She peers at me. “Are you Coop's girlfriend?” Her words are slurry, but she doesn't seem hurt.
“She's Travis's sister,” he tells her.
“Hello,” she says, like I'm some long-lost relative. “I always liked your mama. A nice lady. Pitching in to help when Coop was a little guy. He was little once, you know.” She pats her son's chest and laughs. She's tiny, with almond-shaped eyes and matted black hair. “Isn't my Coop the best?”
“I'll be right back,” Cooper tells me.
I watch him guide her to the trailer and take her inside.
“Yes, he is.” There's no one to hear, but I answer her question anyway.
Travis
One quiet afternoon, I tell Darla everything. We're alone in the house, lying together in my bed, skin against skin, April rain sliding down the windows. The soft sound hums, and Darla's arms make me feel safe. I didn't intend to tell her, but the words slip out, a confession from my soul to my soul mate. She doesn't freak out. She listens, smoothing my hair, which is regrowing for the third time since my diagnosis. I feel dampness on my chest. “Don't cry,” I tell her. “This is good. It's my choice. It's what I want.”
“I knew something was going on inside you. Emily thinks so too. You can't fool girls who love you.” She doesn't stop crying. “What about what I want? I want you. For as long as possible.”
“My latest labs aren't good, baby. My doc keeps trying, though.” My whole chest is sore and raw from where the shunt is inserted for the toxic drugs. “I'm slipping no matter what he does. One day they'll rush me to the hospital and I'll be hooked up to machines that will keep me alive longer than I need to be. I don't want to go out that way.” I kiss her forehead. “I'm tired. I hurt all the time.”
Now that Darla knows, I feel freer, like a weight's been lifted. “I just want control of my life again. Tell me you understand.”
She nods, but the tears don't stop. “When?”
“Soon.” I fudge my answer.
“You'll tell me before, won't you? I—I won't have to hear it from your family?”
“I'll tell you.”
“Cooper knows, doesn't he?”
“And you. That's all.”
“You should tell your sister.”
“Fat chance. She'll tell Mom and Dad.”
“I'm not so sure. I think she'd understand.”
“I can't argue with her. I don't have the energy for it. It's just better that she not know.”
Darla raises her head and looks up at me. Her tears have made tracks down her pretty face. “Will it hurt?”
It takes me a second to figure out what she's asking. “No. It won't hurt. I'll make it simple.”
“And you're not scared?”
A hard question, so I take a while to answer. “I was twelve the first time I climbed up on the platform and looked down. Me and my friends were at the city pool, and they were all daring me to go up and jump off. They thought I'd chicken out. I climbed to the top and looked over the edge, and my heart was going a million miles an hour. I wasn't scared. All I wanted to do was fly And I went off the edge and it was magic. Just me and the air singing past me. I felt like an arrow. I got lucky when I hit the water, because I didn't break any bones. I touched the bottom of the pool and kicked back up feeling like a million bucks. Couldn't hear anything except my own heart beating like a drum.
“Later, Cooper told me the lifeguard was blowing his whistle and screaming because no one under fourteen was supposed to dive from the platform. I was banned from the pool for the rest of the summer, but I knew I'd found my life's purpose. Swim club, the swim team, summers at the lake were for one purpose. I wanted to be the best diver in the state, and someday maybe the best in the country.”
I flip Darla's bangs from her forehead, stroke her cheek. “So no, I'm not afraid. Just me and the water. The way I've always wanted it to be.”
My parents sit me down and tell me what they think is good news. Mom says, “I'm taking you to Switzerland. You've been admitted into an experimental testing program. It lasts six months and shows a lot of promise for stubborn cases like yours.”
She and Dad look at me like I'm supposed to be delirious with joy. “Why?”
“Because it has the potential to turn things around for you,” Mom says. “You and I will go together and we'll get an apartment close to the hospital where the program is in place.”
I'll be leaving my friends and Darla behind. All things familiar and necessary. “I don't want to live in Switzerland.”
“Don't be foolish, son,” Dad says. “Your mother's moved heaven and earth to get you accepted. This is a real shot for another remission. Dr. Wolfsen agrees.”
What will remission get me? Will it return my lost leg and restore my diving ability?
“Mom, listen to me, I don't want to go.”
Dad waves me off. “We totally checked this out, son. This program's had amazing success.”
“Like? How much success?”
They glance at one another.
“Fifty percent cure rate,” Mom says.
Doctors never use the term “cure.” It's “remission,” never “cure,” because no one's ever cured; you just live waiting and wondering if it's coming back.
“Don't think about percentages,” Dad says. “Think about a treatment that works. It helps to keep a positive attitude.”
I've been through three protocols of tried-and-true drugs and two protocols of new drugs touted as “revolutionary.” For me, nothing has worked.
“Please don't make me go.”
Mom looks frustrated. “This is your best hope.”
I no longer have hope. “It's in my bones. That's a death sentence.” My friend Sally from chemo died last year. Nothing saved her. There was only her long, painful exit from life.
“Don't think that way. We're holding it at bay.” Mom takes my hand.
“Won't this cost a lot of money?” I know our insurance is about maxed out.
“That's not your concern.”
“Where will you get the money?”
They look surprised, like I'm an idiot and am not supposed to think about such things.
Mom opens her mouth, but it's Dad who says, “We have equity in the house and we're getting another mortgage.”
“Phil!” Mom interrupts.
“What? He's not old enough to hear this? If he's old enough to ask, we can level with him.”
“It's not about the money,” Mom says firmly. “It's about survival. Every day you live, every breath you take, is worth any price we pay. Every day could bring a scientific breakthrough or a new wonder drug. We love you, Travis. We want you with us!”
“Then let me die and have me stuffed.”
Mom goes ballistic. “That's not one bit funny, mister!”
I can't tell her I've already made my exit plans. I'm through hanging around dying cell by painful cell. “When are we supposed to go to Switzerland?”
“In June. We can keep you stable until we leave.”
May is mine, then. “All right,” I say with a sense of relief. “That'll be good timing.”
Darla
Funny how priorities change. Two days ago I was totally focused on getting the lead in the school play It was all I could think about. Then on a rainy afternoon Travis tells me what he's planning, and now I can't think about anything else.
My love is choosing to die. It will be simple, he tells me. As simple as allowing himself to drown in the lake.
I sob and beg him not to do this thing.
All he tells me is “Can't you see it's better this way?”
“Better for who? Not me. I don't want you to die.”
He wipes my cheeks. “Living isn't an option anymore. Not this way. If I could have beaten this thing—” His voice cracks and I hug him tight. He tells me, “This is how I win, baby. This is me taking control. Carpe diem.”
I can't get my head around this decision he's made. I text him that night, asking him to reconsi
der. I come back the next day and try again to talk him out of it. He won't budge. I tell him it isn't fair to ask me to keep this terrible secret. When I tell him this, he looks alarmed. “You have to act normal, like nothing's wrong.”
“How can I do that? I feel like I'm going to break down and cry every minute.”
He takes my shoulders and pulls me close. “You just have to, Darla. Don't betray me.”
I go for tryouts in our auditorium with about fifty other kids—mostly seniors. We still don't know what play Mrs. Paulson's chosen; we just know that we'll read parts today and she'll post roles in two days. I've been thinking about this for weeks. I should feel my competitive spirit rise. Instead I feel as if the world's gone dark. I can't stop thinking about Travis.
Mrs. Paulson walks out onstage and gives a welcome speech. She passes out the play books and says that we'll have thirty minutes to read silently, first the synopsis, then the parts. She'll call us up one by one and assign a reading on the spot. How well we do will determine whether we'll get a role. I would have relished the challenge days ago. Now it hardly matters.
I pick up the booklet in my lap. Our Town, by Thornton Wilder. I don't know it.
Mrs. Paulson says, “I've chosen this play because it's a classic, because there are eighteen parts, and because the staging is quite simple. It has no props, no scenery. Everything is left to the audience's imagination and to good, convincing acting. It's set at the turn of the twentieth century.
“Let's get reading, shall we?”
It takes me minutes to read the summary and get the gist of the action. It's set in the small town of Grover's Corners, a town much like ours. A stage manager calls the action and inserts comments and explanations from time to time. As I skim the third act, my heart does a stutter step. The lead character, Emily, has died and has made a request of Death.
I can't try out for this play I have to get out of here.
“Darla,” Mrs. Paulson says, “why don't you start us off?”
Everyone turns to look at me, because I don't move.
“Darla?”
Pretend everything is normal.
I rise, walk to the stage, and stand in front of Mrs. Paulson. “This is an emotional ending.” She gives me a page number. “I'll read the stage manager. You read Emily's part. To do this well will require you to dig deep within yourself. Let's go for it.”
I scan Emily's lines and feel tears well in my eyes. Emily has asked Death to let her relive one happy day from her past before she goes to her grave. Death has agreed, and she has chosen her tenth birthday. In the scene, she sees her parents still young. I read as Emily watching her younger parents, seeing them as beautiful because they are young.
Mrs. Paulson feeds me another line.
And so we go until I reach Emily's most emotional lines, where she realizes that time goes too fast and that people don't take the time to really see one another. Emily's pain becomes unbearable, so difficult that she asks to be taken back “up the hill—to my grave.” As she leaves, she cries: “Oh, Earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?”
By now tears are pouring down my face. No one makes a sound. They watch me stand and cry. Suddenly I toss the play booklet to the floor and run backstage where it's quiet. I can't stop sobbing. In seconds, Mrs. Paulson is at my side. “Darla! You've hit a nerve. I can see how you've connected to this role.” She touches my shoulder.
I twist away from her and fight hard for composure. Pretend everything is normal. I am an actress.
I brace myself. I force the tears to stop. I replace agony with control. I brush my face, turn, and smile as sweetly as I know how. “Nothing's wrong, Mrs. Paulson. It's called acting. How did I do?”
My performance is the talk of the school, and two days later the parts are posted and I've locked down the part of Emily. When I tell Travis, he gives me a grin and a thumbs-up. “I knew you could do it.”
“It doesn't matter,” I tell him. “I'm not taking the part.”
“What? But you want it.”
“I wanted it. I want to be with you more.”
“But you shouldn't—”
I gently put my fingers across his lips. “Yes, I should. Great actresses can pick and choose their roles, you know.”
I see love in his eyes. “Besides,” I say brightly, “the lead character's name is Emily. And I ask you, do you really want two Emilys in your life?”
His laugh warms my heart.
Emily
Okay, it's official. Everybody knows what's going on with Travis except me. Cooper ignores me and Darla won't talk to me. Any direct questions are met with “Nothing's new” or “Ask Travis.”
Travis is a sphinx. We don't talk about anything important. He tells me that Mom and Dad are getting on his nerves, and that he hurts, and that he can't concentrate to keep up class work, but nothing about what he's thinking. And that's what I want to know about.
I take matters into my own hands. I raid his computer. I pull down the history of sites he's visited in the past weeks. And my blood runs cold.
I set my alarm for early in the morning because I want to talk to him before anyone else is up. I just hope it's a night that Cooper isn't crashing on our sofa. I find Travis downstairs, alone, watching a DVD movie, so I know he's been up most of the night, because that's what he does when he's in pain and can't sleep.
“Em. Why are you down here?” He hits the Pause button, and the screen freezes on a car beginning to explode.
I drop a stack of printouts on the coffee table in front of him. “I know you've visited suicide and euthanasia sites online.”
“You raided my computer?”
“I followed your footprints.”
He glances through the stack, shoves it aside. “Okay. So what?”
“So is that what you're thinking? You want to kill yourself? And Cooper and Darla know, but not me. I'm your sister and you didn't tell me?”
“I didn't want to have this talk with you. And I never want Mom and Dad to know.”
“And Mom's making all these plans to get you well—”
“I'm not getting well, Em. Mom's got blinders on. She's obsessed.”
“Obsessed? She wants you to live.”
His expression twists with pain and he goes pale. After a minute he says, “I just wish my family could crawl inside my skin for a day. I wish you all could feel how I feel. I'll bet none of you could stand it for even twenty-four hours.”
I'm sure he's right about that. “Just because you're in pain—”
“I'm a burden to everyone.”
He's said this before to me. “You're not a burden, Travis.”
“I'm a burden to me.” He reaches for my hand. “I wish I could live, Em. Look at my labs, at the numbers. There's no hope of my beating this. And for the record, killing yourself isn't illegal.”
I think about all the prayers I've said, all the petitions I've made to God on my brother's behalf. “You don't think it's immoral? Or don't you believe in God anymore?”
“Don't,” he says forcefully. “I believe in God, and I'm guessing he'll forgive me. We'll deal with each other when we meet.”
“And you're not afraid?”
“Only of being hooked to machines and forced to live when I don't want to. I want to choose my time to die. Everybody dies; that's a fact. Sometimes it blindsides people. Sometimes people get a glimpse of the big picture and decide to cheat. All I've got is timing. It's my trump card.”
“Travis, please—”
He ignores me. “Now that you know, don't rat me out, Em. Promise me.”
He's asked me this before too. But now the stakes are higher. It's not a matter of being a tattle-tale or a snitch. It's life and death. I want to argue with him. I want to clear out his mind and help him see that what he wants to do is wrong. Instead I don't argue. He's in pain, and nothing I say will get through.
I sit beside him
on the sofa, curl into his side, and hold him. Travis turns toward the TV and pushes the Play button, and the car, still mid-explosion, blows into a million fiery smithereens.
I pick a night when the moon is dark. When everyone's asleep, I sneak out of the house and into Travis's car. I hold my breath and start the engine. I drive to the trailer park where Cooper lives, my heart hammering, raw nerves mixing with fear. I find Cooper's trailer, park, and wait. It's almost one a.m. before he drives in. He sees me, comes quickly to the car.
“Travis?”
I hear panic in his voice. “He's all right,” I say.
“Why are you here?”
“Because I want to talk to you.”
He gets in the car. My heart is pounding so hard I think it might shoot out of my chest.
“I know what's going on,” I say. “I know what Travis is planning to do. I visited the sites on the Internet about suicide.”
Darkness shrouds Cooper on his side of the car. I can just make out the shape of his body. He says, “Okay, so now you know. Does it help knowing?”
I won't be distracted by his question. I stick to what I've come to say. “I got focused on the suicide part. It's taken me a few days to figure out that the sites were about euthanasia too. Travis can't do this by himself. He's too sick. He'll need help.”
He's quiet, and it feels like all the air's gone out of the night. I can hardly catch my breath.
“And you want to know if I'll help him.”
Direct. To the point. So like Cooper.
“I haven't said I will yet,” he tells me.
“But will you?” I want to hate Cooper. I want to hit him and never stop. I sit like a statue, unable to move. “Do you think he's right? Do you think he should have a choice?”
“Don't you?”
“I think people should do everything they can to stay alive.”
“And Travis hasn't? Look what he's gone through. Look how hard he's fought. And now your mom wants to drag him off to Switzerland.”
“It might be the place that saves him.”
Breathless Page 7