Cuba
I hear the beeping, the low voices in the corner of the room, the breathing machine mocking my emotions. My heart pounds with every wheezing breath taken. My eyes are stinging but I refuse to let the tears fall. I still have hope; I still have the dreams. Our dreams. The same ones we had before we could even shoot or dribble a basketball.
A pale hand reaches for me, catching my attention. “Cu-“ my name is cut short, so he can catch his breath.
I watch my best friend of twenty years struggle to speak. Jackson and I grew up together, well that’s what our parents say. We moved next to the Emmett’s when I was two and our parents became fast friends, their friendship forced us to be the best of friends. There wasn’t anything we didn’t do together. Hell, we go to the same college, play on the same basketball team.
We went to the same college, played on the same basketball team. Past tense. Six months ago, it wasn’t. Six months ago, we were shooting hoops and talking shit, that’s when he fell and stopped breathing out of nowhere. I regret saying he was faking the moment I fell to my knees calling for help and trying my best to perform CPR. He didn’t leave the hospital that day. He never came back to school, or to the gym. He never played in another game. He never returned to the apartment we shared.
A tumor in his brain, the size of a golf ball, that’s what the doctors said. It’s too late, they said. Nothing they could do but try and operate and even that wasn’t a guarantee. Ten hours in surgery and they barely got enough of the tumor to test it.
Cancer. Fucking cancer.
I know you hear of kids our age getting cancer all the time, but this wasn’t supposed to happen to Jackson. I refused to believe it when he first told me. Told him to stop fucking playing with me, that this wasn’t funny. His sad blue eyes told me he wasn’t.
“Cuba.” His muffled voice breaks my thoughts.
Blinking away my tears, I look up at him, his normally stylish blond hair is now gone, his vibrant blue eyes are dull and sunken into his now boney face. This guy lying here isn’t the same go lucky ladies’ man that he was. He was a shell of his self, and I couldn’t bear it.
“Hey man,” I say, through the thickness in my throat.
He tries to give me a crooked smile but is barely able to lift his lip. “We going to the final four, man?”
He wants to talk basketball? Seriously? The doctors said it’s only a matter of time and he wants to talk basketball?
My heart tugs, there are a million things I want to talk about and ball isn’t one of them, but if that’s what he wants then what else can I do?
Shaking my head, I give a sad laugh. “Not without you, we lost second round.” Truth is, we lost because I stopped showing up for practice the day I found out he had cancer. I’d barely make it to my classes if I was sober enough. Hell, I’m rarely sober.
Jackson coughs and shakes his head. “I know you stopped playing.” He takes a deep breath. “Cub-“ he struggles with another breath.
“Jack-“ he cuts me off.
“Don’t ruin our dream, Cue. I’ll always be there, you know. Playing with you.” He manages a small smile. “We can win, man. You can win.”
I shake my head rapidly. “Nah, not without you, man. I can’t live the dream without you. That’s our dream. NCAA Champs and going to the league.” I try to smile, because if I don’t, I’ll break down. His parents and mine agreed that I have hold it together, and if I come visit, I must be sober. So here I am, sober, trying to hold my emotions together while my best friend dies in front of me, telling me to go after our dream. Without him.
“I hope you change your mind, man. You could be great.”
I scoot my chair back, I can’t do this. “No. We could be great. I can’t do this without you, Jack! Stop making it seem like it will be easy. It has always been you and me. Jackson and Cuba. The Dream Team. There is no NBA without you.” I hold my head and stare down at the floor. My heart is tearing apart, my chest cracking open.
I hear the footsteps before I feel the hands grabbing me and pulling me back, hushed words telling me to get it together or leave invading my ear. I’m losing it. Jackson is more than my best friend; he’s my brother. The yin to my yang. My right hand. My partner in crime.
My head shoots up and my eyes lock on his. “I’m sorry,” I choke. “I just can’t do this. I love you, man. You’re my brother.” I whisper, “My brother.”
Jackson’s eyes swell up turning red. “I love you too, bro.” He barely gets out; as a tear slips from his eye. “Please stay.”
I look at who’s holding me. His dad. I look at him with a question and he merely nods, but he sends me a warning through his eyes. Nodding, I sit back down in my seat with a heavy heart. As much as I want to stalk out this room and drown my sorrows in a bottle of whatever I can find, I don’t. I sit there, grasping his cold, pale hand that he extends out for me. I grasp it with everything in me. The hope that he’ll live and get better. The hope that we can still have our dream but, deep inside, I know that won’t happen.
Jackson and I talk for hours, well; I talk, mostly about basketball and girls. We watch the new Dave Chappelle on Netflix, and I try to laugh at the right times. Jackson smiles as the credits roll and grazes my arm with his hand.
“Thank you.” It’s barely a whisper as he takes another breath, but this one sounds different, the beeping of the machines started to sound different. Faster, urgent.
His parents run to the other side of his bed as mine come up behind me, my mom gripping my shoulders.
No, this can’t be it. It’s too soon. He was just smiling.
I hear the noise I’ve heard in movies so many times, the sound you don’t want to hear, the sound that it’s over.
Mrs. Emmett’s cries are an echo, a faraway sound. I’m being pulled back by nurses forcing me to let go of Jackson’s now cooling hand. I don’t want to let go, I can’t let go.
“Let go, son.” My dad gently tells me, pulling my hand away. Finally letting go, I turn for the door, I can’t look back. I can’t handle this.
My mom grabs for me, but I yank away, I need a drink. I need the whole bottle. I need to drown out the pain.
I need out.
Seven days later, I didn’t go to the funeral. I couldn’t get out of bed, let alone even know my name, I made sure I couldn’t. The alcohol made me forget, the weed kept me in a haze. I was lost, and I didn’t want to be found.
I lost my best friend. My brother. My teammate.
I lost myself.