APRIL
Acute myeloid leukemia.
It's a mouthful, so it's a good thing I haven't said it out loud. Not once, not yet. But looking at Jackson's face now, his eyes glassed over with tears, I know I have explaining to do.
My diagnosis is a blur. I don't remember anything my doctor told me. All I know is that I was assigned a special oncologist who had salt-and-pepper hair and a piece of spinach between his front teeth. I don't remember his name. I don't remember him ever saying mine.
He's looking to transfer me here, to a hospital close by in Chicago. That way, I can get my treatment and still go to school. I can get my treatment and still live my normal life with my normal college and my normal boyfriend. My mom is still waiting to hear back on what hospitals and doctors are accepting new patients, in hopes that I can be one of them.
"What do you mean, really sick?" he asks. I notice that his voice is shaking. Everything in me wants to shield him from this, protect him from the news he doesn't know yet. I don't want to know it, and as of right now he's still in the clear. He wouldn't have to live with this information in his head.
But I know he won't let me not tell him. That's just the way he is. Jackson is Jackson, and no matter how small, he always wants to take my burden as his own.
I lift my eyes to meet his and blink once. "I have cancer," I state simply. The words taste sour in my mouth, and they don't feel like they belong to me. Right now, I feel tired. That's it. I don't feel like I have cancer. How does having cancer even feel? Whatever it is, I don't feel it.
His mouth drops open. I take one of his hands in both of mine and lead him to the bed, where I tell him the little that I know so far.
Acute myeloid leukemia. It started in my bone marrow and moved to my blood. I have too many white blood cells, which is bad, and they're not maturing the way they're supposed to but they keep forming. Because it's acute, this means it spreads easily. Without treatment, it can go basically anywhere in my body. And that's when it gets scary. I don't know much about that yet. We're trying to keep it from spreading, we're trying to keep a hopeful outlook that it won't.
Symptoms go unnoticed by a lot of people. My oncologist told me that I likely have had this for at least 6 months, which has given the blast cells time to build up. This wasn't optimum news. I could tell by the look on his face. I remember that much.
One tear rolls down Jackson's cheek and I reach to wipe it away. It's warm when I slide it between my thumb and first finger.
"So what happens now?" he asks, after I'm all done explaining. "How do we fight it?"
I run my fingers over the veins on the tops of his hands. "I'm getting transferred to a hospital here," I say. "When it goes through, that's where I'll get my chemo. It lasts for a week; I go in every day for a few hours and get my drugs through an IV. And they'll give me prescriptions to try and bring my blood count back to normal, too. And after I go through a few rounds of chemo, I think they'll do a biopsy. Or blood work, or something. I have a hard time remembering. But they'll do something to see if the count is back to normal."
He clears his throat and sits up straighter. He wants to seem strong, I can see that.
"My mom said she'd commute for my chemo," I say. I roll the word 'chemo' around on my tongue. It feels foreign and strange, too. Chemo. It's something you hear about in movies. You never think that it'll happen to you. It seems unreal and far-away, but now it's my life. Or it's going to be my life very soon. "My doctor said it could be rough on my body."
I picture the bald, round-headed kids from the St. Jude's Hospital commercials and have a harrowing vision of myself among them. I'm officially a cancer patient. And unbeknownst to me, I have been for a while now.
I have cancer. This is something I have to own now. It happened to me. It is happening to me.
"I can take you," he says. "Moline is four hours away. She has to work. She doesn't have to do that." He holds my wrists. "Unless you want her here. Then… I mean, of course."
"You'd do that for me?" I ask, genuinely surprised. I know what chemo does to a person. Everyone does. We've all seen the movies. I hadn't expected he'd wanted to see me in that state.
"Of course I would," he says, letting out a short, airy sigh. "Of course I would."
"I'll tell her," I say. "She was… she was worried about the travel. She didn't say anything, she wanted to make me happy. But… I know she was."
He nods slowly as his eyes search my face. I wonder what they might be looking for.
"I know I look different," I say, shying away from him. "I know I don't look pretty right now."
"You do," he says, cupping my jaw in one hand. "I was just looking at your face. I haven't seen it in so long." He leans forward, gives me a chaste kiss, then presses his face into my hair. "I'm so glad to see you."
"I missed you," I say, looping my arms over his shoulders. "When we heard, when we found out…" I shake my head as my throat clogs up. Only Libby knows the severity of what I have. We didn't tell the two younger ones, because that's a lot for them to handle. I'm their big sister. I'm supposed to be strong. They don't need to know my weakness until I'm over it. I choke back sobs. "I wanted you."
"I wish I could've been there," he says, bending his neck and pressing slow kisses to the tops of my shoulders. "But I'm here now. And I'm not gonna leave you. I promise. I'm gonna stay right here. Through it all."
On the first day of classes, I stand in front of my full-length mirror and run my brush through my hair painstakingly. I stare at my reflection and the outfit I've chosen - skinny jeans, Ugg boots, and a dark green cardigan - and wonder how much longer I'll be able to recognize my own body.
I'm already skinnier. That comes from not being hungry, which my doctor said I have to ignore. I have to force myself to eat, but I haven't been good at it. I tell myself to get better. I don't want to waste away.
I braid my hair to the side and feel around on my dresser for the clip Jackson gave me, all while keeping my eyes on the mirror. I find it and situate it at the base of my braid, where it'll stick throughout the day. I turn my head to see it better and find myself smiling as it glints off the winter morning light shining in from the open blinds.
My first class is Vocal Seminar, where I'll get to sing in a class for the first time here. I'm excited for it, but nervous too. I don't feel like myself. I don't want to give a bad first impression because I have something malignant on my mind. So I try and push it out. Today is for school, today is for myself. I don't have to think about anything else but Vocal Seminar, my biology class that I have with Jackson in the afternoon, or his indoor soccer game tonight. Nothing else should be in my mind but those things.
On my way to Vocal Seminar, I see him walking from the lounge with a banana in his hand, eating it while rubbing his eyes. He catches sight of me, though, and perks up instantly.
"Hey," he says, walking faster in my direction. "You headed off to your first class?"
I nod. "Vocal Sem," I say.
"Nice," he says, chewing. When he swallows, he asks, "How're you feeling?"
"Fine," I say. "I'm great."
"Good," he says, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. "You sure? You need anything?"
I shake my head. "I'm not an invalid, Jackson," I say, pointing my finger at him half-jokingly. "So don't go thinking that I am."
"I'm not," he says. "I'm just checking on my girlfriend."
I give him another kiss, then head off to class. There's a light dusting of snow coating the ground, but it's not enough to collect. It's only good enough for making footprints as I head to the School of Music, which is fine with me. I love winter, even though ours in the midwest can be brutal.
I'm quiet in Vocal Sem, which I hadn't wanted to be. I feel removed from the class, like I'm watching everyone else from the outside of a bubble, and only going through the motions when it's my turn to move. Time goes slow, and I feel like I'm moving slow with it. I'm not in my own head. I'm thinking about the thing that I told myself I wouldn't. I can't help it.
The day blurs by, and before I know it I'm sitting in the stands inside the indoor soccer field for Jackson's first game. From where I sit, I can see that his jersey is dirt-stained and needs to be washed. I think it must have stayed on his dorm room floor for the entire break, and is dirty from the autumn game he last played. The one that he ditched to come see my recital.
I smile softly thinking of the memory, then remind myself to pick new piano pieces from the books he got me. I need to start practicing for the winter concert.
After halftime, my phone starts to ring. I see that it's my mom, so I step out for a moment and take the call.
"Hello?"
"Hi, honey," she says. "How are you feeling today?"
I sit down on a bench, finding myself short of breath from the little walk I just took. I shake my head and let out a loud huff, annoyed at myself for becoming so affected. "Fine," I say.
"How were classes?" she asks.
"Good," I say.
"Did you get to see much of Jackson?"
"I'm at his soccer game right now," I say, glancing around.
"It's late," Mom says. "You should be getting home soon, getting some rest. Remember, Duckie, that's what Dr. Byers said. Rest is so important, along with a healthy diet and plenty of water. I know it sounds simple-"
"I was there, mom," I snap. "I remember what he said."
There's a slight pause where I know I've hurt her feelings. But I can't help it - I have a splitting headache all of a sudden and what I want most is to go home and sleep. But at the same time, I haven't seen Jackson enough and I don't want to leave his game.
"I figured out your transfer," Mom says, and I realize I'd been zoning in and out of our conversation. "I got you and your insurance information transferred to Northwestern Memorial. You'll be with Dr. Janssen there. And your treatment starts next week, so I thought I'd drive in Sunday night and go with you on Monday morning."
"You don't have to," I say, elbows on my knees. "It's a long drive, and Jackson said he could take me."
"Oh, no," she says. "I wouldn't make him do that. That's a lot of responsibility."
"He said he wants to, mom," I insist. "And I know you have to work. It'll just be easier on everyone. And if I want you there for next time, I promise I'll tell you. I will."
She takes in a deep breath. "Okay," she says. "But only because I trust him. A lot. And I know you do, too."
"Good," I say. She gives me the contact information of my new doctor and tells me to get some beauty rest tonight before another full day of classes tomorrow. When I hang up the phone, the game is over and Jackson is walking off the field with a soccer ball under his arm and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Hey," I say, walking up to him. I reach up and pull my cardigan sleeve down, holding it in place with my fingers as I reach up to dab the sweat off his forehead. "My mom called. My chemo starts in a week. She said she's okay with you taking me. It's at Northwestern Memorial downtown," I say. "Sorry I had to walk out. I didn't realize the game would end so soon."
We walk out of the arena with matching strides. "It's all good," he says. "Got our asses kicked. I'm kinda glad you didn't see."
I chuckle to myself. "You're still good with taking me to my treatment, aren't you?" I ask.
"Yeah, of course," he says. "I meant what I said, April. I'm gonna be here for you."
That night when I get home, I'm exhausted. I sit on my bed and take my hair clip out, setting it gently on the nightstand next to my phone charger. I get up after a few minutes and go into the bathroom to wash my face, running a wet, sudsy washcloth over my skin with my eyes closed.
When I pull away and open them into the mirror, though, I see that there's blood dripping from my nose in a steady stream, trailing all the way down over my lips and under my chin. I make a surprised little sound and grab a handful of tissues that I press to it in attempts to stop the flow, but it doesn't do much good. The blood just keeps coming faster.
I breathe through my mouth and pinch the bridge of my nose, leaning forward onto the counter. When I release my fingers, the blood pauses for a moment before spurting out again, dripping down onto the granite and making pink splotches in the sink. I hurry out to my room to find something else to staunch it with, only to see Jackson walk through the cracked-open door.
"Hey," he says. "Holy shit, what's going on?"
"I just have a nosebleed," I say, tipping my head back. My eyes are burning like I'm about to cry. I've never had a nosebleed in my life, but my doctor said this might happen. I have a high white blood cell count, but a low platelet count. And platelets help with clotting, which is something that's really not happening right now. I lower my chin and the blood starts again, little droplets go flying when I try to speak as they smack against my lips. "Help me," I say.
"Okay, come here, come here," Jackson says, ushering me to the bed. He lays me down and hurries to the bathroom, then comes back with a clean, cold washcloth. First, he cleans my face up with it, then sits down and presses it against my nose. "I used to get bloody noses when I was little," he says. "One time, when I was two, I had one in the back seat of the car. I was screaming my fuckin' head off. And my mom got pulled over, right? The cop took one look at me in the back seat and thought she beat my face in." He chuckles. "It took a little explaining on her part."
"Was everything okay?" I ask, my voice a bit muffled by the washcloth.
"Yeah," he says. "Everything was okay. And I know how to handle them now. The cold helps. And lying down helps, too. So it doesn't drip everywhere and you don't look like a rogue vampire."
We stay there on the bed for a long time - him sitting, me laying. He looks down at my face and strokes my arm with his fingertips, only pulling the washcloth away to check after it's been long enough.
"I think it stopped," he says. His voice sounds confident, but the look in his eyes tells me differently. That scared him. It scared me, too, but it's my body. He must feel helpless.
I touch my nose gently, watching my fingers come back clean. "Good," I say. "Thank you."
He nods and goes to throw the soiled washcloth in the dirty hamper.
"Do you wanna lay down next to me?" I ask.
He looks over his shoulder. "Do you want me to?" he says.
I squint my eyes in confusion. "Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know," he says, standing an awkward distance away. "I… I don't know."
"I want you close to me," I say, nestling under the covers and lifting them for him. "We've been waiting and waiting to get back in this bed. Now, get in here before I have to force you."
He smiles softly and crawls under the covers with me, turning on his side so our noses are almost touching. His eyes aren't closed, but he's looking down so I can see the crescent of his eyelashes almost touching the dusting of freckles on his cheeks, and I can't resist. I take one finger and run it over the bridge of his nose, and he flinches at my unexpected touch.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
I know he's not. I know he's shaken and scared. So am I. But he nods slightly anyway.
"Want me to sing?" I ask.
He looks up at me and floors me with those green eyes. "You're tired," he says.
"I want to sing for you," I say. "I haven't in a long time." I swipe my hand over his head and rest it on the back of his neck. "Please let me."
He blinks once, one eyebrow creating a tiny crease on his forehead as she nods his head yes.
I clear my throat and pick a Norah Jones song. "It's not the pale moon that excites me… that thrills and delights me… oh no, it's just the nearness of you… it isn't your sweet conversation that brings this sensation, oh no… it's just the nearness of you. When you're in my arms… and I feel you so close to me, all my wildest dreams came true."
He lets out a long sigh as I continue to sing, and I caress his cheek with the backs of my knuckles and watch him fall asleep. Once his eyes are fully closed and his breaths come evenly, I extend my neck and give him a lasting kiss on the forehead, then tuck my head under his chin to fall asleep myself.
When the following Monday comes, I'm so nervous that I can barely function. I had to do something that I really didn't like doing, which was contacting the Dean of Students and telling them in detail about my condition and why I'd be missing so much class. I have to bring back a valid doctor's note after my first chemo appointment, but after they have that, all of my absences will be excused and my work schedule will be different than that of my classmates.
I don't like that. I don't like being the different one going at a different pace than everyone. I want to keep up and learn the same things they are at the same time.
"That's not possible, though," Jackson says, as we discuss it on the Red Line. We're on the way to Northwestern Memorial and my stomach is in knots. "You're going through so much more than anyone else. It wouldn't be fair to you."
I look out the window, even though we're underground. The only thing I see is my reflection, which I can barely recognize in the distorted plexiglass.
"I know," I say. "Rationally, I know that. But I still don't like the way it feels. It feels like I'm not getting the real college experience."
"Your experience is just different," he says, staring ahead. It's 9:30am - my appointment is at noon and we have to show up early for blood work - and we're between rushes. There aren't many other people on the train but us.
I stay quiet. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I don't want it to be happening, and when I say it out loud it just makes it all the more real.
When we get to the hospital, I duck my chin to my chest and cross my arms tight. Jackson rests his hand on my opposite hip and keeps me close as we walk inside, even though my body language is closed off. We sign in with the front desk on the oncology floor, and don't end up sitting in the waiting room for very long.
"You have to get blood taken first, right?" I ask.
The nurse leading us through a hallway answers for me. "It's just to make sure she's still a good candidate for chemo," she says. "We like to make sure. I'll take some blood and send it to the lab, and it shouldn't take long to get your results. When we get them back, we'll do some vital signs and go from there. Sound good, Miss April?"
I stare at the floor, but nod. I give her my elbow when she asks for it and stay quiet.
Jackson takes my hand. "You okay?" he asks.
I give him a nod, but not anything more.
When my blood is taken back, we sit in another waiting room and bide our time. Jackson picks up a Highlights magazine after catching the hint that I don't want to talk, and flips through it.
"Damn, all the word searches are already done," he says. "I'll make up new words and make you find them. How about… luldo? Can you find that?"
I glance over at him, then down at the page. It takes me two seconds to reach over and point out his nonsense word.
He closes the magazine. "No fun. You're too good," he says.
That gets a small smile out of me, and he leans over to softly kiss my cheek. I press into him, then lay my head on his shoulder as he rests his arm along the back of my chair. I feel his lips on the top of my head, moving as he speaks. "It's okay to be scared, you know," he says.
"I know," I say quietly.
"We don't have to talk about it," he says. "Just know that I got you."
I nod a little bit, resting a hand on his thigh. We both look up when we hear my name called, and see that same nurse standing in the hallway opening. When we reach her, she looks at her clipboard as she says, "Your blood came back a good match for chemo, just like the results that were sent to us from your hospital back home. So everything is looking good, and your oncologist is putting together your chemo cocktail for you right now while I get your vitals, alright?"
I pinch my lips and nod.
"Alright," she says, trying too hard to be comforting. "Let's get you up on the scale so I can get your weight…"
I step on the scale and face away from it. I don't want to know the number.
"Alright, thank you, Miss April. If I could just get you to step into Room 4 and we'll do the rest of the good stuff so I can send you on your way."
She gets all my vital signs, going through the motions like the professional she is. Once she's done typing like mad on the computer, she turns her spinning chair to face us and says, "Everything is looking good. I'm gonna go ahead and take you to your chemo room now, okay? It's right down this hallway."
We follow her again and Jackson takes my hand. His grip is warm, but sweaty. I'm sure mine is as cold as ice.
"Dr. Janssen will be right in with you," the nurse says. I realize that I never caught her name, and tell myself to do it next time. Right now, my mind is too clouded. "Shouldn't be too long of a wait."
Jackson and I sit in anxious silence after the nurse leaves. I sit down in a reclining chair by the window, looking out to see that the sky is a stark white. "Maybe it'll snow," I say, squinting against the brightness.
"Maybe," Jackson says, sitting down in the chair next to mine.
There's a TV mounted on the wall, a stack of thick blankets on a table, and a menu. I'm assuming I'll be here during lunchtime, but I can guarantee I won't be hungry.
I'm sitting down when the doctor comes in, and her quick entrance makes both me and Jackson jump a little bit. "Hello," she says, setting an armful of supplies down. "I'm Dr. Janssen. You must be April?"
I extend my hand and she shakes it. "And this is my boyfriend, Jackson," I say, tipping my head towards him. Dr. Janssen shakes his hand, too.
She tells me that I'll get a chemo treatment every day this week and once this round is done, we'll take a break and come back in two weeks. After a cycle of treatments like this, we'll do more blood work and see how my cell counts or doing and if it's working. She says she's hopeful that it will, because I'm young and young people usually recover fast and have a quicker way of bouncing back. I'd have an easier time believing her if I didn't feel so winded from just listening to her explain all this.
She tells me what's going into my IV - first the pre-chemo drugs, then the actual chemo drugs. Pre-chemo has steroids and anti-anxiety medications, and they'll go for about thirty minutes before the actual drugs kick in. She explains all this so I can understand it - going through the procedure because it's my first time. She's not going to be the one actually doing it, a nurse will, but it's nice to see the face who's behind all of my important medical decisions.
When the nurse comes in to insert my IV, my whole body is clammy and shaky. Jackson holds my hand as this nurse makes pleasant small talk with me that I can't reciprocate. I cringe when the needle goes in and she tells me that it wasn't that bad, was it? I don't answer her. This is all that bad.
Saline solution gets flushed through the IV first, then pre-chemo. When the real drugs start, my eyelids are heavy and I feel like I might fall asleep at any moment.
"Do you have any questions for me?" the oncology nurse asks.
I part my lips and only a small sound comes out, so I clear my throat. "My hair," I croak. "Will I lose it?"
She looks at me with sad eyes. I know her answer before she speaks. "You might," she says. "Everyone reacts to the drugs differently. But we have beautiful scarves and hats in our gift shop downstairs, if you do react that way."
When she leaves, my eyes grow hot as I stare down at the insertion point. My vision blurs with tears, but I sniffle in and shake my head roughly to will myself not to start crying.
"You can cry," Jackson says softly.
I shake my head again.
"Maybe you won't lose it," he says. "Maybe you'll be one of the people who don't."
Everyone is so good at being hopeful. But all the people who are offering me these words of hope aren't the ones sitting in this green reclining chair, with cell-killing drugs being administered into their arm.
"I don't know," I say, and turn my head to look out the window. These drugs will pump through my system for four hours today and the rest of this week. I'm scared of how they'll make me feel, but the anti-anxiety meds are probably helping with my nerves about that. I feel numb now as I watch the world happen beyond this window, where everyone else is going about their lives even though mine has come to a screeching halt.
Jackson turns on the TV, which is full of crappy daytime soap operas. He keeps it on The Bold and the Beautiful, which earns him an eyeroll from me.
"Ah, the Forrester family," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Gotta love 'em."
I give him a look and try not to move my arms. I'm scared I'll do something to jostle the needles. "I've never seen this show before," I say.
"You're missing out," he says. "My mom is a big fan. I know way too much about it." He crosses an ankle over his knee. "I remember when Stephen got hit by a car. Our house was in turmoil for a week."
I snort. "You're stupid."
"Probably," he says, then glances at the entrypoint in my arm. "How is it?"
I look down at it, too. "It's fine," I say. "I'm sleepy."
"Go to sleep, then," he says. "I'll be right here, watching my story."
I rest my head back on the little pillow on the chair and close my eyes. "Don't leave," I say.
"I won't," he says. "I promise. Pretty soon, it'll be all over. And you'll feel so much better. So just close your eyes."
I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then try to forget what's coursing through my bloodstream right now. I end up falling asleep easier than I thought I would, and I'm not sure how much time has passed when I wake up. I blink my eyes to orient myself, finding my thoughts foggy and hard to muddle through. I jut my chin out and concentrate on Jackson as he comes into focus to see that he's fallen asleep too, sitting up watching whatever is on TV now. I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it's almost 4pm. I slept through almost my whole treatment, which is great. It's what I hoped I would do.
I get pushed out of the hospital in a wheelchair, then we wait for our Uber in the taxi lane. I feel weak and lethargic, and the entry points in my arms are achey. I have a big headache and my stomach feels queasy; every bump that my wheelchair hits on the way out causes me to wince and squeeze my eyes shut tight.
"You'll be feeling pretty sensitive for a while," my nurse says. "Get home, try and eat something, and get lots of rest. And we'll see you back here tomorrow, okay?"
I do my best at a nod, and Jackson places a comforting hand on my shoulder. When our car gets here, he helps me into it and sits next to me, buckling my seatbelt for me. I don't like feeling incompetent, but it takes so much energy to do even the smallest thing.
My breath comes in shaky gusts as we cruise down Lakeshore Drive. I grit my teeth and squeeze my hands into fists, hearing small whimpers come out of me as we zoom down the road. I can feel Jackson's worried eyes on me, but he doesn't know what to do. I don't know what to do, either. All I want to do is be at home, in my bed.
When I get there, though, I still feel just as bad. Jackson helps me sit down and bends to take off my shoes, and I cover my face with my hands. "Will it always feel like this?" I ask.
He cranes his neck to look at me, and I start to cry. "Oh, baby," he says, forgetting my shoes and getting on the bed with me to pull me onto his lap. He wraps his arms around me and I fold myself into his chest and sob softly, my tears dripping onto his t-shirt. "I'm so sorry."
I don't have anything to say. I just cry. I know my mom wants me to call her and tell her how everything went, but I don't have the energy right now. By the way I feel, I don't know if I ever will again.
"Can you call my mom?" I ask, sniffling. "I just wanna go to sleep."
It's not even 6pm, but I know that I'll sleep until tomorrow morning. If I had the choice, I'd sleep for a lot longer than that.
I hear Jackson on the phone talking in hushed tones as I brush my teeth. I notice some redness on my toothbrush, so I bare my teeth at my reflection and see that my gums are bleeding. I cover them with my lips and look down, not wanting to see anything more. My body is falling apart. And it feels like the chemo is making me worse instead of better, even though today was only my first day. It's going to keep ripping me to shreds.
When I go back into my room, Jackson is off the phone.
"What did she say?" I ask, holding the footboard of my bed for support.
"She said…" he begins. "That she's sorry. And she wants to talk to you, whenever you're up for it. Not much more than that."
"Oh," I say. "I-"
I cut myself off because of a lurch in my stomach. I double over slightly and scrunch up my face, willing it to pass, but it doesn't. I have no time to move anywhere before I throw up all over the carpet in front of me, and instantly start to cry because of it.
I press my hands to the sides of my head and breathe heavily. "I'm sorry," I sob, shoulders heaving. "I'll get it, I-I'm sorry…"
"No, no, no," Jackson says, standing up and rushing over. "You sit down. I'll get this."
I don't fight him. I walk as best I can to the bed, and he disappears into the bathroom only to come back out with a mop bucket. "Just in case," he says, then gets to work on cleaning up my stain. Luckily, I barely ate anything all day, so it's mostly bile.
My eyes are still streaming tears when he finishes, and I throw up again in the bucket. I clench the sides so hard that my knuckles turn white, and my breath comes out in rattling gasps.
He hurries to my side and rubs my back, pulling my hair away from my shoulders. "Shh, shh, it's okay," he says. "The doctor said this might be a side effect. You're okay. Just breathe. It'll pass."
He rubs my back as my throat tightens, threatening another round. I press my lips together and try to force it away, but it persists and I spit up what little I have left into the bucket. My eyes dart to him self-consciously. I hate that he's seeing me like this. I hate that I'm like this at all. I'm 18. I shouldn't be this sick. It's not fair. My body is destroying itself. I didn't ask for this. Why would God do this to me?
I can hear myself breathing loudly. Jackson goes into the bathroom and comes out with a warm, damp washcloth that he wipes my face with and I let him, like a child. The urge to throw up again is going away, so I set the bucket down and stare at the floor, the scent of cleaning products that Jackson used on the stain assaulting my nose.
"I'm sorry," I say again, eyes flashing to him before centering on my knees.
"Why are you saying that?" he asks, petting my hair back and gathering it into a ponytail shape with his hand.
"Because I threw up," I say. "And you have to deal with it."
"I don't care," he says. "I already told you a million times. I'm going to take care of you. We're gonna get you through this, okay?"
I run my tongue over my teeth, tasting the metallic taste of the blood that's still lingering. "Why is this happening to me?" I ask.
I know he doesn't have an answer. I don't expect him to have one. It's not really a question that I expect a response to.
We're silent for a long time, and completely still. The only movement is Jackson's hand through my hair, finger-combing it back from my face. After a few long minutes pass, he takes my chin and has me look at him, and his eyes are round and earnest. "Hey," he says. "You're strong. You're the strongest, most stubborn, persistent person I know. Like when you wanna learn a new piano piece, you don't give up. Not even for a second. And I can't help you when you're doing that, but I can help you through this. You're not alone. I know it might feel like it, but I promise… you're not."
My lower lip trembles as I keep my eyes on his face. "I feel like…" I say, voice wobbling. "I just feel like this might be stronger than me."
He shakes his head adamantly. "No. No. You're gonna live a long life. You're gonna grow up, get married, be whatever you wanna be, and have lots of babies. You're gonna die an old lady, warm in your bed. You're gonna live the most beautiful life. Don't let this stupid ass disease take that away from you."
His words ignite the tiniest spark of hope within my chest, but I don't know if it's safe to hold onto. He can't feel the way my body feels, nor would I want him to. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, and I have to go back and do it all again tomorrow.
"Okay," I say, agreeing anyway. I know that's what he wants to hear. "But I want you to be a part of that beautiful life, too," I say, holding onto his wrist. "I want lots of babies… with you."
He smiles and it lights up his whole face, then he leans in for a kiss. I turn my head away, though.
"You don't wanna kiss me right now," I say, forlornly.
"I always wanna kiss you," he says, and turns my head back to press his lips to mine. He kisses me once, twice, three times, and breaks away with a soft smacking sound. He holds eye contact for a long time, his eyes flitting to either of mine, as the grin slips off of his mouth. "April," he says.
"Yeah?" I answer.
He holds my face between his hands. "I love you," he says, soft and clear. "I'm in love with you."
My heart feels like it cracks open in two so everything spills out. I cover his hands with my own, my fingers trailing gently over his skin, and lean my face against his palm. "You do?" I ask.
He nods firmly, not unsure in his statement whatsoever.
I close the space between us and kiss him again, lingering for a while this time. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself closer, and he rests his hands on either side of my waist. When I pull away, I rub the tip of my nose against his and blink right into his eyes.
"I love you, too," I say. "Jackson, I love you so, so much."
His eyes sparkle, that's the only way I know to describe it. I recline to lay on my back and he lays to the side of me, one hand on my neck as he opens his mouth against mine and kisses me with all he's got.
The light and happy feeling in my chest does not belong there, I know that. I don't know how long it will last, but I'm hoping forever. I have cancer, and today I had poisonous drugs injected into my body. But alongside that, I also have Jackson, my best friend, right next to me. Kissing me. Loving me.
When we finally stop making out long enough to fall asleep, we face each other with our arms wrapped around one another's bodies. He has one arm under my shirt, halfway up my back, and the other resting under my head to act as my pillow. I'm using one finger to gently press against each and every one of the freckles across the apples of his cheeks, counting them silently as he watches me.
"I love you," he whispers, and my eyes lift to meet his. "You are magic, you know that?"
I blush and direct my eyes back to his freckles. I'm getting tempted to close my eyes, so I ask him, "Play with my hair?"
He does, of course. He threads his fingers through it and pets it away from my face, which makes a warm feeling soak through my whole body. After a few minutes of that, though, he pulls away and makes a weird sound. I open my eyes, concerned, and say, "What?"
He doesn't need to answer me. I see it in his hand - the first lock. It's not that much, but it's enough to be noticeable, my hair - detached - between his fingers.
I gasp and hold my head. I didn't know it would be this soon, I never expected it to happen to me. I never expected any of this to happen to me, but I never thought I'd be one to lose my hair.
"It's going already," I say. "My hair. It's going away."
I roll over onto my back and feel tears leak out of the sides of my eyes, then drip down into my ears.
"I'm sorry," Jackson whispers, not knowing else to say. There really isn't anything else he can say.
I open my eyes to look into his and find impeccable sadness there. I sniffle and wipe my tears, but new ones take their places quickly.
"Do you want me to sing?" he asks.
I let out a sad-sounding little chuckle. He knows that, when he's sick or hurting, I always offer to sing to make him feel better. And now he's doing it for me.
I nod, blinking my creaky eyes.
At first, I don't recognize what he's singing because he's self-conscious and quiet. But after a few beats, I recognize an Ed Sheeran song.
"I found a love for me, darlin' just dive right in, follow my lead. I found a girl beautiful and sweet. I never knew you were the someone waiting for me … 'cause we were just kids when we fell in love, not knowing what it was, I will not give you up this time… darlin' just kiss me slow, your heart is all I own, and in your eyes you're holding mine…"
I hiccup and take in a deep breath after a big sob, and he presses the side of his face to mine as he sings, the words tumbling right into my ear. I lean against him, depending on him wholly, whimpering into his chest as I try to stop crying.
"I love you," I peep. "Through all this, I love you."