My Oxford Year(57)

He nods tightly, like he was expecting this. “I promise. I won’t disappear again. We have more to—”

“You won’t call me because I’m staying right here.” I can’t immediately decipher what I see in his eyes. Relief? Regret? Hope? Fear? Maybe a bit of everything. “Do you want to go upstairs?” I ask softly.

He slowly shakes his head. “I like sleeping here. I save my bedroom for when I feel well.” His eyes lock on mine and I have a sudden flash of the last time we were together, in that very bedroom upstairs. Was that only a week ago? “It limits negative associations. The drawing room being the hospital room keeps the bedroom a bedroom.”

I stare at him. “You really have it all figured out, don’t you?” He leans back, pivots half toward me. His eyes start to close. I settle into the couch, and reach over, taking his legs. He opens sleepy eyes. “Here,” I say softly, “stretch out.” He sighs in relief and pleasure at my touch.

“You can sleep upstairs. Take any shirt you want. The remote for the telly’s in the nightstand drawer.” He drifts off.

He looks peaceful, like the carved sculpture atop the knight’s sarcophagus in the Lincoln library. His long, tapered fingers entwined over his stomach; his head centered on a throw pillow. I determinedly push the tomb image away.

I stare blankly at his feet. Long. Thin. The perfect punctuation mark to his allover elegance. I’ve never looked at his feet before. How is that possible? I find myself thinking of things he’s said. Seemingly insignificant things, like how he’s going to donate his house, or suggesting I go punting in the spring and not including himself. I realize now, with a sickening lurch of my stomach, that he isn’t betting on being here.

Questions start descending upon me. How does this change things? Can I still be with him knowing all this? How could I not? And what happens next? I’m obviously still leaving in June, but how does this work for the next six months? For instance, I’m traveling in December. Am I really just going to leave, knowing he’s sick back in Oxford? Do I even want to leave now?

As Jamie’s breathing evens, and the grandfather clock in the foyer ticks distantly, I try to take stock of everything that has led me here, to this city, to this man. To this. My Once-in-a-Lifetime Experience.





Chapter 20


The individual; true man;

Individuality.

A man’s but one half; some woman

The other half must be.

James Thomson, “Mr. MacCall at Cleveland Hall,” 1866

Ella?”

I’m in a dream and I hear my name in chocolate-covered-caramel tones.

“Sorry, but my leg’s quite gone to sleep.”

I crack open my eyes and see a blurred Jamie on the other side of the couch. We’ve tangled into each other in the night. “Sorry,” I mutter. I shift so he can extricate his leg.

As I wake more fully, I notice that he looks almost completely normal. As if one night of sleep has magically cured him. I realize that this is the reason I never noticed he was sick; if he avoided me on certain days, I really couldn’t have known. I open my mouth to say good morning, but Jamie’s smile fades and he murmurs, “I wasn’t trying to trap you.”

I take a second. “I know.” I have to clear the morning out of my throat before continuing. “I knew it when I said it.”

Jamie tentatively reaches out and rests his hand on my ankle. “Please understand, you are no part of this. You and I are separate from this.”

I digest this. In one sense, he’s absolutely right. What if he had continued to hide his illness? We might have fizzled out. I might have left on June 11 none the wiser. This is his illness, not ours.

“Nothing has to change,” he says. “Except that I don’t have to lie anymore.” He grins wryly. “We can continue on. If you want. Nothing has to change,” he reiterates.

I think of something he said the other night, that this—me—was his last hurrah. I realize that I feel the same way. Before I go back to my life, before I continue on my preordained path, my plan . . . I want this. Whatever this is. My first instinct was to run away from it, but now it’s the opposite. Being with him seems imperative now. Like being given the opportunity to hold time in your hand.

At my silence, Jamie swallows. “I understand, obviously, if you don’t want any part of this. If you don’t want to continue the intimacy with which . . .” He pauses. “Perhaps we might be friends?” He looks down at his hand on my ankle like he’s memorizing it. Like it might disappear before his eyes.

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

He removes his hand, nodding reflexively.

“I want to be your girlfriend.”

He looks up at me. “Truly?”

“Whaddaya say?” I stick out my hand. It’s how we do things.

He takes my hand, beaming, and gently pulls me toward him. “It’s a plan.”

AFTER SOME BREAKFAST (which, for Jamie, was just coffee and two slices of thick-slab bacon on toast) we’re lingering at the kitchen table, Jamie looking like he could fall asleep again. I’m back to thinking. Specifically, about the trip I have planned in December. I still really want to go, but am I being selfish? It would be amazing if he could come with me, but it’s over the holidays and surely he has plans. And would he even be well enough to travel?