Jamie stares at the coffee table. “Because of the cost.”
“The cost!” I shout, louder than I intended. “Are you serious—”
Jamie clenches his eyes shut. “Not financial cost, personal cost. Side effects.”
“Which are?”
“They have no bloody idea! It’s a trial. That’s the point.” He sits forward suddenly, elbows on his knees. He stares at William as he draws a steadying breath. “Oliver did a trial and it killed him. Slowly, painfully. He bled out internally, drowning, suffocating on his own blood—”
“The drug didn’t kill Oliver.” William interrupts yet again.
Suddenly Jamie’s finger pops out like a gun, pointing accusingly at William. Hand shaking in repressed rage, he glares at his father. I’m taken aback. I’ve never seen him this angry.
William alters his tone. “I’m only saying Oliver was too advanced. You’re the perfect candidate for this.”
Jamie’s voice shakes when he says quietly, “I won’t submit Ella to unknown side effects. I won’t abide her turning nursemaid—”
“This isn’t about me!” I cry, appalled at his reasoning, just as William yells, “This isn’t about her!” We glance at each other warily, uncomfortable in our agreement.
Antonia shakes her head. “You’d think we’d all have learned something from the last time round.” The moment she speaks Jamie and William demagnetize, separate like two boxers going to opposite corners once the referee steps in. There’s silence. It feels like this roller coaster is slowing, pulling into the station. Though I’m not unfastening my seat belt just yet.
She looks between them. “This illness is not easy on any of us. Decisions are not easy for any of us. Yes, Jamie, you will decide your future, but we will all live with it. There is no right answer. Wouldn’t it be relieving if there were?”
Her diplomacy is inspiring. I could take a lesson from her.
“So, my love. Listen. Consider. Don’t discount something simply because your father is suggesting it. Then make your choice. And we shall support it.”
William has retreated to a corner of the room, looking at the floor. Jamie absently rubs his forehead. He looks exhausted, yet contemplative. I’m still in awe of Antonia.
Jamie goes completely still for a moment. Then:
“I’ll do the trial. On one condition.” He looks up at his father. “You are to stay out of it. You are not to talk to my doctors. You are to neither call nor visit. I am to be left alone for the next three months.”
William looks as if he’s going to detonate.
“Jamie, is that really necessary?” I ask.
Jamie’s eyes never leave William’s. “Yes.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer. William finally speaks. “I’ll be outside.” He leaves. Not another word. No “I’m sorry.” No “Jamie, please.” No “I love you.” He doesn’t look at anyone. He just exits.
Antonia turns to Jamie on the couch. She kisses his cheek. She lingers there. Then they embrace. Just hold each other. Standing behind Jamie, I watch tears leak out of Antonia’s tightly shut eyes. This is what was inside her the whole time. I hear a choked, fractured voice say, “I love you,” and in this moment I can’t tell if it came from Jamie or Antonia. It doesn’t matter.
I’ve only felt love like this once in my life, and I can’t bear to think of it right now.
Antonia pats Jamie on the back, and pulls away. “Gorgeous boy.”
“Beautiful mum.”
She gets up and reaches for my hand. We don’t dare hug. I think we both know we’d lose it. She inclines her head in the direction that William exited. “Apologies, Eleanor.”
What the hell is she apologizing for? I shake my head, try to lighten the mood. “He’s a bit of a bull in a china shop, isn’t he?”
“That’s generous, my dear.” She smiles slightly, seems to think about this for a second. “Though sometimes one must ask oneself why the bull is in the china shop in the first place.” She leaves.
As her footsteps recede I debate going after her. I want to know why he’s in the china shop. I want to know what is going on between father and son. I glance at Jamie and see that he’s tipped his head back, closed his eyes.
“Jamie—” I begin.
“I need a moment.”
He’s angry. I get it. I’m angry, too. I step out into the hallway just as the front door closes behind Antonia. Too late. She’s gone.
I won’t go out there. That would be asking for trouble and we’ve had enough of it for one day. But I find myself gravitating to the window beside the door, curtained with a simple muslin panel. Standing to the side of it and looking through the space between the window and the drapery, I can see directly onto the front stoop without having to push back the material. I know I’m snooping, but I can’t help it. This feels necessary.
Antonia has paused on the top stair and gazes down upon William, who, at the bottom of the stairs, has taken hold of the handrail and is violently pulling at it until it breaks free from its rusty bolts. He throws it down into the bushes next to the stair. He stands motionless for a moment, panting with flared nostrils. He kicks the railing for good measure, then just looks at it. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket, takes out a cigarette, lights up, and begins pacing. Kicking up dirt. Forcing air and smoke in and out of his body, clearly wanting to do more damage, but not sure to what.
Antonia slowly but deliberately descends the stairs. William points his cigarette at her, his face contorted, a bomb ready to go off.
I reach for the door handle; I think better of it. Because Antonia calmly takes one more step down to William, bringing herself eye level with him.
I’ve never seen two people speak so clearly, yet wordlessly, to each other.
William finally moves. He goes to toss his cigarette, but Antonia snatches it from him. She takes a long drag, tips her head back, and exhales. She looks back at William and tosses it onto the pavement. William hangs his head, but looks up at his wife, a conqueror who has been conquered. She is right there for him.
She takes his shoulders as he falls forward, the top of his head finding a place to rest between her breasts. His hands find her hips, settling there with long-held familiarity. She runs her palms down the length of his back, up and down, up and down, the way you rub a dog when it’s come and put its head in your lap. William turns to the left, toward me, and I see his eyes are closed, his lips a tight, straight line, a mask of tension. Antonia drops her head back and looks up at the sky, mouth open, sucking in air.
I don’t know whether it’s the sight of their unguarded pain or intimacy that causes me to finally turn away, but I do.
I walk back into the parlor to find Jamie still on the couch. His eyes open as I approach. “Listen,” he begins.
“No, stop. Just stop, Jamie. Enough. I’m sorry they ambushed you. Just to be clear, I didn’t ask them to come. But I’m not sorry I called them. They have a right to know what’s happening to their son.”
“You don’t want to get involved in this, Ella. It doesn’t concern you.”
“It does. You know why? Because I’m the one who’s here now.” I’m channeling Antonia. So when Jamie opens his mouth to protest, I continue. “You told me nothing’s changed. And I believed you in that moment because I wanted to, but, Jamie. Everything’s changed.” I watch this land in his eyes, the sad recognition of a truth denied. “It doesn’t have to stop us, this.” I gesture between us. “But we can’t ignore it either.”
I sit down on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of him, knees to knees. “You know me well enough by now to know that I like having opinions.” He snorts at this. “But luckily for you, I’m good at it. People pay me for my opinions, but I’m giving them to you for free. So keeping things from me isn’t going to keep me from having opinions. It’s just going to keep me from having informed opinions. Which is pointless.” I take his hand. I take a risk. “Do you want me here?”
He looks into my eyes and I get a flash of the Jamie from our first tutorial. “Of course.”
“Then treat me like I’m here. Don’t shut me out. Don’t act like it’s already June eleventh. Because it’ll come soon enough.”
After a moment, Jamie sighs. “So we carry on, then, together?”
I nod. “Together. We’ll go in March. The weather will be better anyway.” Everything will be better, I tell myself.
After a moment, he picks up my hand, bends it back at the wrist, and kisses the palm. He lets his lips linger there. His eyes close. He inhales. He murmurs, “‘We are here as on a darkling plane. Where ignorant armies clash by night.’” He opens his eyes, looks over my hand at me. His eyes, though tired, call to me like midnight pools. The hardest part of this is the fragility. The shroud of look-don’t-touch over these moments of connection. The are-you-all-right-how-do-you-feel filter.
He drops his head. I reach out and run my hand through his hair. He turns his head into my palm, like a cat. He leans forward, and places the top of his head on my chest, between my breasts.
“I swear,” he mutters. “If that man is day, I’m night.”
His hands find my hips.
He turns his head to the left.
As I begin rubbing my hands down his back all I can think is, Day and night are just two sides of the same planet.
Chapter 24
Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam, A.H.H., canto 50, 1850
Ever thought about what it would be like to set up shop on a bathroom floor? I hadn’t either. Now I’m an expert. I could teach workshops.