My Oxford Year

The doctors had wanted to give him a blood transfusion, which would have involved staying in the hospital and had potential repercussions that made his oncologist nervous. Plan B was a series of shots that encourage the body to create more of its own red blood cells. Which is great. Except it’ll take two weeks before they can tell if there’s any improvement. So Jamie’s relegated to the couch. Indefinitely. We’ve been home for about an hour and so far Jamie’s really pissed and I’m really disappointed and both of us feel guilty about the way we’re feeling.

That’s as far as we’ve gotten.

“There’s no point in you being here. You should go,” he says.

I stop my fussing. “Go where?”

“On holiday, you dolt!”

“Don’t call me that!” I snap, nerves beyond frayed. The teasing grin on Jamie’s pale face instantly drops, and I take a breath. “I’m sorry. About everything, okay? I should have realized you weren’t—”

“No, please. Stop right there. You feel bad, I feel bad, but we will not plague each other with guilt. It’s an absurd emotion, reserved for those who we fear might feel less than they ought.” He looks in my eyes. “You and I, we carry on. If we stop, it is to only catch our breath. Well, breath caught.”

“Jamie, I’m not leaving you.”

He groans slightly. “You have our itinerary, everything’s confirmed. Please.” I straighten and sigh. He takes my dangling hand. “I couldn’t live with myself if you didn’t get to travel because of this.”

“So much for no guilt, huh?” I tease. He rolls his eyes. “We still have the Easter vac in March. It’s not a big deal.”

“No, Ella.” He sweeps a hand over himself. “This is not a big deal. I simply overexerted, that’s all. By the time you get back in a month, I’ll be right as rain.”

He looks so much like a little boy right now—optimistic, vulnerable, and so completely untethered from reality—that tears spring to my eyes. Tears that I turn away from him to hide. “We’ll see.”

He tugs my hand, urges me look at him. “Carry on. Yeah?”

Before I can reply, there’s a knock at the door. “That’s the food, be right—Sit!” I bark incredulously when he moves to get up. Worst patient ever.

We’d ordered Indian food as soon as we got home. I can’t vouch for Jamie’s appetite, but I’m starving. All I want is a huge bowl of rice and tikka masala and approximately fourteen pieces of naan. I reach into my pocket for some money and open the door, muttering “Sorry, I don’t have anything smaller than a fifty—” I screech to a halt.

Antonia.

And William.

Antonia exudes calm, but her face is etched with worry. “My dear girl, how are you? Is he all right?”

“Yes, yes, he’s fine.” Then, reflexively, we throw our arms around each other. I don’t know who initiated it, but it causes me to tear up again. I had long since forgotten the relief and comfort a mother can bring to a situation. I’m shocked to discover how much I needed it. “I’m fine,” I breathe into her hair. “I just wasn’t expecting—”

“You’ll pardon me.” William pushes past us, his impatience as obvious as his anger. “James?”

Antonia quickly escapes our embrace, squeezing my arm as she mutters, “Sorry.” She chases after her husband. “William, don’t make me ask you to wait outside.”

I close the door and quickly follow. As I round the corner to the drawing room, Jamie exclaims, “Bloody hell!”

William stands over Jamie’s prone figure on the couch. “Enjoying your holiday?”

“What are you—”

“Are you happy now?” William seethes. “Do you see what your recklessness has done?”

Jamie pushes himself up into a proper sitting position, less exposed. “What are you doing here?” He looks angrily to me. “I said they were not to be called.”

Antonia steps in, saving me. “Yes, and I could throttle you for asking it of her.” She drops on the couch next to him, taking his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Are you all right?”

Jamie grabs her hands and lowers them gently, his agitated gaze darting at William. “I’m fine. Really. It was just a dizzy spell. No need for the cavalry.”

My eyes bulge. A dizzy spell? He can’t even be honest with them.

This is why I had told Antonia to be patient, to let me talk to Jamie, warm him up to the idea of their coming down here. For one very obvious reason, which happens to be standing behind her right now, scowling. I never thought they’d just show up. Scotland is a six-hour drive. They must have gotten in the car as soon as we hung up. Or maybe there’s a private plane I don’t know about.

William won’t be put off. “Against all advice, doctor or otherwise, you insist on frolicking off to the continent,” he booms. “When were you planning to have your follow-up? Hmm?”

“When I returned. Obviously,” Jamie bites out.

“In January? After a month? Splendid! A month of eating whatever you want, running yourself ragged, drinking to excess, and shagging like a teenager who’s just discovered his cock?”

I wince. Not at William’s crudity, but at his accuracy. Said this way, leaving for a month does sound reckless. Jamie jumps off the couch and starts pacing, fueled by adrenaline.

“Jamie, which treatment will you be starting in January? William, don’t be crass,” Antonia says, the voice of reason.

“Chemo,” Jamie replies tightly.

“Chemo?” William barks. “What about the stem cell?”

Jamie takes a breath. “I already told you—”

“Dr. Solomon said he’d convinced you to reconsider—”

“I did reconsider and I came to the same conclusion.” I look at Jamie. I didn’t know this. He glances briefly at me, looking slightly embarrassed when he says, “I’ll revisit the idea when Ella’s gone back to America—”

“If you’re not dead.”

“William,” Antonia snaps. “I forbid you to say that.” There’s flint in her voice. “Do you hear me? I won’t have it.”

William rolls his eyes and spins away, facing the far wall.

Was he right, what he said at the ball? Is Jamie not doing the stem-cell therapy because he doesn’t want to be away from me? A sick feeling begins to settle in my stomach.

Antonia sighs. “What is your plan, my love?”

Jamie waves his hand dismissively at his mother. “I’ll keep on with the chemo, as maintenance. In six months, I’ll assess my options.”

“You stubborn sod!” William bellows, spinning back around. He advances, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand at each beat for emphasis, as if angrily tracking the iamb. “You don’t keep the dog at bay, you wring its bloody neck!”

Jamie, losing his strength, sinks back into the couch.

“At the very least, do the trial,” William implores.

“What trial?” I hear myself ask.

A look of smug superiority fills William’s face. “It seems Jamie doesn’t share everything with you, after all.” It takes all my control not to remind him that he’s only standing here because of me. He looks back to Jamie. “Shall I tell her? Or would you prefer to?”