My Oxford Year(56)

Jamie, whom I always saw as spontaneous and haphazard, is actually a planner of the highest order. He puts my abilities to shame.

The kettle’s automatic shutoff pops, loud as a gunshot. Tightly wound, both of us jump. But instead of lifting the kettle off its base and making tea, Jamie just stands there, back against the refrigerator, looking at the floor. “I suppose you want to know why I didn’t tell you,” he says.

I don’t, actually. I already know why he didn’t tell me. I figured it out during my sleepless night, while walking around London with Connor, on the interminable bus ride back to Oxford tonight. “You thought we’d be over before you ever had to explain anything. Which would have worked out perfectly if not for . . . how it worked out.” It’s the closest I can come to revealing how I feel about him. That this has become more for me, surprisingly more, than what we shook on back in the Buttery.

Jamie shakes his head. “I wish I could say that were true. I’m afraid it’s more selfish than that.” He looks up at me. I hold my breath. “With you, I was able to pretend I wasn’t sick. The disease didn’t exist. It’s pathetic, really.” His crisp voice cracks like overdone toast. “I convinced myself I deserved you. Not just because of the last eighteen months, but because of the last four years. And because of the future, too, I suppose. You were my prize. My gift. My last chance to feel . . .” He pauses, and I begin filling in the blank. Lust? Excitement? Heat? He settles on, “This . . . again. One last time.” He quickly turns to the counter, where a box of Kleenex sits, plucks a few tissues out, and turns back to me. I didn’t notice he was crying. “Christ, Ella, I’m so sorry.” He holds the tissues out to me and that’s when I realize my face is wet. I’m the one who’s crying.

“But you’re not actually dying,” I say.

He quirks his head at me, as he always does. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you’re in treatment and you were in remission once, you’re not actually dying. You’re fighting.” It just doesn’t make sense to me. How someone so full of life can have it leaking away.

“There are stages,” he says, “but this particular disease is a life sentence. There’s no cure.” He rattles off platitudes to make me feel better. Glass half full, it’s not over till it’s over, don’t throw in the towel, et cetera. “The trick,” Jamie says, “is to bounce from treatment to treatment, like playing the net in a tennis match. Keep the ball in play, racket against racket. Just don’t let it get past you or it’s game over. Stay in the volley long enough and hope for a breakthrough. A winning shot. That’s the strategy.”

He sees the question in my eyes: If that’s the strategy, how is it that Oliver is dead?

“He was more advanced than I. Also, the years since Oliver was diagnosed have seen an exponential advancement in treatment.” He pauses, swallows. “If Oliver had been diagnosed when I was, if the order had been reversed, he might still be alive.” The color suddenly drains from his face. His eyes go glassy, and just as I’m about to hand him a tissue, I realize that what’s happening to Jamie isn’t emotional. “Will you excuse me?” He slips out of the kitchen, down the hall, and I hear the bathroom door close. Then the sound of retching.

My own stomach clenches. My face heats. We’ve done everything—everything—together, but this somehow feels too intimate. I try to breathe. Tears start escaping again. My hand comes to my eyes, then my mouth, then my chest, in an attempt, I think, to keep all of my feelings in, unsure which way they might escape.

I focus on what Jamie just said. If Oliver had been diagnosed last, he might still be alive. Which means the reverse is also true: if Jamie had been diagnosed first, he would be dead. I would have never met him. I would have come to Oxford, lived at Oxford, studied at Oxford, drunk at Oxford, had sex at Oxford, but not had Jamie’s Oxford. The idea that I could have missed him in this life by a matter of years, two small insignificant years, an infinitesimal moment in the history of the earth, a geological blink, paralyzes me.

A toilet flushes, a door opens, socked feet pad down the hallway, and Jamie returns, his previously pale face now blotchily flushed. “Sorry,” he says.

I rapidly shake my head. “Please. Do you want to sit?”

“Yes, quite. Thank you.” We move into the drawing room and he says, “I’m better in the mornings.” We settle on opposite ends of the couch. I curl my legs up under me. Jamie leans forward, props his elbows on his knees. I stare at his profile, small in this vast house. He looks so isolated, so alone. “What about your parents?” I ask.

“What about them?”

I don’t actually know. It just feels like I should ask about them. He never talks about them, won’t talk about them. How did things deteriorate to this point? “This must be killing them,” I say. He doesn’t confirm or deny. A horrible thought occurs to me. “They know you’re sick, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, are they involved—”

“Ella,” Jamie says, “the room is starting to spin. Might we continue this tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll call you when I’m awake.”

“No, you won’t.”