My Oxford Year(50)
For the first time since we met, I know we both wish we were looking at someone else.
“Dammit!” Jamie barks, loud enough that the nurse moves back toward him, placating hand outstretched, trying to calm him. “This isn’t what I wanted—”
I cut him off again. “I thought we both wanted honesty! Remember?”
Jamie swallows, looking like all the blood has left his body. “God, Ella, this is not the time. Please just leave.”
“Leave?! You don’t think you owe me—”
“Ella—”
“You know what?” I shout. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore—”
A roar starts in the back of Jamie’s throat and barrels out of him like a freight train from a tunnel: “Get out!”
This silences me. I’ve never heard him yell before. It scares me. I’ve never been scared of Jamie. Silently, reeling, I turn and walk out of the drawing room.
I can hear Jamie’s groan from all the way in the foyer. “Come back! Ella, I’m sorry, wait!”
Too late.
I slam the door on my way out, rattling the entire house behind me.
Chapter 18
Sweet, never weep for what cannot be,
For this God has not given.
If the merest dream of love were true
Then, sweet, we should be in heaven,
And this is only earth, my dear,
Where true love is not given.
Elizabeth Rossetti (née Siddal), “Dead Love,” 1899
I rush down the front steps, but stop at the bottom, feeling completely lost, as if I slipped into another universe and found myself on this rainy sidewalk. Do I go left or right? Or up or down?
The door opens behind me.
“Ella, please, I’m sorry, stop.”
I hear his panting, strained voice, but it has no effect. I’m still trying to find my way out of this black hole.
“Ella, please, you must allow me to explain.”
My anger spikes again and brings me present. I spin around to face him. “Oh, must I?!”
“All I ask is that—” He stops talking. He lists into the doorjamb. He’s pale, shaky. He attempts to play it off, righting himself, pointing into the house. “I’ll put the kettle on, yeah?”
“I don’t want tea, Jamie!”
“Might I offer you something a bit stronger?”
I fold my arms. “An explanation. Offer me that.”
His eyes are gentle and weary, his face long and drained. I can’t stop looking at him. He’s morphed in a week, but I don’t know how exactly. Is it just because I’m seeing the person he actually is, not the person I thought he was? Or is there something else?
“All right.” He takes a shallow breath, moves away from the door, and takes a deliberate step down the stairs. “I’m in the midst of a rather serious medical circumstance. It’s—”
“You know who isn’t in the midst of a rather serious medical circumstance? Your brother. Your dead brother.” I bite back a cringe. That came out more callous than I intended.
His brows snap together. “How do you know that?”
I shake my head. “I’m asking the questions.” I begin to pace, organizing my thoughts. Or trying to. “What is it? What do you have?”
“Multiple myeloma.”
I stop pacing. “Isn’t that . . . what Oliver had?”
Jamie nods.
“Isn’t that what killed him?”
Jamie nods again.
“So, you’re dying?” How is my voice so calm? I might as well be asking him why he wore those particular pants today. I know I’m not handling this well, but I can’t find any rationality, any objectivity, any of the skills I usually have at my disposal. I’ve never felt this untethered. Well. Not in twelve years, anyway.
Jamie just stares at me, the answer unavoidable in his eyes. I can’t look at them. He takes another tentative step down the stairs. Unstable, he grabs at the iron handrail. It shifts against his weight, old and rusting and dangerously loose. He clutches at it with both hands, seeking balance. I want to leap up the steps and help him, but I don’t. I can’t right now. I glance down at his hands. A Band-Aid sits on top of one of them, a crimson dot in the center. “Was that chemo in there?”
“Saline.”
“Saline?”
“The chemo—this particular chemo—is a quick injection. And pills. But it requires a saline flush after—”
“How long have you been in treatment?”
“Six weeks. This is my third round. Might we go inside?” He’s still shirtless. Though the rain has abated, the wind has picked up.
“Go if you want.”
“No, merely a suggestion.” With that, he takes yet another tentative step. The railing could go at any moment. Jamie, aware of that fact, mutters, “I really must repair this.”
A tsunami of questions swells in me. I grow relentless, my tone like a trial lawyer. “Why do you have your hair?”
“I don’t—I don’t know. Some people get lucky.”
“Lucky?” A sarcastic laugh falls from my mouth. “Why aren’t you more ill?”
“I’m quite ill, Ella.”