We spent the next morning at an art museum, which was okay. Literature as an art form clicks better with me than visual art. But Augustine seemed to enjoy it, pulling me along from room to room. And I got to hold her hand the whole time.
"Imagine your favorite fictional characters in the pictures," she told me. "That's what I do. Then I draw them later." She pointed out a painting of a man in a chariot talking to a blonde goddess who appeared to be flying. "Do you like Supernatural? That could be Dean, in his car, talking to the angel Castiel." She stood up on a bench in the middle of the room and raised her arms like the goddess in the picture. "I ship them so hard. I think Cas would reach out and stroke Dean's face, like this-" she stroked my cheek with a single, soft finger- "and then kiss him before vanishing into the clouds. I should draw that." She demonstrated, planting her lips upon my forehead and leaping lightly off the bench with a dramatic flourish. When she landed though, she winced slightly and put a hand to her chest before quickly shaking it off.
"Are you alright?" I asked, worried.
"Yeah, yeah, I just landed harder than I meant to and my knees buckled. I'm fine."
I should have taken her by both hands. Sat her down on the bench. Made her tell me the truth. But I didn't give it another thought, and we moved on to the next gallery.
The flight home that afternoon was uneventful, unless you count the security guard confiscating my mother's yogurt when we went through the metal detectors. Augustine's mother was waiting for us at the airport, and she gave my mom and me a ride home. I didn't see Augustine for a few days after that.
I was awakened on Saturday by the phone ringing. I didn't have to unhook myself from the BiPAP or even get out of bed, because my mom answered it. I heard her talk, first in her usual loud soccer-mom-esque voice, then more quietly. A few minutes later, there was a single knock on my bedroom door and my mother entered, looking sad. She didn't say a word, just helped me get the BiPAP off my face and my oxygen tank in my nose.
"Morning, Mom," I said, pretending not to notice her behaving oddly. "What's up?"
"I'm really sorry to tell you this…" She wasn't meeting my eyes. Distractedly, she opened my dresser drawer and tossed me a bra and a pair of jeans.
"Yes? What is it?"
She took a deep breath. "Augustine's had a relapse. She's in the hospital. Get dressed and I'll take you over there." She said this all very fast, as though she wanted to get it over with a quickly as possible. I felt my eyes fill with hot tears and dried them hastily on my jeans.
"Ok," I managed to choke out. "Could you hand me a t-shirt, please?"
Memorial Hospital wasn't far from our house, just a bit farther than the hospital I went to and much nicer. My mom went up to Augustine's room with me, but she waited outside the door. I tiptoed in, slightly worried about what I might see.
Augustine was lying on her back, her eyes open but slightly glassy. She was mostly covered by a gauzy blanket, but a green paper hospital gown peeked out at her shoulder, and there were tubes and wires connected to her chest and arms. It was the first time I'd seen her without hair, and the baldness of her head made her green eyes look as big as limes. I crossed over to the bed, pulled up a chair, and began to stroke her hand.
"You shouldn't have come," she said in greeting.
"I'm your girlfriend. I'm not going to hear you're in the hospital and say, 'what a pity, I'd better get on with my day'."
She rolled her eyes to acknowledge my point. "I look like I got out of hell on sick leave."
"That would make sense, wouldn't it?"
"That's not what I meant. I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"That I'd relaspsed. Just before we left for Amsterdam I started to feel worse. I went in for a PET scan, and the results looked like a giant Rorschach test. I didn't say anything to you because we'd worked so hard to go to Amsterdam and I didn't want to ruin it." I was crying now, silently. Augustine lifted her hand feebly to wipe away the tears on my left cheek. "I'm on some sort of painkiller, and it's making me sleepy," she apologized.
"It's okay," I whispered. "It'll be okay." I looked away from her because I knew she was shaking her head, and said it one more time to reassure myself. "It's okay."
I could see her starting to doze off. I reached over and picked up her other hand and held both of them until she fell asleep.
We prayed for Augustine at Support Group. I'd always known the prayers to be halfhearted at best, but when it was Augustine we were praying for I wanted to scream. No! You need to try! I had always been convinced the praying was useless, but I wanted to know that people cared about Augustine. I needed to know that she was more than just another cancer kid, waiting in line to kick the bucket, an empty chair that had never asked to be filled.
Isaac came with me the next time I visited Augustine. She could sit up then, and seemed to have her sense of humor back. We didn't stay too long, but at the end Augustine told me to come over to her bed. I obeyed, stood about a foot away, and looked at her quizzically.
"Closer," she commanded with a slight giggle, patting the side of the bed next to her legs. I sat down. Augustine wrapped one arm around my neck, and brushed my hair out of my eyes with her other hand. She smiled faintly before leaning in for a kiss.
Her lips were as soft as ever, gently prying, feeling around for whatever love I could give her. But something about its gentleness seemed like she was holding back, as though she had the energy in her and was deliberately not using it. It was like she was keeping a bit for herself, to remember me by.