My Oxford Year(70)
“The cost!” I shout, louder than I intended. “Are you serious—”
Jamie clenches his eyes shut. “Not financial cost, personal cost. Side effects.”
“Which are?”
“They have no bloody idea! It’s a trial. That’s the point.” He sits forward suddenly, elbows on his knees. He stares at William as he draws a steadying breath. “Oliver did a trial and it killed him. Slowly, painfully. He bled out internally, drowning, suffocating on his own blood—”
“The drug didn’t kill Oliver.” William interrupts yet again.
Suddenly Jamie’s finger pops out like a gun, pointing accusingly at William. Hand shaking in repressed rage, he glares at his father. I’m taken aback. I’ve never seen him this angry.
William alters his tone. “I’m only saying Oliver was too advanced. You’re the perfect candidate for this.”
Jamie’s voice shakes when he says quietly, “I won’t submit Ella to unknown side effects. I won’t abide her turning nursemaid—”
“This isn’t about me!” I cry, appalled at his reasoning, just as William yells, “This isn’t about her!” We glance at each other warily, uncomfortable in our agreement.
Antonia shakes her head. “You’d think we’d all have learned something from the last time round.” The moment she speaks Jamie and William demagnetize, separate like two boxers going to opposite corners once the referee steps in. There’s silence. It feels like this roller coaster is slowing, pulling into the station. Though I’m not unfastening my seat belt just yet.
She looks between them. “This illness is not easy on any of us. Decisions are not easy for any of us. Yes, Jamie, you will decide your future, but we will all live with it. There is no right answer. Wouldn’t it be relieving if there were?”
Her diplomacy is inspiring. I could take a lesson from her.
“So, my love. Listen. Consider. Don’t discount something simply because your father is suggesting it. Then make your choice. And we shall support it.”
William has retreated to a corner of the room, looking at the floor. Jamie absently rubs his forehead. He looks exhausted, yet contemplative. I’m still in awe of Antonia.
Jamie goes completely still for a moment. Then:
“I’ll do the trial. On one condition.” He looks up at his father. “You are to stay out of it. You are not to talk to my doctors. You are to neither call nor visit. I am to be left alone for the next three months.”
William looks as if he’s going to detonate.
“Jamie, is that really necessary?” I ask.
Jamie’s eyes never leave William’s. “Yes.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer. William finally speaks. “I’ll be outside.” He leaves. Not another word. No “I’m sorry.” No “Jamie, please.” No “I love you.” He doesn’t look at anyone. He just exits.
Antonia turns to Jamie on the couch. She kisses his cheek. She lingers there. Then they embrace. Just hold each other. Standing behind Jamie, I watch tears leak out of Antonia’s tightly shut eyes. This is what was inside her the whole time. I hear a choked, fractured voice say, “I love you,” and in this moment I can’t tell if it came from Jamie or Antonia. It doesn’t matter.
I’ve only felt love like this once in my life, and I can’t bear to think of it right now.
Antonia pats Jamie on the back, and pulls away. “Gorgeous boy.”
“Beautiful mum.”
She gets up and reaches for my hand. We don’t dare hug. I think we both know we’d lose it. She inclines her head in the direction that William exited. “Apologies, Eleanor.”
What the hell is she apologizing for? I shake my head, try to lighten the mood. “He’s a bit of a bull in a china shop, isn’t he?”
“That’s generous, my dear.” She smiles slightly, seems to think about this for a second. “Though sometimes one must ask oneself why the bull is in the china shop in the first place.” She leaves.
As her footsteps recede I debate going after her. I want to know why he’s in the china shop. I want to know what is going on between father and son. I glance at Jamie and see that he’s tipped his head back, closed his eyes.
“Jamie—” I begin.
“I need a moment.”
He’s angry. I get it. I’m angry, too. I step out into the hallway just as the front door closes behind Antonia. Too late. She’s gone.
I won’t go out there. That would be asking for trouble and we’ve had enough of it for one day. But I find myself gravitating to the window beside the door, curtained with a simple muslin panel. Standing to the side of it and looking through the space between the window and the drapery, I can see directly onto the front stoop without having to push back the material. I know I’m snooping, but I can’t help it. This feels necessary.
Antonia has paused on the top stair and gazes down upon William, who, at the bottom of the stairs, has taken hold of the handrail and is violently pulling at it until it breaks free from its rusty bolts. He throws it down into the bushes next to the stair. He stands motionless for a moment, panting with flared nostrils. He kicks the railing for good measure, then just looks at it. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket, takes out a cigarette, lights up, and begins pacing. Kicking up dirt. Forcing air and smoke in and out of his body, clearly wanting to do more damage, but not sure to what.