CHAPTER TWENTY: First True Date

That night, I placed Daddy on a series of incessant interrogation about Landon.

"What exactly did he say, Dad?" I kept asking, certain that there was more than "Is it alright if I took her to dinner on New Year's Eve?"

"Well," Daddy started, squinting his eyes, feigning a concentrated recollection. "At first I said no firmly. Then he almost left for the door. But before he actually went out of my office, he turned back and…apologized."

I gasped. "He apologized? For what?"

"For misbehaving when he was young."

"Oh." I was right, I really was. There was something good, something benign, in Landon that nobody saw, no one but me. All his belligerence, all his mischief, they were merely his dominated outwardly disposition, one that he would outgrow someday. Deep inside, too deep and too entrenched within that was so easily neglected, was his angelic self that clearly defined the inherent facet of who Landon truly was.

And I saw that.

"Jamie," Dad broke through my ephemeral sense of triumph, "I believe that Landon had misunderstood my lack of enthusiasm when he asked you out."

I decided it safer to keep silent.

"Are you planning to tell him anytime soon, Jamie?"

I breathed, closing my eyes. Telling Landon about it was my nightmare. His love for me would change. The way he looked at me would change. My life would flip upside-down. I would no longer be the same.

"No."

"But he'll need to know soon-"

"No, Dad," I affirmed. "Things will change too much if I do."

"I understand," Daddy whispered. "But after all, he'll find out one day, and it'd be best if you are the one who told him."

I nodded, hoping that this little gesture would put an end to this discussion, without the intention to acknowledge Daddy's words.

"So, what else did he say?" I tried for optimism in my voice.

"Nothing much, besides his apology."

"Come on, Dad!" I nudged him. "There's got to be more than that." I shook Dad's arm, pleading with my eyes.

He laughed. "Alright, alright. There's one more. But it's cheesy, I doubt if you really want to hear it."

"I'll hear anything he had said," I clarified.

"He said," Daddy began, slowly and dramatically, "'I love her.'"

At that, I slumped the cushion into my face, mortified. My cheeks went aflame. Through the blanketed layer, I cried, in exuberance or in embarrassment, "He didn't say that!"

"Oh yes, he did, Jamie. I heard it, loud and crystal-clear."

I pressed the cushion harder against my cheeks. Such declaration of affection was downright bizarre, especially when the receiver was the parent of the lover.

"Jamie, look at me. Jamie?"

"No, Dad."

"Do what you want, but I'll say what I will. I'm happy for you, honey. You're growing up, and love is a part of that. No matter when your time's up, love will always be an eternal part of you, be it my love or Landon's love for you. Love dries not with time."

"Too philosophical," I commented, pulling the smothering coating away, gulping lungful of air, giving Dad the I-do-not-care façade, but in reality, I wanted to believe that Daddy's words were the truest of all truths.

He continued, as if preaching at a sermon, but with handled gentleness. "Love like this, Jamie, is a great experience, one that does not stop at death. But you need to know, honey," he paused, turning away from me for a few moments. I heard heavy breathings, a suppressed hiccup, and a sniff before he turned back to be with a forced smile that did not reach his cheeks. "Honey, dying means letting go."

This time was my turn to break down. Tears cascaded in waterfalls, gravity forcing them downward, my hands weren't efficient enough to dry them. "Why, Daddy?" I demanded between cries. "Why me? I just found Landon, I'm the only one you have…" I rolled myself up into a ball, my eyes pressing hard against my kneecaps, trying to press the tears away, trying to halt their flow, trying to hide away my weakness, my fears. I could feel the wet cloth against my skin, wet from the tears.

A hand moved forward to caress my head. I hugged myself tighter, pressing my sorrow back to its concealed area within my heart, to leash it back in me. I sniffed, I coughed, I hiccupped, but with all of the noises I heard, the dissonance of sounds was not wholly from me.

It was a long time that we sat there, each struggling with our unleashed burden. I thought through Daddy, thought through Landon and how he had declared his love for me. I loved him, truly. But he could not love me.

I must undo his love, mustn't I?

I must be selfless, he must find true, lasting love. I must leave him, I must be fair to him. Mustn't I?

I raised my head, the fresh breath of air rejuvenated me. My legs went stiff, and I stretched them, the large circles on my pants saturated through to reach my skin. "Dad?"

He was curled up, hugging a cushion. From my stand, the cushion was positioned rightly to masquerade his face. "Yes?" he murmured out, his voice hoarse and out of place.

I wanted to tell him, I was about to say out loud, that I wanted to leave Landon, that I needed to leave Landon. Yet at the very moment before the words poured out, I sucked them back in. Somehow, saying out this new decision made it impossible to repeal it back. Somehow, saying it out would mean that I had to do it, that this was the reality I had destined myself to face. Somehow, I was feeling qualms of guilt.

"Nothing," I said instead.

He moved and shuffled to wipe his reddened cheeks and faced me. "Jamie," Dad started, "I want you to be perfectly honest with me.

"Anything."

"How is your condition now?"

I hardened into my stand.

"I know you've been trying to hide things from me, but please do understand that I'm your father. I have the rights to know about your condition."

"I wasn't not trying to hide," I protested.

"Is it deteriorating?"

"No."

"Is it, Jamie? Truthfully?"

"No, Dad." I stared into his eyes, conveying my fallacious honesty. Our eyes bored intently, a soundless war raging between our sights. His vehemence could not thrust me down. Between the lie at the frontier and the truth, I erected a fortress, one strong enough to back up the fabrication and to guard the truth.

"Do you swear to the Bible that you speak of nothing but the truth?"

That caught me. I could lie straight in the eye to Dad, but to the all-encompassing Lord, I could not. Relinquished, I looked away. Despite my forceful stare, Dad was no deceptive man.

"I do not understand why you are so unwilling to tell me," Dad whispered dejectedly.

"Just because you're my father."

"My job as your father, Jamie, is to ensure all the best for you. Keeping your condition away from me is not considered as 'the best for you,' Jamie."

"My job as your daughter is also to ensure the best for you. That includes, keeping the unnecessary worries from you, Dad."

"You mean to say…your condition actually deteriorated?" His voice raised as a projection of concern, yet suppressive to his augmenting trepidation.

Remaining still was the sole choice left.

"Jamie!"

Silence lapsed.

"Try putting yourself in my shoes. When your daughter, your beloved daughter tries to keep the truth from you…" His voice trailed away.

I faced Daddy. He was wiping a tear off his left cheek.

"Oh, Daddy!" I rushed forward to embrace him. "I didn't mean that. I just couldn't bear to see you cry like this. I just didn't want this moment to be real."

"Jamie," he croaked. "It will be difficult for both of us, but that does not mean that we can always steer past the difficulties." He sniffed, but continued quickly. "Life without you will surely be insufferable; nothing can be as absolute as this fact. But that does not imply that the day will not come if we hide. That does not equate that by hiding from it, I can escape from it all my life, too. No.

"The day your mom passed away, oh Jamie, it was sure worse than the moment when I learned about your condition. Because I knew, even if your death was imminent, that I would still have the time to love you, to compensate and fulfill my responsibility. It wasn't an unexpected abrupt news – I've been given time to prepare for it. We all die one day, we all will. Besides, Jamie, I've been through worse, I've been through remorse when your mother left me, because it was too sudden. Yesterday we were still having dinner together, none of us thought that the next day would be tragedy. I never, I swear, I never thought I'd lose her so soon. We had more than a lifetime to go. It's like…" he stopped, but I could tell that his words had continued on in his head. I stepped forward to hold him steady, tears streaking down the dried paths. I wanted to speak, but I didn't know what to say. To comfort Daddy, or to console myself?

"That is why, Jamie, I want you to tell Landon. Because if he loses someone he truly loves suddenly…he'd be the miserable me when I had suddenly lost your mother. Such torment is…timeless. I never got over it, I just braved through it. Even till today, Jamie. But at least, I have you to remind me of her…but what does Landon have?"

This epiphany incited a spasm of guilt in me. It was true. What would be left of Landon when I'm gone? Leaving him would not dissolve the matter. Leaving him would give him nothing to remember me.

"I'll think of a way to tell him soon," I stated.

Reassured, Dad leaned back on the couch. His lethargic eyes closed, and he noiselessly murmured, "That's my girl."

Leaving Landon was the last thing I would wish for, but if it was necessary, I would do it.

However, the question was, was it necessary?

Leaving him would cast away all those unnecessary grief. Leaving him would give him the chance to start anew before falling too deep in our relationship. Leaving him would leave him more time to find love instead of wasting his effort on a dying kid like me.

But, leaving him would give him no memory of me.

What would he hold on to, after I ceased to exist? Landon would need something, something tangible to remind him of our love we shared once. I had given him the Bible, but it held no significance for him to equate to mine. I had nothing left to give him but memories and grief.

Memories. After I became nonexistent, after I finally met my Creator, our memories would become bittersweet. They would evoke grief, but they would bring him back to our sweet moments. He could replay them like a spoilt record, he could listen to them to bring him to sleep. He could remember what he had lost in life but he would know that they were precious enough to let him know how real I had once been.

Why, then, should I leave him?

-e-

The next few days I tried not to think about dying or about leaving Landon. Instead, I redirected my attention to spend time with Daddy and to visit the orphanage. As I promised, I bought toys for the kids, and I wrote cards to each child there, including Mr. Jenkins, as a form of their memories with me. I tried not to make each card sound too much like a farewell speech, but Mr. Jenkins still spotted something amiss and questioned me one evening.

"Jamie!" he had called to stop me before I left the orphanage.

I turned and smiled. "Mr. Jenkins, is everything fine?"

"I'm fine," he replied. "Are you?"

I frowned. "Of course I'm fine!" I snarled ferociously. My abruptly stern tone stupefied not only Mr. Jenkins but myself as well. I quickly tried to amend my way. "I mean, I'm feeling great!" I gave him a flashy grin to bring him back to animation.

I honestly did not recall myself feeling so…defensive against my bodily condition. Yes, I refused to allow anyone to know about it, and thereby with every questioning, no matter how casual it was, I would instinctively deny any sign of feeling unwell. But never had I imagined myself to harbor such denial that would develop into strict guardedness like this.

Color flushed back to Mr. Jenkins's countenance as he managed a succinct reply, "N-nice to hear that, Jamie."

I immediately tried a conciliatory explanation for my sudden change in tone, "Well, it's just that…a lot has been on my mind. You know, college and stuff."

Mr. Jenkins smiled a little. "Yeah, that. I understand."

"Do I look that stressed out?"

Mr. Jenkins shrugged, his reply slightly more guarded than before. "Not stressed out, but lethargic. You…stare in space several times, and you aren't as vigorous as you were before…" He trailed off.

I laughed forcibly. "Too stressed-out, perhaps, Mr. Jenkins. I don't get enough sleep these days."

"Ah, I see."

"Well," I began. "I need to go soon. I'll visit you another day, and I'll make sure I'll have a good night's sleep before I come!"

"Okay. G'night, Jamie."

"Good night, Mr. Jenkins." I forced a smile.

"Good luck," he grinned, the smile touching the bottom of his eyes.

"Thanks," I gave him a pat on the shoulder. "See you."

When I turned away, it wasn't until I was out of the gate before I realized that my acting skills had improved rather drastically. I felt nauseous.

-e-

Time flew by so swiftly that it was New Year's Eve before I had even realized. Not that I did not look forward to that extravagant evening that I was going for dinner with Landon alone, but I was spending time with Daddy and the orphans such that time was something too abstract that I could not keep track of.

That night was my first official date, and Dad, while I prepared with enthusiasm for the evening, always ending our dialogue with a reclusive murmur meant for himself, "My girl's grown up." I would occasionally feel guilty, because Daddy truly needed me, and growing up – no, it wasn't the right time for it.

I slipped into my plain black dress, formal enough to dine in a fine restaurant. My hair was styled simplistically to flow down my shoulders, and I pinned back my fringe. I was not certain about the dressing ethics for a true date, but I figured that I would settle with a simple dress and a pair of boots up to my shins.

Landon picked me up just as he had promised. He drove in silence, but I was, unthinkably, savoring that moment of silence. It was not a moment of unspeakable thoughts or awkward togetherness but a moment when both of us felt each other's endearing presence, acknowledging the love filled in the air and that was truly all we needed.

When we arrived at the place, a restaurant named Flauvin's, Landon offered me his hand. I daintily accepted his gentlemanly gesture, and together, we walked, fingers intertwined with each others'. The owner of the restaurant greeted us and showed us our tables. I observed the people – they wore fashionably, some were even elaborate and lavish. With my simple dress, I felt like a plain Jane.

When we had settled down, it was then when I could truly absorb the disposition of the area. There was a dance floor, a simple one, distinctively different from the blaringly electrifying one at Homecoming. Two couples were enjoying themselves, apparently unaware that people could publicly perceive their affections. I coughed and looked around our table instead to give them less publicity of one person. The tables closest to ours were all couples in their mid 20s to 30s. I skimmed through the entire restaurant – Landon and I were the only teenage couples that evening.

Love was certainly tangible in the restaurant. All customers were paired up with their spouses.

"This is wonderful," I told Landon. "Thank you for asking me."

"My pleasure," he said classically.

"Have you been here before?"

"A few times. My mother and father like to come here sometimes when my father comes home from Washington."

I nodded, a brief respond to his words. Looking around me, especially at the river scenery outside, I breathed, "It's beautiful here."

"So are you."

I turned back to him, only to find him staring intently at me, a cheeky smile bored into his alluring face. The fiery burn gushed up to my cheeks. "Oh, you don't mean that."

"Yes," he whispered, softly but resolutely, "I do."

He reached out for my hand, and every second he did not let go, I could feel my heart threatening to leap out of my chest. While waiting for our dinner, we talked about the past memories we shared. We laughed, we smiled. We revealed our deepest intentions for our past actions now that we were close enough to disclose. As we went through memories after memories, it occurred to me that within such a short period of time that we had acquainted with each other – half a year, in fact – so many pleasant memories we had created. It would be the feasible, then, if we effectively used our remaining time together to fabricate new and congenial memories together to hold on to forever.

We were discussing about our first "date" to the homecoming dance. Landon laughed as he finally revealed his true motive to ask me to dance, and I chuckled. As the President of the student body, it was customary for him to have a date. So he had chosen me. I might have guessed such purpose if I was willing to place effort into deciphering his action.

"Would you want to take me again?" I teased, laughing.

"Absolutely."

I smiled sweetly at him, staring at his impeccable visage. An impulse to stroke his smooth, silky tanned skin almost choked me. I struggled terribly against that urge, and fortunately, the arrival of our dinner had saved me.

Dinner was indeed delicious, mainly due to the person sitting opposite me. His presence was more than enough to make the food sweeter than it already was. We both had sea bass and salads, and after our utensils were cleared, the music began.

He stepped to my side, and offered me his arm, the second time in a night, "Would you like to dance with me?"

At first, we were the only ones hitting the dance floor. I could palpably feel the million pairs of eyes watching us gliding around. I felt extremely self-conscious initially, but after Landon held me by my hips, and my arms draped around his neck, I had totally lost myself. We gazed into each other's eyes, and I, completely absorbed by the soft affection displayed on his face.

The lights dimmed out, the music slow but fervent. Landon stepped closer to my body, and I leaned my head upon his strongly-built muscles, I wondered if there was any feeling more superior than to be deeply in love.

-e-

After that night, my condition had radically ebbed. I had a fever running high, and my face burned while my body trembled. I hid in my blanket, trying to warm my fingers and toes unsuccessfully, until I had to call Daddy for help. Sometimes, the overheating would seem too much and I would break out into sweats before returning to feeling cold. Dad was so anxious, so anxious that he stammered whenever he spoke. I lay down with an ice pack on my forehead, my mind spinning hysterically within me. I imagined the worst scenarios that could happen to me. I

I couldn't ease my dreadful trepidation. My time was probably up. How much time was remaining? Should I start counting in months, weeks, or even days?

I closed my eyes, but not for long. Memories raced through my heads in transversal fleets – the time I found out my due date, the feeling of the end, the Christmas play, the evening at the orphanage with Landon, the first time he shouted at me, the meaning of love Dad had defined for me, my first kiss. The more I thought through them, the more anguish I endured. It was no longer a matter of pain; heartache, mental agony was the fixation. I couldn't bear to leave this world, with Landon alone, his love unreturned, with Dad alone, his love vanished. Too many things were holding me back, burdening me back to this earth.

My mind was finally lethargic from too much pondering. I fell into a shallow trance, occasionally waking up at Daddy's gentle touch of my forehead and cheeks, ensuring the fever under control. I would rouse slightly whenever I flipped, positioning the bag of half-melted ice on my forehead.

By the time I awakened, Dad had already prepared a tray of breakfast by my bedside. I precariously rose from bed, kicking my blanket away. I felt a heavy dizziness in my head, like a spinning metal placed at the back of my mind. Balancing myself, I held the side of the bed tightly and sat upright, the lightheadedness slowly fading away. However, a new aching took over. I rubbed my temples hard.

I made my way cautiously to the bathroom, supporting my unfocused walk with tight grips with anything within reach. Dad heard my bulky footsteps, and instantly rushed by my side to support me.

"I'm fine, Daddy," I lied, placing my hand on my forehead. "Look, the fever's subsided. I'm great." I even flashed a smile to him, closing my eyes because I was too fatigue to open them.

Dad ignored my words. "I'll be outside the bathroom. Call if you need my help."

"I doubt I will."

I washed up and ambled back into my room, with Dad's adamant assistance. The headache had gone worse, and all I wanted to do was to lie back into bed and sleep the ache away. Dad eyed me while I consumed my breakfast in silence, making it tougher to put on the act. I would occasionally look up to return his stare as a way for him to halt his gawk.

"Jamie," he began, "I'll bring you to the doctor's after you've eaten your fill." Eating my fill was easy, because I had no appetite to eat anything.

"Dad," I protested, "the doctors can't do anything. My illness is already terminal. It's rapid. They've said I've got only half a year left since summer. And living up till now, perhaps seven months already, I can't be happier without the doctor."

"No, I'll take you to the hospital."

"I'm fine, really," I insisted, but Dad would not buy it. He had no idea how much I feared the hospital. It was a wicked, a wretched place, where the time of people's deaths were affirmed. Doctors diagnosed patients after patients and determined their deaths without truly comprehending the emotional impact their diagnosis had on others. They were cold-blooded animals. They made people suffer and felt none themselves. Did they understand how much it was for me to die?

Nevertheless, Dad dragged me to the hospital. During the entire commute, I sulked. The smell, that pungent, familiar smell of death – I remembered them well. I constantly sneezed in repulsion when I was there, and kept sniffing. My nose entirely resembled a clown's by the time I reached home.

The doctors did a thorough check on my blood. That wretched blood test, when the nurses, the amiable façade of the nurses, jabbed the needle into my skin, I cried. Partially in pain, but mainly in fear. The stinging pain awakened the excruciating memory of the chemotherapies. Ever since I had discovered my illness, I cultivated an aversion to injections and nurses. The sickening chemotherapies only contributed to my distinct aversion. And worse, the doctors had made it such that I believed that the chemos would aid my illness, to bring me back to the pink of health so that I would condone to the pain, but in the end, I still had to die.

I screamed in pain at the memories that I had effectually suppressed ever since my chemos ended. I caged and tucked them safely into a corner of my memory, where I would be entirely forbidden to visit. However, this stimulating jab unbolted the boundaries of the memories I had secured. It was insufferable, unspeakable. Dad only watched me in a tortured face, unable to comprehend my cries but to watch in sympathy.

In the end, the doctors had revealed that my white blood cells count was augmenting greatly. Indeed, they had needlessly confirmed that my condition was hopeless, my future doomed. They could not precisely estimate the time I had left, but given the rate of deterioration, they predicted that I might have to count my time in weeks.

Weeks. Could it be a week, or ten weeks? It was a major difference between seven days and two and a half months. The number of memories would differ; the amount of love I experienced would vary. I am a teenager, an ambitious teenager who was supposedly having a bright future of adulthood, a future of endless number of years. And this teenager – Jamie Sullivan – who now only had a bleak future ahead, who could never live past teenage years, had to count her remaining life span in weeks. Weeks would fly by quickly. A few weekends, a few Sundays left. Majority of the few weeks, in fact, would be dedicated to being immobile in bed, feeble at home. Deducting these bedridden weeks, how much time would I have left? I forced my mental calculation to stop.

That afternoon, I sat on the couch, staring into space, thinking of nothing in particular. What could I think about? My death? I was absolutely clueless how it would feel like to die, needless to say about the "life" after death. Dad sat beside me, submerging himself into his muses. Occasionally, I would see him rub his eyes, or wipe his cheeks with his wrinkly hands.

It was then, when Dad and I both wrapped up in our own unspeakable thoughts, Landon arrived. He had came by often, either to invite me for a walk at the beach, or spend some time at the Neuse River, tossing stones into the fragile surface of the waters. That day, however, he offered to accompany me to the orphanage. Dad had, apparently, heard Landon's endearing invitation but shook his head. Through his eyes, he conveyed a strong sense of worry that only both of us – Dad and I – understood. I had to apologize to Landon, but proposed if we both visited the kids the day after next, because I was feeling ill and dying, and Dad felt…tired.

We ended up sitting in the porch, standing up several times to walk in my little garden. Throughout our acquaintance, my headache never died down but was slightly allayed, especially with Landon by my side to remind me that I was the most fortunate (though sick) girl in Beaufort. We chatted, though Landon fueled most of our conversation, and the more Landon revealed about his inner thoughts and secrets, the guiltier I felt for not confessing about my condition.

But such matter that communicated much gravity was not a conversational issue that I could easily throw into our casual talks. No words were competent of articulating my matter, not until that particular day when I felt too sick that I had to disclose myself.

Author's Note: And soon will the climax finally arrive.

I apologize for this long chapter. There just seemed to be too many plot I find necessary to include before the upcoming chapter of disclosure. Three weeks of no update - my bad. The past few weekends were nothing but work and work. This upcoming week will be much more relaxing for us :)

Hope this chapter was awesome. Looks like I can write a fanfiction better than an original piece. Words just flow out more smoothly here...