Wake

by Abria Mattina

  I look down at myself, shaking like a leaf and still spitting bile, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up with the realization of just how right my brother was. Up till now I’ve refused to think of what would happen if Jem died—what it would do to me. It would have been a hell of a lot worse than a panic attack in the shower, I’d wager.

  “Fuck me.” I sit back on the shower floor and slowly bring the water back to warm. In the cold water my breathing is fast and shallow, and as I thaw out I breathe easier. I enjoy the oxygen for about thirty seconds, until my lungs choke on fresh sobs. This is pathetic. I shouldn’t be this upset when he’s going to be okay.

  I can’t wash, so I just rinse my mouth between hiccups and get out of the shower. Water droplets vibrate off my shaking body like a dog, soaking the mat. I dry myself as best I can and head to my room. I’m still sniveling and sobbing like a moron and I’m glad that Frank isn’t home to see this.

  Clothes have to be simple right now. Nothing with buttons or zippers—my fingers can’t handle it. It’s sweatpants and a t-shirt. No socks, because I drop three pairs before I give up, and no bra, because I’m trembling too badly to put one on properly. I hate to look at myself in the mirror and see the mess I’ve turned into. I didn’t cry when he was critically ill; why should I be so upset now, when it’s all over? Why can’t I be relieved without first dealing with a backlog of fear and pain?

  I’m having a Freudian moment, as Mom would say—a stupid phrase gleaned from some therapist or another. That which I repressed is coming back to bite me in the ass, or something. If I knew it would be this hard to function, I’d have dealt with some of the anguish up front.

  The dryer buzzes, and I dutifully make my way downstairs to empty it. Embrace the normalcy of mundane things; maybe that will help. Then I open the dryer door and remember that I didn’t run a full load, just a hand towel for Jem, and I lose my composure all over again. I slide down to the floor with my back against the dryer. The tears are a little more controlled this time. It’s not a spontaneous panic attack, but what Tessa would have called a ‘good bone-cleansing cry,’ because the emotion runs that deep and by the time it’s over a body feels stripped to the core.

  I wipe my face with the towel I warmed for Jem. It smells like that afternoon that Frank caught us, when Jem and I were almost like a normal couple for ten minutes.

  I didn’t trade Jem for normalcy, exactly, I think as I pull myself up on the dryer. In a lot of ways he is normal for me—the sickness, the food, the hospital—and in so many ways he’s something better; it’s something new with him, different and more whole than any relationship I had in St. John’s.

  I try to calm myself with a cup of tea. I’m shaking and hiccupping too badly to drink it, so I end up sipping through a straw. By the time I’ve finished my tea and blown my nose half a dozen times, I feel very tired. Bones don’t feel cleansed yet, though, so I hold off on feeling any sort of relief. I drag my feet upstairs and crawl into bed. I’ll just take a short nap, enough to center me. And as I curl up under the blankets my stupid mind wanders to cuddling with him.

  Jem’s affection is something I’ve grown accustomed to with embarrassing speed. He feeds off little touches and kisses. He’s willing to hold and not too proud to be held. I wonder if it was always that way with him, or if long loneliness has made him greedy for affection. Either way, it’s one of my favorite quirks.

  I put a hand on my chest and count my heartbeats, trying to relax enough to escape in sleep. The rhythm is strong and regular, and I smile at my little secret: sometimes, when Jem is asleep, I watch the heart monitor and notice that our pulses match. It never happens for long, because eventually he’ll cough and his heart rate will change because of it, but for those brief moments we’re in tune in a way we couldn’t have planned.

  My short nap turns into a long one. I dream of unsettling things, and when I wake my mood is still fragile enough to allow tears. I don’t wake without immediately wishing for sleep’s return, and so my rest is prolonged by repeated attempts to escape and recharge my batteries in sweet unconsciousness.

  It’s past dinner hour by the time I try to get out of bed. I successfully put on socks and feel proud of the accomplishment. I brush out my hair and watch my pale face in the mirror for signs of life. None reported.

  The ringing of my cell phone startles me badly, and I sit down again before I answer it. The call is from a number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Willa?”

  “Eric? Where are you calling from?”

  “There’s a payphone on the third floor. Is everything okay? Elise said you were going to drop by this afternoon, but it’s almost evening and no one has heard from you.” I look at the clock and notice it’s seven. Visiting hours end at eight.

  “Uh, yeah. Everything’s fine.” Apart from my embarrassing tendency to burst into tears at random.

  “Jem bugged me to call you. He got worried when you didn’t show up.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t need to be dealing with my nonsense right now.

  “Can you come by? I think he needs you. You’re kind of the high point of his day.”

  I have to hold my breath for a few seconds to keep myself from losing face again.

  “Willa?” Eric prompts when I don’t reply.

  “I’m on my way.”

  *

  When I get to the hospital, Eric is already on his way to his car. He stops to talk to me long enough to say that Jem is pretty much settled in for the evening, and that for a little while he and I have some time alone. Ivy will be coming by in about an hour, and she’ll likely spend the night.

  “Go on,” he shoos me. “This is the only privacy you’ll get all week.” If only he knew.

  The distance between the lobby and Jem’s room has never felt so short. I round the doorframe into his room without fully remembering how I even got to the third floor, but when I see him I decide that a walking blackout doesn’t matter. Jem is on his side with his knees pulled up, fighting sleep. He looks so frail, but the numbers on his heart monitor say different. He’s noticeably better than he was yesterday, with consistent blood pressure and oxygen saturation above ninety percent. Jem lifts his heavy lids when he sees me coming and holds out a hand. I give him mine and he cradles it to his chest. I’m not getting that back, now.

  “Are you okay?” he asks in a voice thin with exhaustion. Funny that he should be asking me that.

  “I’m happy you’re getting better.” I just happen to express it like a complete twit. I gather Jem close and he tucks his head into the crook of my neck.

  “Where were you?” He sounds so sad, and I feel even worse.

  “I was having a moment.”

  Jem tilts his head to look at my face. His tired eyes are tight with worry and he bites his lip to hide its sad downturn. “I’m sorry,” he says, and squeezes my hand tighter. “I shouldn’t have made you come. It’s selfish—”

  “Jem, shut up.”

  He sighs fretfully and touches my hair with his free hand. He has a tender touch, even when he’s weak.

  “I was worried about you,” he whispers. The words echo slightly within the plastic oxygen mask. “I thought something had happened—and no one had told me. Or that Elise had lied, and you weren’t coming today.”

  “I always meant to come,” I assure him, and kiss his cheek. “I just got a little held up, is all. You don’t need me coming in here and being disgustingly emotional right now. I had to wait until I was calm.”

  My explanation saddens him again. He gently twirls a lock of hair around his finger. “I wasn’t there for you.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best. I had snot bubbles coming out my nose—hardly attractive.” I reach over to grab a tube of lotion off the side table and Jem snorts.

  “You’re worried about being the unattractive one?”

  “Hush.” I put a dollop of lotion on my finger and lift his mask away. The skin around th
e edges of the plastic is dry and rough, so I gently smooth it with my hand. Jem kisses my fingers and closes his eyes with a sigh.

  “I thought that, too,” he murmurs as I put his mask back in place and cap the lotion bottle.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why you didn’t come today—I thought you were…finished. That you’d had enough.” Jem opens his eyes just enough to look at me under his lashes. “I wouldn’t blame you for leaving me.”

  I’d love to smack some sense into him, but I can’t, so I settle for flicking the front of his oxygen mask. “You think I’d let you bleed, puke, and phlegm on me, and then turn around and kick you when you’re down like some meaningless crush?”

  “I’m not easy to be with.”

  “No shit. I’m not either.”

  “You don’t have to stay with me out of…I don’t know, a sense of history or pity.” Oh, how he hates that word. I kiss the smooth skin between Jem’s eyebrows and reach a hand under the blankets. He flinches when I run my fingers over the waistband of his pajama pants.

  “I didn’t pull you into the bathroom yesterday out of pity,” I whisper. “I want to be here, to be with you—but I’m only human. I had a weak moment, and I’m sorry, but I’m here now. No more talk of me leaving you, okay?”

  Jem nods, but it’s a token gesture. I let it be, rubbing his back and talking to him about ordinary things. Frank spent time with Doug this weekend, so I guess their spat is over. Jem listens languidly and rubs his fingers between mine. His hand is warm now that his fever has abated.

  “Do you need anything?” I ask as his smile of contentment grows.

  “Kisses.” I owe him an afternoon’s worth of affection, and I genuinely miss it, so I give him many little kisses. His oxygen mask stays in place while I kiss his cheeks and eyes and neck. Jem revels in it, with small sighs and whispered endearments. He doesn’t even complain when I push his hat back and kiss the soft spot above his ear. I nuzzle his hair and Jem smiles.

  “I think you lied to Paige,” he says teasingly.

  “About what?”

  “About not caring about my hair. You told her you didn’t miss touching it.”

  “You should let me do it more often,” I hint. “The novelty will wear off.” Jem surprises me by taking the suggestion seriously.

  “When Mom isn’t around,” he bargains. “It upsets her.”

  “Are you sure?” Maybe it upset Ivy when Jem first lost his hair, because the diagnosis was still so new and her fears were so fresh. But now that the fight is over, it might comfort her to see that his hair is growing back. He’s filling out the image of his old, healthy self. I tell him this and he still shakes his head.

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’ll be just for us.” As if to prove it, Jem slips his hat off the rest of the way and allows me full access to his scalp. The soft hairs are long enough to poke past my fingers when I run a hand over his crown.

  “You haven’t been wearing gloves lately.”

  “I know.”

  “Why not?”

  I can only shrug. I’m not entirely certain of my reasons. It could be that I’m finished with hiding, or it could be that I just want to shove my imperfections in the face of bullies like Elwood. Maybe I’m embracing my past. Maybe my reasons change from hour to hour.

  “I’m a little jealous,” Jem admits. “You’re braver than I am.”

  “Nah, I’ve been chickening out. Every time someone asks how I got it I lie or only tell half the story.”

  Jem weaves his fingers between mine. “Doesn’t matter. It’s nobody’s business but yours.” Jem points to the foot of the bed where a clipboard and pen are kept with his chart. He wants the pen. When I pass it to him he uncaps it and begins to draw on the back of my hand.

  It starts with a leaf growing out of my scar, and then Jem adds another. Where the scar curves around my wrist, Jem inks flower petals one by one, layering them into the image of a partially open rose. The tip of the scar becomes the edge of a petal, and when I bend my wrist the flower ‘blooms.’

  “There’s a real romantic in you, you know.”

  “Do you mind?” he says sweetly. I smile and lean down to nuzzle his temple.

  “It’s one of the many things I love about you.” And I never thought I could even enjoy it, never mind love it. “You’re converting me.”

  Jem winks. “Love you too.”

  Sunday

  I’m up half the night writing. After I left the hospital last night, it didn’t take much reflection on the events of the day before I figured out what I wanted to say for the Soc project. I wrote the whole thing in four hours and wake up tired and cranky. It’s a therapy day and I have to go without Jem. I’m not eager to face the firing squad alone, but Frank won’t let me I skip two weeks in a row. I make the task bearable by making plans for after Group, which of course include Jem. After breakfast I create a little surprise for him, one that will hopefully make up for worrying him yesterday and banish all idiocy about me leaving him.

  Arthur prefaces the group meeting with an announcement about a church picnic next Saturday. The youth ministry is setting up an event with food, games, a sing-along (shoot me now) and prayer for the benefit of parishioners from the local assisted living home. At first I think he means it’s a retirement community, but then Arthur goes on this hyper-politically-correct spiel about making the ‘handi-capable’ of our community feel welcome at the parish.

  I’m kind of glad that Arthur is an idiot. Otherwise he’d know what an ass he sounds like right now, and he’d have to feel embarrassed. He ends his enthusiastic speech with an invitation to come out and volunteer with ‘our differently-abled brethren.’ I’m glad Jem skipped this group session, because Arthur’s tendency to alienate people by over-including them is in full force today. Jem would probably have some smartass remark for him, and the thought makes me smile.

  “Willa?” Arthur catches me smirking. “Something you’d like to say?”

  Might as well exploit the moment. “If we volunteer do we get t-shirts? Gimps for Christ or something?” Arthur is horrified at my use of such a derogatory word, and for a moment I almost miss Steve. He had nothing against words like ‘gimp.’ He tried to own them, because it was better to face a problem than avoid it. Can’t say I ever really picked up on that lesson.

  *

  I head straight to the hospital after Group. I miss Jem, and I’m excited to give him the little surprise that I hope will lift his spirits, since I worried him yesterday. It’s tucked away in my iPod so it will remain between just the two of us, and, personally, I think new and ingenious ways to screw with his heart monitor are fun. I recorded it for him this morning in another fit of fuck-in-the-face-of-death horniness. I know firsthand that dirty talk isn’t Jem’s strong suit, but I’m hoping that track will inspire him. It’s hidden in the ‘Jem’ playlist amongst other easy-listening songs that I thought would be good for his state of convalescence: tracks by Mae, some Stones, a little Joshua Radin and a smattering of Sia.

  “I made a playlist for you,” I tell him, and hand over my iPod. Jem smiles at the gesture and puts the earbuds in. It’s been awhile since we could exchange music and I sort of miss it. Evidently he does too. He goes straight for the playlist with his name on it and closes his eyes to focus on the sweet strains. All the tracks in the Jem playlist are purposely love songs today, conveying the whispers of my twisted heart much more readily and eloquently than I ever could.

  I know he’s reached the homemade track when Jem smiles to himself. It starts out innocently: Hey love, I was thinking of you. You were in my dream last night. And I know he’s gotten to the ‘good’ part when his eyes snap open and his pale cheeks flush. Jem’s eyes flit to his mom in the corner with paranoia, and then he gives me a deep glare. I just smirk and make a naughty gesture where Ivy can’t see.

  Jem crooks a finger at me, beckoning me closer. I scoot my chair up to the bedside and take his hand.


  “I’m going to murder you,” he mouths. I wink.

  “You know, it has a pause button.” I reach over to touch it and Jem yanks the iPod out of my reach.

  “No.”

  “Enjoy,” I mouth, and take one of the earbuds to listen. He’s not even at the best part yet, just the warm up. I took my time with this little project; set the scene, told him in explicit detail everything I wanted to do to him, and what I would have done if we hadn’t been interrupted on Friday. Jem’s cheeks are perpetually pink through the whole recital, and it only gets worse when I use his finger to demonstrate the descriptions on the recording. The monitor gives away an elevated heart rate as I give his finger a very slow and sensual handjob.

  Jem’s fingers grip mine, stopping me, when the track progresses out of description and into something a little different. At first his jaw drops, and then he licks his lips and eyes me curiously. He can’t say it out loud without his mom overhearing, so he gestures by curling two fingers.

  You were touching yourself?

  I wink and Jem mutters, “Jesus.” Little beads of sweat appear around the edges of his hat. I wipe them away and he whispers, “Kiss me.”

  I move his mask and give him a slow, sensual kiss. Apparently it lasts a few seconds too long because Ivy scolds us, “Hey now, no funny business, you two.” Jem and I both chuckle guiltily. If only she knew what we were really up to right now.

  Jem insists on keeping my iPod when visiting hours are over.

  Monday

  I think Frank is testing me. When I’ve put in the requisite number of study hours and come downstairs to pack a serving of soup for Jem, he asks if I’m going over to the hospital soon.

  “Mind if I come with you?”

  I’m certain this is a test of some sort. “You want to?”

  Frank shrugs uncomfortably. “Kid’s in the hospital,” he says, as though that justifies his behavior. I never thought I’d see the day when Frank would feel any obligation of kindness toward Jem.