My Oxford Year

His brows snap together. “How do you know that?”

I shake my head. “I’m asking the questions.” I begin to pace, organizing my thoughts. Or trying to. “What is it? What do you have?”

“Multiple myeloma.”

I stop pacing. “Isn’t that . . . what Oliver had?”

Jamie nods.

“Isn’t that what killed him?”

Jamie nods again.

“So, you’re dying?” How is my voice so calm? I might as well be asking him why he wore those particular pants today. I know I’m not handling this well, but I can’t find any rationality, any objectivity, any of the skills I usually have at my disposal. I’ve never felt this untethered. Well. Not in twelve years, anyway.

Jamie just stares at me, the answer unavoidable in his eyes. I can’t look at them. He takes another tentative step down the stairs. Unstable, he grabs at the iron handrail. It shifts against his weight, old and rusting and dangerously loose. He clutches at it with both hands, seeking balance. I want to leap up the steps and help him, but I don’t. I can’t right now. I glance down at his hands. A Band-Aid sits on top of one of them, a crimson dot in the center. “Was that chemo in there?”

“Saline.”

“Saline?”

“The chemo—this particular chemo—is a quick injection. And pills. But it requires a saline flush after—”

“How long have you been in treatment?”

“Six weeks. This is my third round. Might we go inside?” He’s still shirtless. Though the rain has abated, the wind has picked up.

“Go if you want.”

“No, merely a suggestion.” With that, he takes yet another tentative step. The railing could go at any moment. Jamie, aware of that fact, mutters, “I really must repair this.”

A tsunami of questions swells in me. I grow relentless, my tone like a trial lawyer. “Why do you have your hair?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. Some people get lucky.”

“Lucky?” A sarcastic laugh falls from my mouth. “Why aren’t you more ill?”

“I’m quite ill, Ella.”

“Well, why didn’t I notice? Why haven’t you been throwing up? Staying in bed? And who has chemo at home? With their own personal nurse—”

The gentleness in Jamie’s eyes disappears, replaced with a weary exasperation. “Ella, do you want real answers to these questions? Because I will gladly sit with you and explain myself, but I’m asking you to attempt a modicum of gentleness. Please. I’ve got an unrelenting headache at present.”

I barely hear him because something he said swoops back around and lands. “You’ve been in treatment for six weeks,” I say. “So, like, the entire time we’ve been together?” The words “been together” hover over us like a fog. The phrase is a misnomer, a placeholder term devoid of actual meaning. It could mean everything or nothing.

The tiniest smile curls his lip. Rueful. Verging on remorseful. “My first treatment was actually the evening after we . . . the Buttery. You’ll excuse me, but I must sit.” He uses the unstable railing to lower himself, taking a welcomed seat on the third step up from the sidewalk, which puts us, oddly, at eye level.

I remember his protestations in the Buttery. I can’t. Is the point. Don’t think it’s a good idea. “Why would you ever start something—”

“You were supposed to be my last hurrah.” He dares a look at me. Then, horribly, he chuckles. “My send-off. My bon voyage party.” He continues to laugh, and drops his face into his hands. “Bugger, how foolish.”

I’m not laughing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I have?”

The top of my head blows off. “Because it affects me, too!”

He looks up at me, liquid-eyed, no longer laughing. His voice is hoarse. “How? You don’t want a relationship. You’re leaving. You have a plan. So did I.”

In the ensuing silence, Jamie picks at the Band-Aid and I notice the spot has gotten larger. I feel myself splintering, cracking open into a gaping crevasse, and I realize in that moment that I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate him.

When my dad died, my mother made it quite clear that I had to be the strong one. That I couldn’t fall apart, because she needed me. It was the ultimate bait and switch. For twelve years, she’d been the mom and I’d been the child; those were the rules of our world. And she just decided those weren’t the rules anymore and I was trapped. I stare at Jamie. Another rule change. Another bait and switch.

“You thought you were going to trap me,” I level.

His eyes flash. “Trap you?”

“That I’d fall for you. That I’d stay. That I’d take care of you.”

His mouth falls open and I know instantaneously, viscerally, that I’m wrong. “You think that little of me?”

The hurt in his eyes only fuels my anger. Now I’m the bad guy? “You clearly thought that little of me!” I snap.

Suddenly he levers himself off the step and I’m sure the railing is going to rip out of the cement. I stiffen. He tries to speak. “You . . .” But he can’t continue. His face pales, he bends, clutches that useless railing. Drops his head, tries to breathe. The dot of blood on his Band-Aid spreads. Stop! I scream inside.

Giving up, Jamie sits back down, breathing through flared nostrils like a bull struck with too many banderillas. Finally, he looks up at me. He reaches out his bandaged hand. Beckoning. “Please.”

Instead of going up the three seemingly insignificant steps between us, I back away, the matador after the kill. Jamie watches my retreat, quirking his head at me the way he always does. Except this time there’s no endearment in the gesture. There’s only bewilderment. And hurt.

I can’t deal with his hurt right now; I’m still trying to understand mine. Why does this hurt so much?

“Wow,” I hear myself say. “It’s a good thing I don’t love you.”

“MAGDALEN,” IS ALL I say to the cabbie.

I feel like a wax figure of myself, as if all my body’s faculties are busy processing and can’t be diverted to the mundane task of speech. Questions pile up, crowding in, pushing me up against the backseat of this cab, suffocating. I can’t finish one thought before another shoves in.

Then this thought, a glaring light scattering the others like roaches: I just walked out on a dying man.

Correction: I just told a dying man it’s a good thing I don’t love him, and then I walked out on him.

My phone rings. All robot arms, I fish it out of my coat pocket even though I’m not going to answer. I’m not talking to him ever again.

But it’s not Jamie. It’s Gavin.

“Gavin,” I croak.

“Just thought I’d call before the holiday, in case there’s anything we need to go over. I’m going to my sister’s and she won’t let me so much as turn my phone on tomorrow.”

What’s tomorrow? Then I remember. Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving! Shit! Connor! “No, yeah, I—I think we’re good,” I stammer. “I’m working on a—a plan right now, the vouchers thing. I’ll send it in a few. A few days, that is.”

There’s a beat. “You okay?”

“Yeah! Just . . .” What? All thought has fled. “Sorry, Gavin, can you hold on one second?”