Young Adult / Post-Crisis

The IV drips so loud you can hear it when you wake.  Your eyelids are too heavy to open, and you can’t feel a thing.  It takes a few moments for you to realize where you are.

You’re helped along by the voice of a man (or a boy, his voice is so insecure) asking repeatedly, “How is he doing, Doctor?  When will he wake up?”  Your eyes flutter weakly, and can only see the blurry impression of the boy (or a man, he’s almost tall enough) and a person in a white coat, the doctor.  Your eyes fall closed, and you’re asleep again.

• • •
The next time you wake up, it takes you only moments to remember where you are.  The hospital, blinding white against your eyelids.  There’s a man there when you wake up, with his chair pulled close to the bed, gripping your hand tightly.  You try flexing your fingers against his hand.  When he feels it, he looks up in shock.  “Nurse!” he calls out the door.  “Nurse!  My son is awake!”  He’s smiling so widely, turns back to you  with tears in his eyes.  “Christian, you’re awake.  Thank God.”  You don’t know how you should be feeling about this whole ordeal, but you try to smile.  It wears you out.  You only mean to blink, but once those lids are closed, they won’t open again.

• • •
“Mr. Riley,  there is no smoking in this hospital!”   You stir at the sound of the nurse’s voice.  Your back aches like it really needs to be cracked.

“I didn’t light it!  See, look!  It’s gone!  No, don’t kick me out--”  The scratchy tenor sounds so familiar.  Like you’ve heard it before.  Of course; this is the guy who was in your room the day you woke up.  You want to see him, to know why he’s there.  You’re sure he’s not your brother, and definitely not your father.  You open your eyes, and there he is, struggling with a nurse who is pushing him from the room. 

He’s blond with a side part and has green eyes, you can tell.  He’s wearing a worn plaid shirt, jeans ripped in so many places, and a jacket on his arm.  He’s unshaven, eyes tired, face dirty.  He looks homeless.  What was his name?  Riley?  Riley--“Jam--” Your words halt with a cough, and they finally notice you.  Then it’s a whirlwind of doctors and nurses and Whatshisname Riley can’t get in a word edgewise.  In fact, he gets pushed clear out of the room while doctors test you for coherency and healthiness and whatever else doctors test for.

You can speak fine, if a little hoarsely.  You can’t walk too well at first, being in bed, according to them, a little less than a month.  But you’re fine, except for your memory.  They say it will come back to you.

• • •

Your dad comes in the evenings and talks to you.  He tells you that your name is Christian, you’re a sweet seventeen-year-old boy who’s undergoing observation before conditioning for a bone marrow transplant, and you think that it’s a little ridiculous.  They say you’ve been in bed for almost a month.  Maybe you have, but wouldn’t you remember it?  Why the amnesia, then?  According to Mr. Hayes, you’re his bright little boy, and you’ve got a girlfriend name Katelyn who wants to come in and visit you soon, you know.  That doesn’t sound right to you.

“Who’s Jamie?” The question is out before you can think, and your dad goes rigid.

“Why?  Did he come to see you?”  You have to think about that question first, because you can’t remember exactly who Jamie is.  Jamie.  Jamie, James, Jameson.  Jameson Riley, that’s right.  Blond hair, green eyes, the boy (man) you’d follow to the end of the world.

“He says jump,” you explain to Katelyn, or try, “I ask how high.”

“Yes,” you say.  “I think.  I think he was here when I first woke up.”  You can feel his hand gripping yours like it could wake you up if he holds tight enough.  “He’s been here lots of times.”

“Well, that’s not good.  That boy’s a walking asthma attack.  He’s probably been stressing you out, hasn’t he?”  Your dad’s grip minutely tightens.  “I’ll have to tell the nurses to ban him.”

“I don’t want you to talk to that boy anymore.”

“I’m seventeen!  I can do what I want!”

You’re too tired to argue this time around; you just smile and fall asleep.

• • •

What the mystery really is: how you got to the hospital.  It can’t just be the marrow transplant.  You can feel it in your heart.  You despise hospitals.  You’ve been to them too many times before.  Yeah, you’re remembering like it was yesterday.  You’re seven and you have leukemia.  You’re ten and you’ve had chemotherapy.  You’re twelve and you meet Jamie.  He’s a tough talking boy who doesn’t treat you like you’re made of glass.  In return,  you treat him like a friend.  You’re fourteen, and you purposefully fail the high school placement exams so that you get put in Jamie’s classes.  You maintain B’s in the classes; not high enough to be recommended a higher placement, but not low enough to shame yourself.  You’re sophomores and Jamie’s been smoking for years, the kind of freedom that you wish you had.  You’re seniors and your health is spiraling downward.  You spend a week at the hospital doing tests and getting blood samples.  Jamie never visits, but you’ll see him when you get back to school.  You’re seniors in Chemistry, and Katelyn’s asking just what your relationship with Jamie is.  “We’re like this: he says jump, I ask how high.  He says run, I ask how far.”

All this thinking makes your head hurt.

• • •
You think Jamie’s dropped out of school, because he’s always there in the daytime.  Maybe he just dropped a couple classes.  You don’t know why, but you spend hours at a time pretending to sleep, when you’ve already had enough of sleeping.  You just don’t want to face Jamie with your eyes open. 

What’s confusing is that Jamie’s so worried about you.  He comes and sits in the chair by the bed.  He holds your hand, and it’s an awfully un-Jamie thing to do.  Why is it that he, with no regard for rules, people, you, or your feelings, finds the need to watch over you while you’re sleeping?  Maybe this whole hospital thing… well, of course this has something to do with him.  Everything has to do with Jamie.

You’re caught skipping class for the umpteenth time, dragged to the principal’s office to be questioned, again.  “I mean, look at him,” Jamie says about you. You know he’s keeping you out of trouble, but… “He’s sick.  You can’t honestly think he’s tripping or smoking or anything.”

...it’s extremely irritating…

“I guess you’re right,” Mr. P concedes. “Drugs are especially bad for Christian, considering his condition, and you look out for him like a mother, don’t you?”

...how they talk about you…

Jamie grits his teeth but fakes a smile.  He hates Mr. P.  ”That’s right,” he says.  ”Christian’s not doing anything under my watch.”
 
...like you aren’t even there.  I’m sick, not invisible! you want to scream.  But you can’t really hate him, when he allows you to taste the slightest bit of freedom he has that no one else does.

• • •

Katelyn comes to visit.  You’re glad; she’s the only other person you don’t get pity from.  It’s a shame that Jamie doesn’t like her, really.  He leaves the room and lingers instead in the hallway, casting dark glances over his shoulder.  She’s nice and pretty and everything you like in a girl.  She doesn’t dangle what you want right before your eyes.

“Maybe I should go,” she says, looking out the doorway to Jamie.  “I mean, I’m missing Chemistry right now.”

“Don’t go,” you croak.  You tighten your grasp on her fingers.  “Stay, please.”

She smooths the hair from your forehead with a soft look in her eyes.  “Jamie doesn’t like me,” she says.

“Jamie doesn’t control my life.”

Katelyn sadly smiles and says, “Don’t you remember what you told me?  That last day in school?”

He’s says jump, I ask how high.  “No.”  He says run, I ask how far.  “I don’t.”  Jamie’s more than my best friend.  He’s the only one, you know.  “What did I say?” I’d follow him to the end of the world, he’s that important to me.

“You said lots of things.  ‘Jamie doesn’t control my life’ wasn’t one of them.”  But she stays and talks to you while Jamie hovers jealously in the doorway.  He leaves a little later, because it’s three, he has to get to work, and he doesn’t want a run in with your dad.

• • •
Jamie gets suspended from school again, so you bring the lab work from Chemistry over to his house and complete it there as he sits on the kitchen counter, lighting a fresh Lucky Strike.  “What do you have there?” he questions idly, breathing out smoke.

“Chemistry homework,” you tell him as you run your finger down the page, checking your calculations again.

“Oh yeah.  That lab was today, huh. Sorry.”

“No problem,” you reply, scribbling a conclusion.  “Katelyn partnered with me.”

“Really now.”

“Yeah.  It was nice, having someone else to talk to for a change.  I like her.”  His shadow falls over you, and you don’t even turn around before he snubs out his barely-smoked cigarette on your page.  “What the hell!” You exclaim, dropping your pen.  There’s a ringing in your ears.

“Whoops,” Jamie deadpans, moving away.  The ringing is, conveniently, the telephone.  “Sorry, I’ve got to answer that.  It’s probably Naomi.”  He has a satisfied half-grin on his face he never wears when he mentions his mom.  Jerk gets off on burning other people’s hard work.  What the hell?

There isn’t a fire, thank God, but there’s a large spot burnt through pages and pages in your notebook.  You give up and shove everything back into your backpack.  Congratulations, you smell like smoke and your homework for the past three months is ruined.  This is Karma for helping Jamie get out of class without a qualm, insisting that he’s accompanying you to the nurses office for your pills every time.  You don’t even go to the office for your pills until lunch time, testing just how long you can go without them before you start shaking more than violently.  (It only lasts a couple periods, and then you’re rushing out of Spanish class.  The trashcan outside of that class is well acquainted with your innards.)

• • •

One day Dad comes to visit you during lunchtime.  Jamie’s still there, loitering in your hospital room, reading People’s Magazine.  Dad hasn’t banned him yet, but he will now, after the fight they immediately launch themselves into.  He’s always hated Jamie.

“Where were you?” he asks when you come through the door.

“Jamie’s,” you try saying neutrally.

“I don’t want you to talk to that boy anymore,” your dad says, his voice tightening.

“I’m seventeen!  I can do what I want!”  And suddenly it’s escalated into a shouting match.

“Don’t talk like that to me!  GO--“

“I’m going to my room!”  Your statements are punctuated with a slam.

It’s hard to concentrate on pretending to be asleep when you hear them shouting in the hallway.  Security seems to be taking a long time to get here.

“Why are you here?” Dad spits, and you have to sit up to see.  You just have to.  “You’re the reason Christian’s here in the first place!”

“Can I smoke?” you ask innocently.  Jamie glances at you.

“No.”

“If you’re referring to my habits, Mr. Hayes, it’s not as if I let him smoke or ingest any drugs!” Jamie retorts.

You chance it anyway, taking the cigarette dangling from his fingertips.  He snatches it away just as quick, rounding on you furiously.  “Didn’t I tell you not to?  Jesus, Chris.  Do you have a death wish?  You have a freaking terminal illness.  Do you even know what harm this will do to your body?”

“I’m talking about the way you run his life!” Dad retorts.  “Don’t you see how he doesn’t have any friends?  And no, you don’t count, Jameson.  He’s terrified of what you do when he even talks to someone else!”

Katelyn comes to your house once for a history assignment, and Jamie doesn’t talk to you for weeks.  You don’t talk to her either.  She only ever asks about it when Jamie’s suspended and you’re put to work together in the lab.  “What’s your relationship with Jamie?”

“I don’t run his life!  Didn’t you know, he steals from me?  Yeah.  He’s deactivated the smoke detector in his room and steals my cigarettes and smokes them, two at a time.  I didn’t even know this until—”

The door slams behind you and you throw your awfully smelling backpack as far as you can.  It still smells like smoke.  You were planning to put the battery back in the smoke detector, but it’s going to just start beeping again.  So instead you slam open a drawer and pull out a half used carton you snatched from the economy sized box in Jamie’s garage and light up.   You exhale, but it’s not relieving the knot in your chest.  You’re stressed, you’re guilty, you’re a dying man.  Why can’t anything take it all away?

“He almost died because he left with you!  What were you thinking, dragging him along with you when you left your home?  I don’t care if you’re eighteen; that doesn’t make you and adult, and it doesn’t mean you can commandeer the life of your so-called friend!”

You are trying to redo your whole Chemistry lab notebook when Jamie climbs into your room, sitting on  your open window sill.  You panic and hit your head on your desk lamp when he says hi.  “What are you doing here?” you hiss, smoothly stuffing your carton of Lucky Strikes in your back pocket as you turn around to face him.  He’s not even looking at you.

“Naomi kicked me out.  I was wondering if I could stay here.”

“No way!” you shriek.  You’re standing facing him, with your back to your desk, fingers gripping the ledge so tightly you can feel the knuckles turn white.  Then you lower your voice.  “My dad hates you!”

“Then what do you suggest I do?”

There’s silence, as Jamie is shocked at your dad’s implications.

There’s silence, as you don’t know how to answer.

“I want,” Jamie voices shakily, “Whatever’s best for Chris.”

“Listen, I’m thinking of just taking off.  I mean, I am of legal age and all…”  Why is it the thought of him gone makes your fingernails dig into wood?  “So, come with me.”

“Huh?” It’s the only intelligent response you can think to say. He holds out his hand and you stare.

“I mean, you can stay if you want, hold down the fort and all that, but…”   He tries not to sound hopeful.  “I’d really like you to come.”  You’ve never seen him so vulnerable since his mom had an abortion when he was fourteen.  He really wanted that baby.  He really wants you.  There’s no other reason that propels you across the room to take his hand.

“I think it’s best if you just leave him alone.”

“It’s like this,” you try to explain.  It’s so hard just to find the words.  “He says jump, I ask how high.”

“I’m stupid,” you cough violently into your fist.  You huddle in your jacket in the passenger seat of Jamie’s car.  You’re almost at the beach, and you can see the stars.  “I’m dying.  Didn’t even bring my medication.  You’ll bury me on the beach, won’t you?  While I’m busy crawling through those tunnels of light?”

“There’s no light at the end of a tunnel,”  Jamie tells you, dry voice full of conviction.  He drives one handed, elbow resting on the door, smoke turning to wisps in the wind.  “There’s a set of doors, so tall you’d break your neck looking up.  Like the doors to the courtroom.”  He brings his cigarette back to his lips, grips it there so he can use a free hand to put up the windows and canvas top.

“You’ve seen all this, have you?” you tease, sitting up.  The car’s a piece of crap and the heater doesn’t work.

“How else would I know?” That half-grin comes to his face again.  He notices your trembling and digs in his pocket, handing you a prescription bottle.

“How did you…?”  There’s only five pills left.  “Why are you still here?” you amend.

“You ,” he says shortly.  You take the pills and hope you’re hallucinating his tone of voice.

• • •

You’ve been at the hospital a week more than a month.  You hate hospitals.  You hate the wait, the expectation, the everything.  A month is a short stay, for you.  When you get out, your hair is usually growing back and you return to school with stares and whispers and Jamie.  Chemotherapy’s worked before.  It let you get through high school alright.  You might have lung cancer, from the smoking combined with chemotherapy.  You don’t care.  You hate this hospital most of all, because you’re still here instead of out there riding shotgun in Jamie’s mustang, going wherever the wind takes you two.

But you’re here, and he’s here, and you’re pretending to sleep, like always, and he knows but doesn’t say a thing.  No, he’s apologizing profusely for everything he’s ever done.

“I’m so stupid,” he chokes, and you hate this hospital more for turning the Jamie you know into a forlorn little boy sitting by your bedside day after day.  “I wasn’t thinking.  Before I left, I just wanted to something for you.  You’ve never been to the beach, and you’ve always wanted to be there at night and sleep under the stars.  You’re kind of a romantic like that.  I was going to take you back in the morning, I swear.  I wasn’t really running away with you.  You didn’t pack anything, and I knew you were probably change your mind in the morning.  For all your rebelliousness, you won’t leave your dad for anything.  But I didn’t expect it to be so cold.  I didn’t even notice that you took all the medication during the night, so in the morning when I woke up, your lips turned blue, and oh god, what if I ran into anything on the way back?  I was driving so fast we would have died on impact.  What if we lived further away, and had to go an hour instead of forty minutes? It took even shorter, at the rate I was going.  I was so lucky to be stopped by that cop, and he even gave us a ride the rest of the way, because someone needed to keep you warm, and he kept the siren on so we could get here that much faster.

“Severe hypothermia by the time we get here.  My fault for taking a leukemic kid to the beach on a winter night.”  He gasps wetly, and you realize he’s weeping.  Jamie, the most difficult, maladjusted man you have ever even heard of is weeping.

It’s disturbing on so many levels, and before you realize it,  you’ve cracked your eyes open and you stare.  He notices that you’re no longer limp and looks up.

“Don’t,” you whisper, like it will make those tears slide backwards.  “Please don’t.”

“You’re going to live,” Jamie tells you. “They’re taking your dad’s bone marrow, aren’t they?  He’s a good match with you.  You had a tumor in your lungs.  Tobacco and a weak immune system don’t mix well.  It was small enough that they took it out, so it’s okay.  Just don’t smoke anymore.  Promise?”

“Pr-Promise.”  You stumble over the word.

“And,” Jamie says, “You’re going to go back to school.  They’re not letting you out for a while, and there will only be maybe a couple weeks until graduation, but you better be there.  You can have the gown Naomi ordered for me; I’m not going to use it.  I gave it to your dad.”  That’s right.  Jamie dropped out, didn’t he?

“Yeah,” you say.

“And,” Jamie starts, then stops.  He looks ashamed and embarrassed and angrily jealous all at once.  “Go to prom.  Take Katelyn, I know you like her.  I made sure she’d hold out for you, and the student council is waiving your fee.”

“Jamie…” you say, and it’s your turn to choke.  Christ, you hate this hospital.  It’s making Jamie give everything you ever wanted, but you know it’s only because he’s going for good.  He’s already standing up and letting go and taking a step away.  “Don’t.  Please don’t.”

“I’ll stay if you tell me to stay,” he says.

“Stay.”

He shakes his head.  “Make me stay.”

“How do I do that?” you cry out.  You can’t stop your own tears and you grip his hand hard.  “Stay, Jamie!  You’re my best friend, and I need you here!”  Katelyn isn’t getting it.  She’s smart and beautiful, but this something only you can understand.  “He’s more than my best friend,” you tell her.  It feels so weird to say, but nothing has ever been truer.  “He’s the only one, you know.”

“The only one for what?”

“I love you,” Jamie confesses, and something breaks, allowing your heart to plunge into your stomach and weigh like a thousand bricks.  You loosen your fingers, and they fall slack away from Jamie’s.  “Yeah, see?  I thought as much.”

“The doors,” you blurt, when Jamie’s halfway out the room.  “The doors to the courtroom.  What did you mean when you said I kept you here?  How did I save your life?”  It’s such an obvious answer, but you don’t want him to go.  Not yet.

“Don’t you know,” Jamie says, and his voice is trembling calm, “How Naomi sleeps around on her absent husband?”  He doesn’t even call them Mom or Dad.  “When Anders comes home on his leave, he’s awful.  It’s not any better when Naomi spends all her time and money being beautiful and having fun.  She couldn’t care less what I do.  You know how many times I could have killed myself?  If it weren’t for you, Christian, I think I would have.  I might have even brought a pistol to school, shot everyone I saw, starting with that damnable Chemistry class.  And you’d be dead all the same.”

You sigh and don’t know what, but the words come out of your mouth like air: “I’d follow him to the end of the world, he’s that important to me.”

He goes before you can stop him again.

• • •

There’s a man (indisputably) walking purposefully away from the hospital; you can see him from the window.  He looks like he’s been through hell, even from three floors up.  He has blond hair and green eyes, you can tell, because Jamie, James, Jameson Riley counts the windows from the left to make sure he’s looking at the right room.  You wave, and you don’t know if he sees your painful smile.  He waves back.  Then he’s gone.

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