My Oxford Year

Wasting no time, Jamie rolls me onto my back and nudges my legs apart with his knee. He rises up on an elbow, the fingers of one hand tangling into my hair, his other hand finding my stomach. I reach out and card my fingers through his hair. His hand trembles slightly on my abdomen, his breathing still hoarse.

I’m transported. Blame the house, blame the events of the day, blame the ring Antonia gave me, but I suddenly feel as if I’ve slipped into another era. The two of us, in this timeless room, finding our way back to each other. There’s a feeling of reverence in the tilt of Jamie’s head, in his attention to my body. It feels sacred, blessed, even matrimonial. The awareness of centuries of wedding nights that may have passed in this room swoops in on me, and I shiver. Which prompts Jamie to look at my face. His eyes glitter in the dimness. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

I don’t have to ask for what. It doesn’t matter. It ripples through me like a stone dropped in a lake, compelling me to say, right back at him, “Thank you.” For all the same reasons, whatever they are.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

My seamless reply seems to catch him off guard. He’s not the sort of man to clarify, to ask, “Really?” But I can see it in his eyes. How could he doubt it? In response, I tighten my fingers in his hair. Yes, really.

He drops his head and kisses my stomach. Then sweeps his lips upward. He pivots over me, settling fully between my legs. He lifts onto his palms, rising above me. I bend my knees, wrapping my legs around his hips, so very ready. But he pauses. I notice that his arms are shaking. He’s weak still. He drops his head, hanging it between us. I stretch my neck and kiss his forehead. It’s so warm. He’s overexerting himself.

Before he does something ridiculous like apologize, I grab his shoulders and push him off me, flipping him onto his back. His surprise alone is worth it. He laughs. Without skipping a beat, I straddle him, sliding myself down on him in one go. He sucks in a breath and throws his head back.

I can’t help but grin. We may be timeless, but something tells me this room hasn’t seen many women on top.

MY EYES OPEN slowly, leisurely. Early-morning light finds its way through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains. Jamie’s turned away from me. Caught up in the memories of last night, I slide over and rest my face between his shoulder blades.

I lurch backward. He’s covered in sweat. He’s trembling. “Jamie, you okay?” I whisper. He doesn’t respond. I grab his shoulders and turn him onto his back. His breathing sounds like there’s a baby rattle stuck in his chest. “Jamie!” I hiss. No response. I shake his shoulders. “Jamie, wake up!” I reach for his face.

His skin is on fire.

I bolt upright. “Jamie!” He doesn’t open his eyes. I crawl over him, straddling him in a tragic reprisal of last night, and open his eyelids.

His eyes are rolled back in his head.

I scream.

Chapter 27

A sickle for my friend, the weary,

A sickle quick and true,

A sickle, by God’s grace in heav’n,

A sickle waits for you.

Unknown, “Fragment”

It’s the waiting that gets to me. Waiting for William and Antonia to come bursting through the door. Waiting for someone to call 999. Waiting for the medevac helicopter to come. Waiting for Jamie to get strapped to the gurney. Waiting for William to tell me what I already know, that I should go with Jamie and they’ll meet me at the hospital. Waiting while the EMTs force oxygen into my boyfriend and the helicopter finally arrives in Glasgow. Waiting in an uncomfortable chair after seeing him whisked away behind doors that shut with a frightening finality.

A lot of thinking happens while I’m waiting, but it’s not productive thinking. It’s fragmented. It’s heightened, panicked, often without context. How did this happen so fast? Thank God I threw on my robe before his parents came in. I forgot to tell the EMTs about the anemia. In and out and between these thoughts, another one keeps looping in my head, unattached to any other thread, bobbing and weaving and coming in for the occasional jab:

If he comes through this . . .

The phrase just appears and disappears and reappears again. If he comes through this. Like a pledge, a deal in the making. With whom or with what and to what end, I don’t know. If he comes through this . . .

What?

Am I bargaining? Already experiencing one of the five stages of grief?

Finally, Antonia and William arrive. They want to know everything, and I know nothing. All I can say is that he was unconscious but breathing when we arrived. They collapse in relief and I think, This is the gold standard now? Unconscious but breathing? We huddle together, a triad of hope.

Now the waiting really begins.

If he comes through this . . .

An eternity later, a doctor appears, mask hanging down at her tanned-leather throat, paper hat atop her platinum spiked hair. Her voice is Scots steel. “I’m Dr. Corrigan, I’ve been attending to James. Mr. and Mrs. Davenport?” She looks to Antonia and William. They nod. She turns to me. “And you’re . . .” She checks the chart she’s holding. “Eleanor? I’m sorry to say I haven’t much information at the moment. I’m waiting to receive his records from Oxford. The medic said that he’s just finished a drug trial?” I nod. She looks again at the chart, her crow’s-feet crinkling. “And you say he was fine last night?”

I answer. “Yes. I mean, he was warm and his breathing was a little strained, but—”

“Was he exerting himself? Doing anything strenuous?”

I pause. I don’t know if I want to go there right now.

“Doctor,” William interjects. “Any idea what this is?”

She glances up from the chart. “Pneumonia.”

All of us sigh in relief. “Thank God,” Antonia breathes.

The doctor holds up a hand, urging restraint. “It’s acute.”

“It’s not the cancer,” William says. “Pneumonia is curable.”

“Under normal circumstances, yes.”

William steals the words from my mouth. “What does that mean?”

Dr. Corrigan takes a breath. “Firstly, I’ve never seen it come on this quickly, this aggressively. Secondly, your son’s immune system is severely compromised. He’s very few resources to fight this. We’ve put him in a medically induced coma.”

“What?” For the first time since I’ve known her, Antonia looks terrified. Which in turn terrifies me.

“It keeps him from struggling,” the doctor assures her. “It gives him, and us, the best chance of fighting this.” Her tone shifts, turning more sympathetic. She must see our fear. “Please understand, it isn’t uncommon to contract pneumonia after a round of chemotherapy. It’s the severity that’s unsettling.” She looks at me and continues. “Does he drink?”

I look at Antonia and William. “Not much. But he had more alcohol last night than he’s had in months.”

The doctor considers this, then asks, “Has he had any recent exposure to chemicals? A cleaning agent? Paint thinner, glue—”

“Oh God. The floors.” Everyone looks at me. “He stripped and stained an entire floor of his house a few days ago.”

Now the doctor nods. “Did he wear a mask?”

“N-no, but we had every window open, we ventilated . . .” My voice rasps, running out of steam. I feel terrible. But why is this the sort of information you get after the fact?