24

FRIDAY, SAYLOR IS strong enough to walk down for her treatment—stage-four blue Skittles. She is wearing a colorful head scarf, shorts to show off her smooth legs, and a hoodie. I brought a blanket with us just in case. The room is always cold, and considering Saylor’s attire, she is probably going to need it.

It had become tradition for me to leave and get candy, and this time was no different. They had already done the blood work in her room and had it sent down, so we were able to bypass that part. I kiss her at the door and leave to go on my weekly store run. I’m in the parking lot when I get a call from the hospital.

“Hello.”

“I need you to pick me up something else,” Saylor says, and her voice is sad.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, already making my way back inside to her.

“I’ll tell you when you get back. Will you please pick up some markers and a poster board for me?” I pause in the lobby.

“Saylor, will you please tell me what is going on?”

“Dirk, will you please just pick it up? And bring extra Skittles,” she adds, and the smile in her voice is enough to have me heading toward the car.

“I love you,” I tell her, knowing she can’t hear it enough and I can’t say it enough.

“I love you too. Hurry up.” She hangs up and I’m laughing.

—

I push open the door to find one of the reclining chairs empty. Someone has died, and the room is so melancholy, that even I feel depressed.

“Okay, guys,” Saylor says, addressing everyone and taking over the show. The nurses are staring at her like she’s lost her mind, and one is on the phone asking someone to come up. “The doctors here think that we shouldn’t talk about our friends when they pass. Well, I think that’s bullshit.” All the patients take turns looking at one another, probably thinking that Saylor has lost her mind.

“Marcus would have wanted to be remembered. I’m not saying we have to mourn his death, I’m saying we should celebrate his life. So, my handsome lover Dirk has been kind enough to pick us up some things to help us do that.”

I cross the room to Saylor, thinking that maybe she has lost her mind. No one says a word and all eyes are on me and Saylor and the bag in my hand.

“Ralph,” Saylor says, addressing the old man to her left. He looks at her with raised eyebrows, or what were once eyebrows, and looks nervous that she called on him. “What was your favorite thing about Marcus?” Ralph stutters before answering.

“Um, well. He was a nice boy. Said he worked on his daddy’s chicken farm. I like that he was a hard worker. He was respectful too.”

Saylor writes on the poster board with one of the markers as Ralph speaks. When I see her struggle with it in her lap, I locate a table next to the nurse’s desk and bring it to her—shooting a look to the nurse when she starts to object.

“Thank you, baby.” Baby. I like when she calls me that. “Hershel?” Saylor looks pointedly at the man to her right, and he looks around the room before answering.

“He had a good sense of humor. And he laughed at all my jokes, even the ones that ain’t real funny.” Saylor writes again, and so it goes until every patient in the room has said something they like about Marcus.

I take a minute to look behind me and find six nurses, some that I’ve never seen, and four doctors standing behind the desk. There are tears in the eyes of the nurses and curious stares on the faces of the doctors. Some are even smiling.

“Dirk?” I look back at Saylor, who is waiting for my thoughts on Marcus. Hell, I didn’t even know the boy. All I knew was that he couldn’t have been out of his teens, and always asked for extra Skittles.

But Saylor wants something, so even if I have to make it up, I’m going to give it to her. When determination steps in, she is impossible to argue with. But, I do remember something about Marcus, and it’s not a lie.

“He always made you smile.” I watch Saylor fall more in love with me. She nods, brushing her tears from her eyes and laughing before leaning down to write my answer.

“Yes, he did.” When she looks back up, she is even more determined as she looks at the doctors and nurses. I move out of the way so she has a full view of them. “I don’t care how long you say I have left. As long as I live, I will honor every person I share this room with if they leave here before I do. So, either you can jump on the celebration-of-life bandwagon, or you can be soul-sucking, coldhearted demons. It’s your choice.”

I feel my dick swell in my jeans. It’s wrong. Fuck, it’s wrong. But I can’t help it. When Saylor takes on bitch mode, it makes me horny as hell.

Dr. Marks, who I haven’t heard say one word ever since I’ve known him, walks up to Saylor and squats down at the side of her chair. “You, Saylor Samson, are an incredible young woman. The world needs more people like you.” He kisses her cheek, then shares his favorite thing about Marcus.

By the time her treatment is finished, Saylor’s poster board is full. On our way out, she stops to tape it to the wall for everyone to see. When I open the door for her, I glance up and see the signatures at the bottom, including my own, with a title above it that reads In Loving Memory of Marcus.

Saylor is sent home Saturday morning. When we arrive, the house is full of people waiting for us. Donnawayne, Jeffery, Shady, Rookie, and Carrie. Knowing that this might be the only good day she has this week, we take the time to do something she wants. And what she wants is to go bowling. So that’s what we do.

Saylor wears another one of her head scarves and even puts makeup on. Donnawayne assists her in drawing on fake eyebrows and even though she is superthin, she looks like herself. I try to encourage her not to overdo it, but she stops me by saying, “The bad days are gonna be bad regardless, so I’m gonna enjoy the good while I can.” So I just shut up and kiss her.

We bowl and eat, and I show Saylor how to shoot pool. I don’t let her win, because she asked me not to. And by the fifth game, I’m trying like hell to beat her. When she lines up a perfect combination shot and puts just the right amount of English on it to sink the eight ball, I know I’ve been hustled. “My teenage years were spent in a pool hall. It’s kinda my thing,” she tells me. Little shit.

It’s after midnight before we get home, and I’m more exhausted than Saylor is, although I don’t let her see it. We shower together, then lay down, and I rub Saylor’s back while she writes in her diary, trying to fight the heaviness of my eyelids.

“You want a back massage?” Saylor asks, and I’m reminded once again how unselfish she is.

“No, baby. But I’ll massage yours,” I offer, thinking that would wake me up and have me beating off in the bathroom.

“Turn over,” she says, jumping out of bed and disappearing into the bathroom. She comes back holding a bottle of lotion and makes a motion with her finger for me to turn over. “Please?” she begs, poking her lip out, and I can’t argue with that face.

I roll onto my stomach and Saylor climbs on top of me, her weight barely noticeable. When she digs her fingers deep into my shoulders, I can’t help my moan of appreciation.

“I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re tired and sore and I know the sacrifices you are making for me. And I don’t know if I’ve told you, but thank you.” Her thanks aren’t necessary, but it feels good to hear her say it.

“There is no place I’d rather be, and nothing else I’d rather do.” I wish I could look at her when I say this, but she knows the sincerity of my words. And as I drift, not only do I feel her hands on me, but she is singing and her voice is the perfect ending to this perfect day.

—

Sunday morning I wake up to the bed shaking. I picture Saylor jumping on it, trying to get my attention, and smile. But then, I feel something hit my back. And again. And I turn over to find Saylor seizing beside me with white foam running out the side of her mouth.

I’m screaming, panicking, rolling her to her side, and holding her down. I’m lost. I’m desperate and I’m still screaming, but this time it’s for help. I hear banging on the front door, but I can’t leave her to answer it so I scream at whoever is there to call 911. And I scream it over and over again until I hear sirens in the distance.

Saylor’s eyes are open, but they are lifeless. Her body is still jerking and she has wet herself. The movements are so violent that the only way for me to prevent her from hurting herself is to climb on top of her. My arms are holding down her arms. My legs pin her legs, and I’m fighting like hell to keep my weight off her tiny body. When I hear someone beat on the door, I order them to kick it down. When I’m not sure if they can, I wonder what the fuck I’m gonna do. Then I hear gunshots, and I’m afraid that whoever is coming in might not be who I think it is.

“Dirk!” I hear Shady scream from the kitchen and I’m so relieved I let out a sob.

“Shady! Shady, help me!” I’m screaming and my vision is fuzzy. When I blink and I feel wetness run down my cheeks, I realize I’m crying. But I’m not just crying. I’m hysterically sobbing and begging for help. I’m begging for someone to save her. I’m screaming for Shady, and I don’t know why. “Help me!” I yell, and it’s so loud and guttural it hurts my own ears and burns the back of my throat.

“Dirk.” I look over to see Shady on his knees on the bed next to me, his hand on my shoulder. “Dirk, the paramedics are here. I need you to let Saylor go so they can take care of her.” I look around the room and see two men staring at me wide eyed. I look down at Saylor, whose convulsions have diminished to erratic shakes.

I move off of her and out of the way of the paramedics, who immediately begin examining her. Shady has my phone and he is talking to someone, and giving orders to the paramedics. And I’m just standing here, thinking I’m in a bad dream.

When I hear one of the men tell the other one to get her shirt off, something inside me snaps. I’m not thinking rationally. The reasonable part of my brain is telling me that they are helping her, but the other part is telling me to kill. But, before I can get to them, I feel the darkness taking over. Suddenly, the floor is coming up to my face, and it’s the last thing I see before it completely consumes me.

—

I wake up and rub my eyes, thinking how terrible this nightmare was compared to the ones I had growing up. When I reach over to feel for Saylor, my arm hits something hard and plastic. And then my senses kick in. I smell rubbing alcohol. I hear the steady beep of monitors, and when I open my eyes, I’m in a hospital room.

I sit up, cringing at the ache in the back of my head. I look over and in the hospital bed next to me lays Saylor, who is sound asleep. And very much alive. What the fuck? I go to stand, but something pulls at me and I look down to see an IV attached to my arm. I’m wearing a hospital gown. I search the room for a clock, but can’t find one. Judging by the darkness outside the window, it’s late at night. How long have I been out?

I look back over at Saylor, and let the memory of what was not a nightmare come back to life. She was seizing. Was she okay? I was gonna kill the paramedics. Did I? Shady was there. Where was he now? I hear the door open and one of my questions is answered. Shady is here.

“Hey, man. How ya feelin’?” Shady asks, stuffing his face with chips.

“What happened?” The room begins to spin so I lay back down, hoping it will still. It does.

“Saylor had a seizure. She’s stable now.” Shady takes a seat at the end of my bed and I want him to tell me everything, but because I can’t stand smacking, I wait for him to finish eating.

“It was about eight this morning. I was on my way to the store and an ambulance passed me. I don’t know why, but I had a feeling I needed to follow it. When it headed in your direction, I called you. When you didn’t answer I knew something was wrong.” Shady swallows hard and I watch his brow furrow as he relives the moment.

“I could hear you screaming, man. Begging for help. The neighbors were trying to get the door open but it wouldn’t budge. I shot out the lock and . . .” He stops, running his hands through his hair and struggling to find the right words. “I’ve never seen you like that. It scared me.”

I think back to how I’d let panic overcome me. The feeling of helplessness is still fresh and it still fucking hurts.

“I told the paramedics not to touch you. I didn’t know what you would do. So I talked you into getting off her and then called Dr. Zi from your phone. He said for them to take her straight to the ER. When they tried to get her clothes off so they could take her vitals and hook to the port in her arm, I saw the look in your eyes. I knew you were going to do something you would regret. So, I hit you.” I stare at him, unbelieving.

“You hit me?” I ask, needing him to confirm it.

“Yeah. Maybe a little too hard, but I figured you’d done something to me to justify it.” He smirks and I reach back to feel the knot on the back of my head.

“You hit me?” I still can’t believe it. Shady packed a powerful fucking punch if it knocked me out cold.

“Well, technically, the butt of my gun hit you.”

“You motherfucker.”

“What? You think I can take your big ass down with my fist? I’m barely one ninety and that’s soaking wet.” Bastard. “Look, I took care of everything, didn’t I? I insisted that they put you two in the same room. At first, they refused, but when I told Dr. Zi that if you woke up after what you’d been through, and Saylor wasn’t there that you’d lose your shit . . . well, let’s just say he made it happen.”

I look over at Saylor again, knowing Shady is right. There’s no telling the damage I would have done. I want to thank Shady, but Dr. Zi walks in and smiles when he sees me.

“Well, Dirk. Looks like you took a pretty nasty hit to the back of the head. You want to press charges?” he asks, and I don’t hesitate.

“Yes.” The doctor laughs and takes a seat in the chair next to me. I don’t like that he’s getting so close. It tells me that what he is about to say is important.

“The treatment didn’t work, Dirk.” I just stare at him and he looks down, avoiding my gaze. “We ran an MRI on Saylor, and the seizure was caused because the tumor has grown.” I think I’m going to puke, and reach over to grab the bottle of water Shady has between his fingers.

“We’re stopping the treatment, and it will take about a week for the last of the chemo to get out of her system. After that, her hair will start growing back and the other side effects will stop too.”

Hell, that’s wonderful news. I don’t understand why he looks so upset. I know they had a lot riding on this, hoping that it would work, but I can tell by the sadness in the doctor’s eyes that this has nothing to do with the loss of funding for the new study.

“Give it to me straight, Doc. I can handle it.” And I would. I wouldn’t allow myself to panic anymore. I couldn’t. It almost cost Saylor her life the last time I did.

He looks me dead in the eye, not bothering to hide the emotion in them. “If Saylor manages to live another two months, it will be a miracle, but not one we wish for. The position of the tumor is crucial, and if it grows any more, she will lose her eyesight. If it grows beyond that, she will lose her ability to communicate verbally. And beyond that, depending on which direction it spreads, it could affect her movement, her hearing, and possibly her memory.”

The thought of Saylor not being able to see wouldn’t affect me in the least. I would still get to look at her every day. If she couldn’t see and couldn’t talk, I could still talk to her and watch her smile and laugh. If she lost her mobility, I would carry her everywhere, but if she lost her memory, I would lose her.

“So, if we don’t wish for a miracle, what do we wish for?” I’m asking for his answer because I can’t bring myself to process my own.

“Judging by the rapid growth, and her health, my best guess would be two weeks before we start to notice a decline in her health.” Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. That was all the time Saylor had left to live in her current condition. And one of those weeks, seven of those days, 113 of those hours, would be enduring the fading side effects of her last chemo treatment.

There was no positive outcome in this scenario. Either Saylor lived longer and suffered more, or lived less with minimal suffering. And there was no way for us to choose.

The doctor puts his hand on my shoulder, and I meet his eyes. Pain, sorrow, and pity are there. And this time, I don’t mind it because it’s well deserved. “I’m sorry, Dirk.” He stands to leave and I can’t help but cry out to him with one more desperate question.

“Is there anything we can do?” He offers me a sad smile and a one-word answer.

“Pray.”