Installment Seven

It was late by the time I came home; I spent my evening crying in Melanie’s lap.  She was surprised when she realized I was crying about Taylor, but she let me cry anyway.  I’d talk to him eventually about what he told me, but when he did tell me I was a little overwhelmed.  I called mom and let her know that Mel’s mom was going to bring me home late, and she was ok with it.  I got in and made my way up to my room, hoping to avoid any confrontation.  I made it up to my room successfully.  I went to turn on the light once inside my door and:

“They don’t know.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin at Taylor’s quiet words.  I could see him through the semi-darkness sitting on the edge of my bed.

“Christ, Taylor,” I whispered.  “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Please don’t tell them,” he whispered.  “They don’t know.”

“Who?” I replied quietly as well, going and sitting beside him.  He looked out the window.

“Ike, Zac, Jess… Mac, Zoë…” he said quietly.

“Why me?  Why did you tell me and not them?” I asked him quietly.

“Because…” he said softly.  “I was desperate.  I don’t want to die knowing you hated me.”

“Stop it.” I closed my eyes.  “I didn’t hate you, and I don’t hate you now.  I was just mad at you – really mad at you.  And you’re not dying.” He looked at me, and I could see tears shining in his eyes.

“I’m sorry I dropped this on you… I never wanted you to find out…”

“I’m glad you told me,” I said softly, taking his hand.  “I feel like I have my Taylor back… the brother I lost a long time ago…”

“I really am sorry,” he said quietly.  “I wish I didn’t have to figure things out like this.  I wish it didn’t take cancer to open my eyes up.”

“Everything’s gonna be ok, Taylor,” I said, touching his cheek.  Everything had to be ok.  Sitting there, looking at him I noticed he looked as sick as he was trying to convince me he was, and he’d only gotten that way in the last few weeks.  He brought his hand up, holding my hand to his cheek, relishing in the loving touch.  I let it stay that way for a moment, and then I moved closer to him and hugged him.  He needed it, I knew he needed it, and I was willing to give it.  I gently rubbed his back, trying to soothe him a little as I realized he was crying.  “Shh…” I whispered to him.

“Please don’t tell them, Ave,” he whispered to me.  I didn’t want him to keep this from them, but it wasn’t my place to tell them the littlest thing if he didn’t want me to; it was his right.

“Okay, but you have to tell them sometime,” I said softly.

“I know; just not now – I’m not ready.” He said, shaking his head, his hair tickling my ear.  We stayed that way for a little while before he finally pulled back and looked at me.  He took my face gently in his hands and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.  I had really missed him so much…  “You get some sleep, okay?  It’s late.”

I nodded and watched him rise – slowly – and make his way to my door.  “Taylor, are you ok?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling a little.  “If I get up too fast I’d fall back down.”

“If you’re sure…” He nodded.

“I’m all right,” he said quietly.  “Get some sleep.”

“I love you, Tay,” I said, watching him start towards his room again, and turn to look at me.

“I love you too, Avery.”

“Sleep sweet,” I said, quietly enough I wasn’t sure he heard me.

“I’ll try.” I heard him say quietly in return.  “But I don’t think I can.”

I was up early for breakfast, before the rest of the kids were.  It’s almost funny for me to refer to them as the rest of the “kids”, considering two of them are older than me.  But that’s beside the point anyway.  I came down to the kitchen and mom was already sitting at the table with her mug of coffee, and the obituaries.

“Isn’t kind of morbid to read the obituaries first?” I croaked.  She looked up at me and smiled a little.

“I don’t usually,” she said, “it was just the first thing I dug out and picked up.” I slid into a chair next to her, and sighed, resting my chin on my hand.  “Something wrong, baby?” She asked, as I turned to look at her, her features somewhat concerned as she tucked my hair behind my ear.

I shrugged.  “I guess I was just thinking about Taylor.” She was quiet, just sitting and observing me.

“He’s all right, sweetheart,” she said softly, cupping my cheek.  I knew she left off the “for now”.

“I know,” I replied.  “I already checked on him this morning.” She smiled a little.  I knew my sudden change of attitude toward Taylor had surprised her, but she welcomed it, glad to have her children getting along.  “Do you know who the heck was in the bathroom this morning?”

Her brow creased and she shook her head.  “No.”

“Well whoever it was, they woke me up.”

“Honey, you’re such a light sleeper that a mouse hiccup could wake you.” She was right.  I guess I thought of myself as a cautious sleeper; I never fell into a deep sleep because I was afraid of missing something while I slept, or someone coming into my room to hurt me or something.  I just never slept fully, at least never deeply or soundly.  The sound of shuffling footsteps down the stairs captured both of our attentions, and as a result we both turned to see Taylor coming into the kitchen somewhat slowly.  I thought he looked sick last night?  Well, he looked sicker.  Mom must’ve seen it too because I watched her expression change.  “Baby, everything ok?” He shrugged a little, easing himself down into a chair.  “What are you doing up so early?”

“I guess I couldn’t sleep.” He rested his forehead against the heel of his palm for a moment.  It was obvious he didn’t feel well.  “Do you have some orange juice?” He asked quietly.  Mom nodded, though he didn’t see it.

“In the fridge,” she said eyeing him carefully.  He started to move and she stood up.  “No, no, you stay; I’ll get it.” He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes closed.  I looked at mom, sharing the same thought: what was going on?  Something was obviously not right, but he wasn’t saying anything.

“Tay?” I said quietly, hoping to at least get him to look at me.  He swallowed hard.

“It’s all right, Avie,” he whispered.  I noticed that for the first time that I had seen, he was wearing a tee-shirt, which I figured was because he slept in his boxers and he didn’t want to come down half naked, though he always had – it was a Taylor thing to do.  He had reasons now.  The tube going into his arm was plainly visible.

“Baby, do you want something to eat?” She asked him.  The question, for whatever reason, prompted me to look over him.  Taylor was always a stick; I mean, he could usually build enough muscle to look a little less like a beanpole, but skinny was something Taylor always was.  I was a little disturbed to realize he’d lost weight.  That was something Taylor really couldn’t afford to lose – he’d be a bag of bones.  He shook his head slightly to my mother’s question.  “Tay, you didn’t have dinner yesterday either.  You have to be hungry.”

“I just don’t feel too hungry,” he said, accepting the glass of orange juice she handed him.   Taylor gulped everything, from coffee to the occasional soda, to water, to orange juice.  He took a tentative, tiny sip and set the glass down.

“You’ve got to eat something.  What if I just make you two pieces of plain toast?” She asked quietly but hopefully.  I could tell he didn’t really want to accept, but there was no use arguing with mom.

“Sure,” he replied quietly, lifting the glass of orange juice to his lips and taking another small sip.  I knew I was staring, watching his every move the way I was, but I couldn’t help it, really.  He was quiet for a minute and then spoke quietly again.  “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”

“Taylor,” mom said, putting a hand on her hip.  “Honey, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” He shrugged.

“I didn’t want you to worry.” He looked up at her.  “Do you think you or dad could drive me?  I don’t think I could make it on my own…”

“Of course,” she replied.  “Did you really think I would say no?  What time?”

“Nine-thirty,” he answered, taking another small sip of his orange juice.

“What’s the appointment for?” I asked, my voice quiet.  I wanted to know and in the same breath didn’t.

“Dr. Peterson is taking this thing,” he said, pointing to the “fanny pack”.  “And I need to have blood work done.”

“You’re done with your treatment?” I asked, a little surprised it would be over so soon.  He shook his head a little.

“No.  You get chemo in intervals.  You get treatment for a few weeks, and then you get a week to two weeks recovery period.” He turned his head away from mine, so as not to look me in the eyes.  “That’s when you get really sick…”

“Oh…” I said quietly.  What was I supposed to say?  Gee Taylor, I’m sorry you have cancer and the only thing that you have to possibly help you is making you sicker than a dog.  Somehow I don’t think that would have been appropriate.

I watched as mom set two pieces of plain toast in front of him.  “Thanks,” he said quietly, carefully beginning to pick one piece apart, painstakingly putting a small piece in his mouth and chewing slowly.  It was easy to tell he didn’t want it, or couldn’t eat it – one of the two, probably the latter.  I watched him get through about six bites of the first piece.  “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said quietly, shaking his head a little.  “I just can’t.”

“It’s ok, baby,” she said softly.  “You just worry me…”

He looked up at her, and I could see tears in his eyes.  “I’m sorry…” He got up, fumbling around for a moment trying to quickly get up and out of the room.  I watched him fly from the room, and we heard him quickly making his way up the stairs.  We looked at one another, and both made our way upstairs to follow.  I knew it wasn’t really my place to be witnessing these things between my mother and Taylor, but I was the only other one who knew besides dad, who was still snoring.

The bathroom door was closed when we got upstairs, and mom knocked gently.  “Taylor?” She got no answer, and knocked softly one more time, and looked at me.  She tried the handle and it turned easily.  When we walked in I had to turn my head away; Taylor was on the floor in front of the toilet, throwing-up.  “Oh baby…” she said softly, kneeling down beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Shh,” she whispered.  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“What’s going on?” I turned around at dad’s quiet voice, and he saw the look on my face, and looked to Taylor.  “Is everything ok?” The question was directed more toward my mother than me, and when she looked at him, the sadness and sympathy in her features were enough of an answer for him.  He came in and quietly closed the door.  I kept my head turned as he threw-up again.  When it seemed quiet I chanced a look.  Mom and dad were on either side of him, trying to just soothe him a little.

“I can go…” I said softly.  I felt like I was intruding.  Taylor shook his head slightly.

“You’re ok,” he said softly.  Apparently the heaving had subsided, and mom flushed the toilet.  Taylor was shaking a little, and he drew in a deep shaky breath.  “I can’t keep doing this.”

“It’ll stop, son,” dad said quietly.  “It’s a small price to pay for your life, Taylor.” He spoke softly, and I swore I could hear tears in his voice.

“Dad…” I knew what Taylor was going to say when we made eye contact, and he never said it.  “I just… this is the third time this morning.”

“That was you in here this morning?” I asked quietly.  It was a rhetorical question, I knew it was now.  He was just sitting on the floor in front of the toilet, mom and dad each on a side of him.

“I hate this,” he whispered, leaning his head back against our father.  Mom reached out and gently ran her fingers through his hair, and when she pulled back, I think all three of us – me, mom, and dad – held our breath.  His hair was just there in her fingers, and I swore she was going to burst out crying.

"Taylor… I…” she didn’t know what to say.  “I’m sorry…” she whispered.  It was becoming too real now; the treatment was real and now his hair was falling out.

“It’s ok,” he said softly.  “It’s been falling out little by little for a while now.”

“Taylor…” dad didn’t say anything more with that one word; he didn’t know what to say.  What could he say?  I mean, he was sitting in the bathroom with his sick son who had been throwing-up from his chemotherapy, and now his hair was falling out.  It was becoming too real.

“It’s ok.” He said again.  Mom unsurely dropped his hair into the wastebasket, and dad carefully helped him to stand.  He leaned heavily against our father.  “I’m sorry; my energy is just zapped…”

“You don’t have to explain,” dad said, “I understand.” The way I felt must have been incredibly readable by the expression on my face because he looked at me next, trying to fight the tears forming in his eyes.

“It’s ok, Avie,” he said softly.  “I knew it was going to happen eventually.  It’ll grow back.” I wasn’t sure why it hurt so much to see or hear that, but I felt the tears slide down my cheeks.  “Please don’t cry…” he whispered.

“I didn’t know,” I said quietly.  “I didn’t know your hair was falling out… Tay, I…”

“It’s ok…” he said, taking my hand.  “I’m…” his hesitation unnerved me more than I could ever explain.  “…ok.”

“Let’s get you back in bed, son,” dad said quietly.  “I think you need to rest.” He didn’t argue, just leaned further on our father, letting him lead him back to bed.  I think that experience was a lot more intense than it seemed at first, because when I left the bathroom I went back to my own bedroom, and closed the door.  I stood there for a few minutes, almost feeling numb.  And then out of nowhere, I just started to cry.  I couldn’t think of just one thing that morning that hurt, there was just so much to be scared of and unsure about; what I had seen… I think it scared me, more than I was willing to admit.

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