear to be away from him when he needs me?
“Are your parents coming back today?” I ask.
“Yes.”
They were out here last month, when he was first hospitalized. They were exactly the way he described them. Not mean, exactly, but cold and aloof. They tried to convince him to come back to Ontario for treatment, but he refused.
“This is completely unacceptable,” Mrs. Page had said. She is a striking woman. Aaron looks so much like her.
“You’re coming home, Aaron. You can get better treatment there.”
“Mom.” He sighed, frustrated. “I’m in the end stages now. They can’t do anything different for me than they’re already doing here. Besides, I’m too ill to travel.”
She stared at him for a moment. I could see pain and concern etched into her features. And, perhaps, a bit of disappointment too.
“I see.” That was all she said to him.
I don’t begrudge them being here. Aaron is their son, after all. Their visit just felt so tense, and I felt awkward being there. I hope this afternoon goes better.
I run my fingers over his tattoos, tracing each word. On the left forearm:
The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
The words that once were so beautiful to me now seem cryptic. His right arm is wrapped tightly around me, but I don’t need to see it. I know the words by heart.
The true paradises are the paradises that we have lost.
I remember him telling me about the tattoos on his arm representing the Garden of Eden:
“I chose it because it represents perfection. What life could have been, before corruption. It’s about wanting an ideal, but never ever being able to attain it. About what life could have been, and should have been, but can never be. It’s bittersweet, and for that reason, it’s beautiful.”
I think about what life could be, what it should be. Even though he’s still in my arms, I’m heartbroken.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he whispers between my snuffling.
“Your tattoos…they rip me up.”
“What?”
I explain my feelings. Every now and then, I feel a hot tear from his face fall onto my forehead.
“There’s one thing that’s good,” he eventually says.
“How could anything good come out of this?”
“Let’s say I was going to get cancer, no matter what. Even though I’m pissed off that I’m sick, I would rather go through it with you than alone. I would rather die knowing that I loved someone with all my heart, and that she loved me back. I never knew…” He chokes up.
“Shh…it’s okay,” I cry. “You don’t have to tell me any more.”
“Yes. I do.” He laces his fingers with mine. “Before you, Sophie, I didn’t think anyone could love me for me. I knew my parents loved me, in their own way, I knew girls looked at me, and thought I was good-looking. But you see me. And love me anyway.”
“It’s impossible to not love you. You’re too wonderful.”
His laugh is a broken chuckle, as if it had forced its way through a sob.
“That’s why you’re the girl for me. I always knew I would be with you, Sophie. One way or another.”
I sigh, remembering. “That day at the nursing lab.”
“No, that wasn’t it.”
I prop myself up and turn to look at him. “It wasn’t?”
“No. It was the day before our classes started. I was walking around campus, feeling very bored and lonely in a new city. And then I saw the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on.”
I snuggle into his chest and smile.
“You looked completely edible, standing there in your cutoffs and Rolling Stones T-shirt. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
“Please don’t tell me you saw what I did next,” I say.
“That was the best part! I watched you and Sam join in with those belly dancers, wearing all the bright colors and coin hip scarves. You looked so alive, so free. And sexy,” he says, while tickling my ribs. “After that, I just knew.”
New happy tears spring into my eyes, and I gaze into his beautiful pale green ones.
“Don’t you see, Soph?” he pleads, “Even in my darkest hell, with you here, it feels like heaven.”
Tears spill out of my eyes, and we kiss. In that kiss, we pour out all of our hearts and emotions, all things said and unsaid.
“Hey,” I hear Samira quietly say from the doorway.
We glance at her, and our foreheads naturally lean toward each other’s.
Sam’s eyes light up, and she digs out her camera.
“Don’t move.”
Chapter 22
Paint It Black
June 28, 2009
I’m sitting on my bed in Samira’s house, staring at the wall. I’ve decided to stay here for the summer, as school will start again in a few short weeks.
I can’t believe that Aaron…
Tears blur my vision, and my brain is smothered in a thick cloud. He’s the only thing I can think about. The time we shared together, the plans we made.
And it’s all gone.
His last few days are on a constant repeat in my mind.
This was supposed to be one of the best years of my life. I glance out the window, staring blankly at the leafy trees and warm sunshine.
It’s summer. And all I feel is cold and numb.
A Week Before…
I walk into Aaron’s hospital room and see his parents sitting beside the bed, their chairs pulled up so close that their knees touch the mattress.
His eyes are closed; he’s deep in sleep. He’s been sleeping a lot lately.
I pad quietly toward his bed, and lay my hand over his.
It’s cold. But he’s breathing. I’ll take what I can get.
I squeeze his fingers and smile sadly at his sleeping face. I feel a pair of eyes latch onto me. Aaron’s mom, Martine, is staring at me, her eyes like emerald fire.
“I suppose it comes as no surprise that I am not your biggest fan,” she breathes out, her words colored with a slight French accent.
“I-I’m,” I stammer, not sure of how to respond.
She holds a hand up. “You see, if it weren’t for you,” she explains, “he would’ve come home and received better treatment. He could’ve lived.” She leans forward, enunciating each word.
“It’s. All. Your. Fault.”
I can’t breathe. She’s found the most vulnerable part of me and thrust a dull, rusty knife right into the center of it.
“It was too late when he finally went to the doctor,” I croak. “The specialist said it was inoperable, and the chemo and radiation didn’t even touch the tumor. Believe me, I tried everything I could, I encouraged him to go see a doctor in the first place…”
I’m talking a mile a minute.
I’m trying to explain my way out of it, trying to rationalize everything.
Because, on the inside, deep down in my soul, I feel like it really is my fault.
I could have noticed the symptoms sooner.
I could have made him see a doctor sooner.
Coulda, woulda, shoulda.
And now it’s too late.
Some rational part of my brain reminds me that Martine is angry, and is just taking it out on me. But the emotional side of
me feels like she might be right. Aaron’s dad, Gerald, says nothing, but regards me coolly. Although he’s retired from the army, he looks as though he could have stepped off the army base yesterday.
I stop my wild, hysterical speech when I notice Aaron’s eyes flutter open.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I whisper, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Martine mutters something in French.
Aaron jerks his head to the side and snaps something in French back at her. Her eyes widen fractionally, and she leans back in her chair. Gerald lets out a low grunt, and folds his arms. Aaron turns back to me and offers me my favorite wolfish grin. And for a brief moment, everything of the past six months disappears.
What did he say? Was he defending my honor?
I guess I’ll never know.
We all spend a strained afternoon together, and toward supper time, I offer to pick up some food. In the hospital corridor, I walk silently behind Martine and Gerald. They don’t even give me a cursory glance.
Don’t they understand that I really, truly love their son? That I want the best for Aaron too, and that my heart is breaking right along with theirs?
I need to tell them.
Butterflies are beating on my stomach from the inside out.
“Martine?” I say quietly.
She pauses, but doesn’t turn around.
“I want you to know that I love Aaron. With all of my heart. And nothing will ever change that.”
Her body remains perfectly still; the air around us is thick and heavy with things unsaid. She finally walks away. When she turns the corner, I swear I can hear muffled sobs.
—
That scene and other sad images color my thinking.
In the end, Aaron died peacefully. The docs and nurses kept him comfortable. He never seemed to be in any pain. His breathing became ragged and thready, slowly tapering off until…
And that was it.
Staring outside, I see a group of young women walk past the front of Samira’s house. They’re wearing either colorful maxi dresses or bright tank tops and shorts. They’re all smiling and laughing, so delighted with their perfect little lives.
How can they be so happy when my life is falling to pieces?
A surge of hatred lashes out of me, and I force myself to stare at the floor instead.
Lyrics from “Paint It Black” pop into my head. I frantically tear apart my room, looking for my CDs. I have never wanted, no…needed, to listen to a song as much as I do now. I plug it into the player and keep the song on repeat for the remainder of the day. Even though I’ve heard it a million times, it feels like I’m listening to it for the first time.
Certain lines affect me more than others. They feel like a slap to the face, a cold shard of glass in my chest.
I know it sounds cheesy, but I feel like this song was written for me.
Oh God, why did this have to happen? My eyes, my soul, my everything, feel so heavy. I crash onto the bed, and fall into a deep, black sleep.
—
“Wake up.”
My eyes flick open, and I see my mother leaning over me. Aunt Alex is standing on the other side of the room, looking at the pictures on my wall.
There are some of Sam and me, some of family, but they’re mostly of Aaron. I hope she doesn’t touch them. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask testily. My mom raises a single eyebrow, and I instantly regret my semi-outburst.
She sits down beside me on the bed, her long blond hair out of its strangled ponytail hold for once. “I was coming to see you tomorrow anyway, but Ravi called.”
I sit up a bit straighter. “Ravi? As in Samira’s dad Ravi?”
“Yes. He said he’d listened to ‘Paint It Black’ on repeat for twelve hours. He said either we check on you or he was going to smash your stereo.”
Oops.
Did I really sleep all night with that song playing? It felt good, soothing even, to hear words that so closely echoed my own heart.
But I didn’t intend for anyone to worry about me any more than they already are. Everyone has been hovering, asking how I’m doing, how I’m coping, what my plans for the future are, if I want to see a counselor…
I can’t even think past the idea of having a shower today, let alone anything heavy.
“Are you okay, honey?”
I well up and sob into my hands. “What do you think?”
Mom wraps an arm around my shoulder. Even though I’ve been pushing people away, wanting space, it feels comforting having my mother’s arms around me. I wish I could be the size of a toddler again, so I could fit in her lap and feel completely protected and safe.
I notice Alex looking at us sadly, and then down at the small table wedged in the corner of my room.
The table is a disaster. Strewn with odds and ends that Aaron’s roommates brought over. Old T-shirts, essays he’d been working on, some of his books. And, perhaps the largest pile of all, a thick stack of peanut butter and jam jar labels.
He saved every single one of them.
It may look like a big pile of junk, but to me, that pile of junk is priceless.
Alex picks up the stack of labels and, not knowing what they mean to me, leans toward the overflowing garbage can in the corner of my room.
“NO!” I yell. I dash over and wrench the stack of plastic and paper from her hands, clutching it to my chest.
She and my mom stare at me.
“They…they’re important to me,” I say.
“Soph,” Alex begins, “I know you’re going through a rough time but, what was that all about?”
Anger knocks hard and fast in my chest and spreads out like a virus.
“They were Aaron’s,” I snap. “It was sort of a private joke between us.”
Her expression softens, and she exchanges a pointed look with my mother.
“What?” I demand.
“Well, sweetie, it’s just that…well…”
My mother shoots a pleading look at Alex.
“Dude, you’re acting like Weird Aunt Martha,” Alex explains.
That gets my attention.
Weird Aunt Martha was Mom and Alex’s great-aunt. She never married, never had any kids, and loved this Jack Russell terrier of hers named Pom-Pom.
Well, one day, Pom-Pom got old and died.
Rather than burying him or cremating him, she took his carcass to a taxidermist. Forever after he stood on all fours, as in real life, with the most fake-looking black eyes staring out.
Very creepy.
When Weird Aunt Martha sat down to watch the evening news, she would scoop up Pom-Pom’s rigid body, lay him across her lap, and pet him as she did every night for the fifteen years he was alive. It was heartbreaking, really.
And they’re comparing me to her?
“I am not just like Weird Aunt Martha,” I say.
“Fine. You’re Martha-esque.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Alex gestures around the room. “Your room is like a shrine. Are you wearing his clothes too?”
A black T-shirt, several sizes too big for me, hangs loosely around my torso.
“So what?” I retort. “It smells like him, and I miss him.”
They both look at me with such pity. I hate it.
“I know it’s hard,” my mom soothes. “It’s important to grieve, and you need to do this your own way. Take all the time you need.”
“But, she needs to let go eventually…” Alex says.
My mom hisses a snappy “Shh!” and we sit like that for a long time.
—
By the end of July, I feel kind of human again. At least I’ve started taking regular showers.
On the outside, I look more normal. But on the inside…
I can’t stop the churning chaos. It reminds me of a murky lake, with bits of sand and debris floating through the water. It makes it hard
to see the light.
My thoughts flick back to the nurses who took care of Aaron. I felt so helpless, watching my sweet love in pain, dealing with mood swings and personality changes, headaches and vomiting. I couldn’t do a single damn thing about it.
But they could.
They made him feel better, and made a dignified, peaceful death a possibility for him. They were so attuned to his every breath and movement that I sometimes felt like they knew him better than I did.
I envy them.
I want to feel that sort of control, that sort of power. I wanted to feel that sort of connection with Aaron, like I could observe all the pieces of a puzzle and put them back together. Maybe if I could feel like that, then I wouldn’t feel like such a failure.
What—wait!
Could I…
Not giving myself a moment to reconsider or think it through, I rush out the door and head directly to the university. I march into the registrar’s office, and ask to see an academic adviser.
Before we’ve even sat down in her office, I spit out the question that has been burning my tongue for the past hour.
“I want to be a nurse. How do I make that happen?”
Chapter 23
Little Red Rooster
I fly out of work the second my shift ends. Tonight is Samira’s bachelorette party. A big group of us are staying for the weekend at her aunt’s house to drink wine, eat ourselves silly, and have mehndi done to our arms, hands, and feet.
Henna tattoos, in case you didn’t know. Don’t feel bad if you didn’t. When Sam invited me over for her “mehndi” party, I agreed enthusiastically.
And Googled it as soon as I got home.
God bless Google. I never have to look like an uninformed idiot again.
I race home, and find Samira and Brett chatting on my doorstep. I was expecting Sam—she’s driving me to her aunt’s house. I didn’t expect to see Brett, though.
It’s a welcome surprise. I haven’t seen him lately as much as I had been, since we’ve both been so busy.
“Hey, you two,” I chirp.
Brett opens his arms and I give him a brief kiss on the lips.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Just saying goodbye,” he replies, tucking a stray hair behind my ears. “I’ve missed you.”
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