The elevator climbed, lifting us to our new home. Ding! The doors slid open and another stroller faced me. In it sat a chubby-faced, wide-eyed boy with bushy black hair. His cheeks spread even wider in a huge smile. He laughed and clapped, and I leaned forward as far as I could, reaching for him… .
I took a breath, let it out slowly, and turned the knob.
“Sam!” Teddy, my five-year-old, cherub-faced brother, clomped down the hallway toward me. His feet were about a third the size of his shoes—Mom’s black pumps, the ones she wears at book signings. Her pearls—also for signings—shifted back and forth across the collie picture on his shirt, and her diamond brooch—a gift from Dad she never wore—was pinned against the shirt dog’s alert ear.
I bent down and grabbed him up tight.
“Sam, Sam, can you play house with me?” he begged. His big, round, green eyes pleaded. Poor Teddy, he missed me.
I patted his sandy hair. “Ted, I’m sorry, I just don’t feel like playing right now.” I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have it in me.
“What about Jesse?” His eyes flickered, still hopeful. “Can he take me to play catch?” Jesse used to do that all the time. He loved Teddy as much as I did.
“No, Ted, he can’t.” God, I would have given anything if he could. Anything.
“Oh, fine.” With a final, sad look, Teddy gave up and clomped off to his room.
“Baby, you’re home!” Mom came from the kitchen, apron draped over her usual sweats, and hugged me tight. “Are you having lunch with us?”
“Yeah, Mom.” I tried to smile for her, but it didn’t happen.
“Fantastic!” Her face lit up like a Roman candle.
Teddy was back, tugging at my pajama sleeve. “Sam, Sam, do you want some tea?” He was holding his little china teapot in his other hand.
“Sure, Ted.”
About a year ago, Mrs. Pinchon, our blue-haired, prune-faced neighbor in the left corner apartment, made a comment in the elevator to Mom about Teddy dressing up in Mom’s clothes. Mom let her have it, in her calm “mom” way. She said that our society allowed girls to be tomboys or just about anything they wanted, while boys were crated up in little masculine boxes. She said she didn’t know or care if Ted’s style meant that he was gay. What mattered was that he was a free spirit, and she wasn’t going to clip his wings.
“I finally have a daughter,” Mom said, pointing to Teddy’s getup as he pranced off to get a teacup. It was true; I wasn’t much of a girl. Never a dress, not one dab of makeup, and not even a clip in my hair. Getting fancy takes way too long.
Mom was no fashion queen either, in her sweats, which she used to wear for an average of three days a week and now wore a solid seven since Dad died two and a half years ago. She kept her ginger hair ultrashort so she didn’t have to do anything with it in the morning, and she only wore lipstick to public appearances.
“Enjoy her,” I said. We laughed together. That felt real good.
I went to my room to get dressed. I used to love it in there; a few years ago Mom found me the coolest vintage iron bed in Greenwich Village. Weathered white, with swirling curves all around, the metal looked like it was dancing. My bedspread was a bohemian plum and white patchwork quilt. It practically called you to come lie on it.
The rest of the room was just as relaxing. There were sheer lavender curtains over the windows, a purple peacock chair sat in the corner, and a turquoise beanbag chair rested across from it next to a floor lamp topped by a pastel-beaded shade.
My shadowbox desk displayed a bunch of snapshots under its glass top. Most were of Jesse and me. In the tub at three and four, going down the gigantic Central Park slide at ages eight and nine, in the sand at Jones Beach at twelve and thirteen, at the Broadway show Mamma Mia last year. We’d had so much fun, we’d bought an Abba album the next day.
I needed to get through lunch. Just get through lunch, and then back to him …
I grabbed some jeans and an old blue T-shirt that said so what? from my dresser, the top of which was crammed with memorabilia ranging from a purple kitten to a tall glass jar of seashells, and got dressed. I pulled yesterday’s clothes from my knapsack and packed in a clean pair of pajamas.
I hit the light switch on my way out and closed the door behind me.
***
“So how’s Jesse feeling?” Mom asked, handing me the cole slaw she’d made from scratch.
“He had a bad night, but he’s better now.”
“Is Jesse still sick?” Teddy asked. He now wore Mom’s pink hat with the feather attached, which I for one thought looked better on him anyway.
“Yes, honey, he’s still sick,” Mom said.
“When’s he gonna get better?”
I couldn’t answer; I couldn’t even look at him.
“I’m not sure, honey,” said Mom. We didn’t know how to break it to Ted, so we never did.
Teddy took a big bite of his chicken cutlet. “Can I go see him?” he asked, with a chunk of chicken hanging out of the side of his mouth.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, honey,” said Mom.
“Yeah, okay,” I said. Jesse would like to see him, too. “You can come with me after lunch.”
“Samantha, can’t you stay a while longer?” Mom’s question wasn’t demanding, wasn’t harsh; it just was.
“Mom, I—” I realized my mouth was full; I gulped, feeling the lump slide down my throat. “I need to—”
“All right, baby,” she interrupted. “Let’s just chat a little and finish up. Then you can go back.”
Chapter Four
“Hey, sporto!” Jesse broke into a big smile when Teddy dashed into his room ahead of me. He lowered the bar on his bed and held out this arms. “C’mere.”
Teddy leaped onto the bed like a frantic terrier and threw himself on Jesse. “Take it easy, Teddy,” I said.
“It’s okay, I feel okay now,” Jesse said. Teddy grabbed a pillow and whacked him in the face with it.
“Teddy!” I scolded, sounding like a mother, for sure.
“Sam, chill. It’s fine,” Jess said. I knew he felt bad for not giving Teddy the attention he was used to. “Sorry we can’t take off, buddy,” he told Teddy. Jesse always gave Teddy rocket ship rides. He’d launch Teddy and fly him all around the room—the whole apartment—in his arms, on a space adventure to Mars.
“That’s all right,” Teddy said, trying to climb on Jesse’s head. Good thing he’d taken off the pumps. “We can do it when you get better.”
Jesse stared out from between Teddy’s legs. “Yeah, bud. Okay.”
I bit my lip to keep from bursting into tears, whether for Jess, or Teddy, or me, I couldn’t say.
Free of the metal bar, I sank onto the corner of his bed. “Hey, how was lunch with mama?”
Teddy tugged at Jesse’s hat. “Whoa, sporto. I need that.” He looked at me. “How’d you know I had lunch with my mother?”
“I listened at the door.”
“Ahhh.” He lifted Teddy’s shirt and tickled, making him cackle. “It sucked. I only did it to pi—” He stopped, realizing Teddy was listening. “I only did it to annoy her, really.”
“Jesse, why do you always wear a hat?” Teddy asked.
“Teddy, stop asking questions.” I snapped.
“But why does he wear a hat in his room?”
I couldn’t deal with questions; it was enough just walking around. “Say goodbye to Jesse.” I stood and reached for Teddy. “It’s time to go.”
He wrapped his arms around Jesse’s shoulders. “Nooo,” he wailed. “I just got here.”
I tugged at his hands to release them from Jess. “It’s time to go,” I repeated. But I couldn’t pry him loose.
“That’s enough,” said Jesse, giving me a little push. He looked hard at Teddy, scrunching his eyebrows. “Listen, sporto. Can you handle a grown-up kind of conversation?”
Teddy nodded.
“Even if it’s really sad?”
Teddy nodded, s
lowly this time.
“Sit right here next to me,” Jesse said, thumping on the mattress. Teddy plopped down.
Jesse put his arm around Teddy’s shoulders.
“I wear this hat because of my disease.”
Teddy blinked at him. “Are you cold?”
“No. It’s because the treatment they’re doing made me lose my hair.”
“What?” exclaimed Teddy. “Can I see?”
Jesse swiped off his skullcap; he was as bald as Mr. Clean.
“Cool! Can I touch your head?”
Jesse bent for Teddy to reach. Teddy smoothed his hand around and around, like his fingers were skating on Jesse’s head.
When he stopped Jesse said, “Okay, now here’s the sad part. Ready?”
Teddy nodded.
“The disease that I have … there’s no way to cure it. The doctors don’t know how.”
Teddy frowned. “But you said they’re doing something… .”
“They’re treating me, but it’s not enough.”
Teddy’s face filled with confusion. “What does that mean?”
Jesse took in a breath. He gave me a questioning look. I nodded to go ahead, even though a big piece of me wanted to stop him. “It means, sporto, that I’m going to heaven in a few months.”
No, no, I thought. Fight it, Jess. Fight it.
Teddy’s eyes bulged. “Heaven?”
“Yeah.” Jesse squeezed into Teddy’s arm.
“Will you …” Teddy hesitated, then blurted, “Will you tell my daddy I said hi?”
“Yeah. I’ll do that, sporto,” Jesse said. A tear ran down his cheek. “I’ll do that.”
***
It turned out that Teddy handled the news better than anyone, especially me. In the emergency room, when the doctor told us about the tumor, I’d gotten so hysterical that they wanted to give me a shot. But I calmed myself down. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have let me see Jesse.
Earlier in the evening, he’d starred in Romeo and Juliet in the school play, opposite Cindy Evans. She was his most frequent girlfriend, not that I got why. Sure, she was gorgeous, perfection from her auburn-highlighted hair to her cherry red polished toenails. She reminded me of Barbie—complete with plastic personality. I’d never understood how Jesse could stand being around her, except I guess they didn’t talk much. They were heavily into public spit-swapping, never failing to nauseate me at the lunch table. They’d broken up yet again about a month earlier, but apparently crooning Shakespeare to her perfectly made-up features made him miss sucking face because he’d told me he was planning on asking her out again at the cast party that night—closing night.
The play went smoothly, until the end. When Jess drank that poison and collapsed, he gave the most convincing cry I’d ever heard.
Convincing, because it was real.
Jesse didn’t get up for his bow. He couldn’t—he was in agony.
A sharp pain was shooting down his arm, like a knife stabbing him.
He’d kept quiet until Juliet “died,” not wanting to ruin the show.
Hours later, a doctor who looked about my age explained to Gwen, Maria, my mom, and me that a tumor was in Jesse’s spine. I let out a cry even louder than Jesse’s from the stage.
Two days later, I sat in the thick-cushioned chair next to Jesse during visiting hours. We were craning our necks to watch “Law and Order” on the TV mounted to the wall, trying not to think about real life. Hard to do, when there was an IV needle stuck in Jesse’s vein, flooding him with painkillers. He’d been zoning in and out, but they weren’t enough to numb the fear.
The room looked like a botanical garden. The school, the baseball team, all of his friends’ families, and more had sent bouquets of good wishes. He got about a year’s worth of metaphors and similes for my mom, but the too-sweet smell of the flowers made my nose itch.
At the commercial, Jesse asked again if I wanted some of the mixed vegetables, apple cobbler, meat that looked like greyish turkey, or wheat bread that sat untouched on the swivel tray in front of him. Appetizing as it was, I couldn’t eat, either.
The door pushed open. Another doctor, older this time, liver spotted and wrinkled, walked in. He was wearing a striped tie, a stethoscope, and a no-nonsense expression.
Jesse reached his hand over the bed rail and I took it in mine. His whole arm was trembling.
After a curt greeting he might have saved for all the good it did, the doctor opened his steel chart-holder and brushed through some pages.
Without any further ado, he told Jesse that he had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. But not just any kind; his was called small noncleaved, non-Burkitt’s lymphoma. And, he had a really special thing called a c-myc translocation. That, apparently, was the kicker. A death sentence, delivered with the same emotion as a waiter mechanically reciting the blackboard specials.
Except Jesse’s menu had no choices.
He’ll have the cancer, medium well.
***
Jesse got so depressed, he barely spoke for the rest of the two weeks he spent in the hospital. I kept telling him it wasn’t hopeless. People survive cancer a lot these days.
But apparently not when they had small noncleaved, non-Burkitt’s lymphoma with a dual translocation of c-myc and bcl-2, which I really didn’t understand at all. Whatever that dual translocation was, it changed the survival rate from about 80 percent to zero.
I went online at home and looked up the disease. I read studies. According to them, no one with a dual translocation of c-myc and bcl-2 had lived more than ten months. Ten months was fantastic, actually. Woo-hoo.
The only good thing—if anything about this could be called good—was that because Jesse’s cancer was considered the most aggressive lymphoma, they were researching it intensively, combining new drugs and different levels of radiation, and trying experimental treatments. They were hopeful that patients would begin to live longer.
That’s what they based Jesse’s 4 percent chance on—that they’d get lucky with him. Even though they’d never gotten lucky with anyone else.
Jesse insisted I show him all my research; that was pretty much the last conversation I had with him while he was in the hospital. I tried to convince him that he could be the one—he could be the first survivor. He didn’t say anything in response. He just shut down.
I noticed a sign about “the Stroke Club” meetings by the elevator as I was leaving one night. That got me thinking—there had to be support groups for people with cancer, too. I went back online and found a whole bunch of chat groups Jess could join, and even some in-person groups in New York City. But Jess didn’t so much as blink when I told him the next day, and all the information I’d printed out about them sat untouched on his bedside table.
A parade of doctors spoke to Jesse and Gwen. She was no help, no support. She turned Jesse’s tragedy into the hysterical Gwen show, sobbing into the tissues offered by sympathetic, eligible doctors. The hospital became her personal pick-up joint. There was really something wrong with that woman.
Maria sat with Jesse a lot during the days, when I was in school. She probably spent most of the time mouthing silent prayers. I love Maria, but she’s into this religion called Santeria, which seems like voodoo to me. She brought a thick red candle in a glass jar that was supposed to ward off bad spirits, but she wasn’t allowed to burn it in the hospital. Undeterred, she brought her aerosol spray can of Go Away, Evil! (which conveniently doubled as an air freshener) and ppsshh’d it liberally into the air until Jess had a coughing fit so loud that a nurse came hurrying in.
Now there was a chicken’s foot inside Jess’s bedside drawer (even in his darkest mood he’d humored Maria, wordlessly accepting the foot, then chucking it out of sight) to drive away the demons or whatever it was she thought was hurting Jesse. She couldn’t consider the possibility that the cancer cells had formed in some biological way.
I guess it’s no different than the way some people pray to Jesus, with their statues, holy water, an
d rosary beads. It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around any of these rituals, having been raised with none. My mom always says she’s spiritual but not religious. She’s big into karma, and thinks being a good person and doing the right thing are what count. The problem with karma is that it’s so abstract. There’s no props. Sometimes I want something more to hold on to. But a leap into faith seems way too wide.
Jess was used to Maria’s ways; his mom didn’t give him any religion either, so Santeria was all he had. When we were little, we’d watch Maria doing her incantations like she was performing a magic show. As he got older, Jess didn’t buy into Maria’s rituals actually working, but he liked that she thought they would.
At least, he used to. Who knew what he felt now?
He told me once that he wished he could believe in something, too. That was a long time ago. Now I wished it, too. I wished it so badly—for us both, but especially for him.
Maria brought Jess stuff from home. His toothbrush. His iPod—which sat untouched, as far as I saw. And his pajamas. He could only wear the bottoms. He needed to be in the hospital gown because of the IV, and because they were constantly doing crap to him. Sticking him with needles. Sticking him under or into machines. More tests, plus combination chemotherapy and radiation. He was red enough to be served on a plate with melted butter.
And by the end of the two weeks, hairs were falling all over his gown.
My mom visited him a lot, too, when Teddy was at preschool. She’s good at comforting and pep talks—she probably could have been one of those motivational speakers who show you how to change your life, or a spiritual advisor, or something—but Jesse wasn’t open to anything. She told me he didn’t speak to her either, or even look at her. She told me not to take it personally, that he did that to me. He was in shock, numb. Eventually he’d come back to me.
She told me the only thing I could do was be there for him.
I was actually the only friend Jess put up with. Pete, Jess’s best friend after me, came by one day. At first things went okay—as okay as things with Jesse went. Pete said how everyone missed Jess, how nothing was the same without him. Jesse pretty much grunted his contributions to the conversation. Then Pete opened up the shopping bag he’d brought with him and took out a baseball mitt. He held it up, showed Jess all the writing on it. “The team signed this for you, instead of a card,” he said. He tried handing it to Jess, but Jess just stared at him. Then Jess raised his fist and punched at the plates on his swivel tray, sending them crashing to the floor.
The Girl Next Door Page 2