Say the Word(71)
Did he torment me? Sure, frequently.
But yell at me? That was something he never did.
After spending almost six months at the hospital and then in the rehabilitation center, he’d finally recovered enough to come home in late June. And for nearly five, blissful months, I’d had my Jamie back. In the summer, Bash would pick us up and we’d strap Jamie’s wheelchair to the bed of his truck, as had become our custom. Hot days were spent by the lakefront, rainy ones at the local movie theater. We laughed often, joking with the ease of old friends — often at my expense, of course, but I couldn’t complain when I saw Jamie grinning — and enjoying the freedom that only youth affords.
It was a picture-perfect summer. I was young and carefree, utterly wrapped up in a boy who’d flipped my world on its head. And for a while I let myself believe that Jamie had been cured for good this time, and that things might stay this way forever.
But inevitably, the days grew shorter and the temperatures began to drop off with the arrival of fall. Our summer days slipped away, Sebastian and I returned to school for our senior year, and, once again, Jamie found himself alone all day, which he complained wasn’t much better than being in the hospital. He’d opted not to return to Jackson High. Having missed so much school, he’d essentially have to retake all his junior year classes to catch up. Rather than be left behind as his friends entered our final year, he instead chose to work from home and complete his GED.
Each day, I’d spend time with Jamie before my shift at Minnie’s. Sometimes, if he didn’t have football practice, Sebastian would come with me and the three of us would do homework together, cramped over the tiny, wobbly kitchen table. And if Bash minded the less than elegant quarters, he never said as much to me. I think he was just happy to be out of his mansion, away from his parents for a while.
But now, the cancer was back. I’d called Jamie’s doctor earlier this morning to confirm it. Over a week had passed since his monthly check-up scans and it was unusual for results to take more than a few days, at most. Knowing Jamie, he’d intercepted the phone call in hopes that I wouldn’t find out.
“We’ll be fine, Jamie.” I stood and climbed onto the bed next to him, forcing him to scoot over to accommodate me. “We’ll beat it back again, just like last time.”
“I know, sis.” He sighed. “I’m just getting tired of fighting.”
We fell silent for a moment, lying shoulder-to-shoulder on his thin mattress — staring up at the ceiling, each lost in our own thoughts.
“They’re going to take my leg this time,” Jamie whispered. His tone wasn’t mournful or bitter. It wasn’t a complaint or a grievance. It was a simple acceptance of fact: he’d be an amputee at seventeen.
“You don’t know that.” My whispered assurance was more wishful thinking than actual truth. We both knew it was almost certain that he’d lose his leg with the next operation — it was the doctors’ only remaining recourse, after the bone grafts and salvage surgeries had failed.
“Did you tell him yet?”
I knew he was asking about Bash. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
Jamie nodded. “Do you think he’ll still want to throw a football around with the crippled kid?”
I tried my best to hold in the tears, forcing a laugh and jabbing Jamie in the side with my elbow. “Well, he dates me, so I think his standards are pretty low.”
Jamie snorted in laughter. “That’s true,” he noted, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
I felt a small smile break out across my face. No matter how bad things got, making fun of myself was always a surefire way to cheer Jamie up.
***
“I have to go”
“No you don’t.”
“I really, really do.”
“Nah,” Sebastian breathed against my collarbone. “I think you can stay a little while longer.”
His mouth trailed wet kisses up my neck as his hand worked its way beneath the skirt of my work uniform. I pressed back against the smooth leather of the passenger seat, cursing the confined space that was his Mercedes. I had no easy escape from his persistent, wandering hands and, while that was normally not a problem for me, right now I had to get home and finish a mountain of homework before school tomorrow.
Plus, I wasn’t in the best mood. He’d picked me up from the diner after my shift and driven us out to one of our favorite spots by the lake. In the summer, it was a hive of activity for daytime swimmers and late-night barbecuers alike, but the arrival of autumn left it still and quiet. With the moon casting a perfect reflection on the mirror-still water, it was perfect place to be alone to talk — or not talk — depending on the mood.
Tonight had been a lot of conversation and very little physical interaction. As was the norm lately, our discussion had drifted to the coming end of senior year and college applications. Bash had applied to every Ivy League school, of course, and his father had his sights set on Princeton, where his son could carry on the family legacy. My parents didn’t even know I was applying to state school and, if they had, they’d likely have discouraged it.
Suffice to say, it wasn’t my favorite topic.
“I applied to another school today,” Bash told me, tracing one of his fingers across my upturned palm.