The Beautiful Between - Alyssa B. Sheinmel [27]
“I was the one—” He pauses, swallows hard. “No one told her, what she had, how sick she was. Like it would be easier for her that way. They finally told her what she had, but they didn’t tell her everything about it. I was the only one—I had to tell her the truth. My parents kept walking around like it was an easy fix. But when she asked me, I told her the truth. It wasn’t fair. I mean, there she was, Googling her disease, trying to find out what it meant. If it were me—I would have been more scared, you know, not knowing how serious it was.”
“Jeremy,” I say, feeling brave, “what’s wrong with Kate? I mean, you never said—what is she sick with?”
Jeremy looks at the floor. “She has leukemia. Same as your dad.”
Same as my dad. My dad had leukemia. I always thought of that as something kids had, but of course adults can have it too. Of course they can.
I begin to cry. There’s none of the usual warning, no lump rising in my throat, no tears building up slowly. Suddenly I’m just crying harder than I can ever remember crying. I don’t know if I’m crying for my dad; for my mom, out I don’t know where or with whom; for Kate, the sweet princess who’s sick; for Jeremy, who could lose the sister he loves; or for myself.
And if I’m crying for myself, I don’t know why either. Because I miss my dad? How can I, when I don’t remember him? Am I crying because Jeremy told me what my family couldn’t? Because I’m relieved that the search is finally over? Is my search over? Am I crying because I miss my mother, even though I see her every day?
I don’t see him move, but just like that, Jeremy has slid across the hardwood floor and he’s hugging me tight. He must have some built-in big-brother ability to hug so fast like that. My shoulder where his chin rests is wet, so I know he’s crying too, and so I don’t even try to stop. I don’t try to cover up or pretend it’s nothing. We’re both crying hard and messily. There’s snot on my face, and I’m not even embarrassed when I wipe it on his shirt because I know it’s on Jeremy’s face too. Who knew a prince could cry so much?
I don’t know how much times passes, but eventually we both stop and we’re out of breath.
“Can I ask you something?” I want his permission first.
“Sure.”
“How is Kate—now, I mean?”
“She’s back at home, but she’s not … They cut her hair, Con. She loved her hair, but they cut it so that it won’t be so messy when it starts falling out. She cried the whole time. I held her hand and she cried. My mother hired some famous hairdresser to do it, and Kate made a joke that it was a waste of a good cut when it was only temporary”—he smiles, remembering her joke—“and I said nothing was ever wasted on her. It was just so hard, you know, ’cause I had to pretend like it wasn’t a big deal when I was just as upset about it as she was.”
I think about that hair—long, blond, wavy; the kind of hair every girl wishes she had.
“It must have been awful.”
“I’m stupid enough to think that it must be harder for me and my parents than it is for her. ’cause we might have to lose her.”
Then Jeremy smiles at me like he just remembered something.
“Cigarette?” he says, and I smile too. It feels good to have that routine, smoking together, still in place.
“Sounds good,” I say, and I press up off the floor. We stand normally—not particularly close, not too far apart, but just like we would have an hour ago, without any leftover intimacy.
Downstairs, Jeremy says, “You know, Sternin, I’ve begun to really look forward to these bedtime cigarettes.”
“Me too,” I say, and I wonder what I look like. Jeremy’s face is blotchy from crying, and I know mine must be too. I’m wearing a bulky sweater and a scarf. How come boys never seem to feel cold?
“Sternin, I know I don’t have to ask you this, so don’t be hurt or anything, but please don’t talk about it around school, okay?”
“Of course not. It’s your family’s business, no one else’s.”
“Thanks, Sternin.” Jeremy looks relieved.
“And I won’t tell people, you know, that I know about your dad. I know everyone thinks that your parents are divorced.