UNTIL ANGELS CLOSE MY EYES
Chapter Nine
September 23, 2004
Rose was civil to Jack during the
week that followed, but she no longer went to his house or walked up to the
hills with him. He tried calling her a couple of times, and she was polite, but
the conversations were both short.
Jack hadn’t realized how upset
Rose would be that he hadn’t told her about his illness, but she in turn
refused to try to understand why he didn’t want everyone to know about it. She
had never been gravely ill, nor had anyone ever taunted her or ostracized her
because of illness. She’d had the usual contagious diseases growing up—colds,
stomach flu, influenza, chicken pox—but almost everyone got those; it wasn’t a
big deal. Cancer was a big deal—but she had never had it, and had never been in
the position that Jack had found himself in twice in his eighteen years.
They nodded to each other
politely in the halls and worked together when assigned to in English class,
but the closest that either came to mentioning what had happened Friday night
was when Jack fell asleep in art class and Rose asked him if he was okay, to
which he responded by telling her crankily that he was fine. She didn’t ask
about his health again after that.
Rose missed being with him, but
she wasn’t sure she could trust him now. He knew seemingly everything about
her, but she was realizing that she knew very little about him.
On Thursday afternoon, Jack
dragged himself wearily to basketball practice. He would rather have gone home
and taken a nap, but he’d skipped practice too many times already and was on
probation. If he missed any more practices, he would be off the team.
He’d seen Rose briefly after
school as she hurried off to work, but they hadn’t spoken. He knew that she was
still upset with him, but she seemed to be a little friendlier—she’d smiled at
him briefly at lunch before turning back to her friends—and it gave him hope
that she would give him another chance.
Right now, though, he had to
concentrate on practice. Coach Ward blew his whistle, shouting at the milling
team members to sit on the bleachers. After giving them some instructions, he
had them count off into two teams and begin practice.
Jack avoided the coach as much as
he could. Ward had been happy to pick him for the team during try-outs the
previous spring, but as Jack had skipped more and more practices, the coach had
been less and less happy with him. Jack knew that he was in a precarious
position now, but sometimes he was so tired that it didn’t seem to matter.
Still, he wanted to be on the
team, and he wouldn’t let a little tiredness get him kicked off. He would have
to go to the practices from now on whether he felt like it or not, but it was
worth it to have the chance to play on a real basketball team instead of just
shooting hoops at lunch.
His parents hadn’t allowed him to
play on any sports teams when he was younger—the recurring leukemia had left
him weak and easily injured. When he had been very young, he had played soccer
and Little League baseball, but after he was diagnosed with leukemia for the
first time at age eleven, his parents hadn’t allowed him to join anymore teams.
He could still play for fun, as long as it didn’t get too rough, but they had
felt—rightly so, on many occasions—that competitive sports were more than he
could handle. He hadn’t liked it, but there was nothing he could do.
Now, though, since he had passed
his physical in May, they had reluctantly allowed him to join the boys’
basketball team at the high school. His mother still worried, but his dad had
told him that he was proud of how far he had come and how hard he was willing
to work. They didn’t know about the skipped practices or his constant fatigue
now—and he didn’t want them to find out.
Jack raced up and down the
basketball court with his teammates, occasionally getting the ball away from
the others and throwing it through the hoop. He was less tired now that he was
running around, but his reflexes weren’t great—as was amply demonstrated when a
teammate tried to pass the ball to him and he missed it with his hands—but his
face caught it perfectly.
Jack put a hand to his nose as it
started bleeding. He tried to wipe it off and continue playing, but Coach Ward
had seen it and blew his whistle.
“Jack! Off the court!” he yelled,
gesturing to him.
Reluctantly, Jack went and sat
down on the bleachers, pinching his nose shut to try to stop the bleeding.
“You okay?” Ward asked him.
Jack pulled his hand away from
his nose for a moment, staring at the blood. “Yeah…I think so.”
“Your nose is still bleeding. Go
into the restroom and get some toilet paper for it.”
Jack got up, pinching his nose
shut again, and headed for the door to the boys’ locker room. When he got to
the bathroom, he grabbed some toilet paper and held it over his nose, staring
into the mirror and groaning inwardly.
He could already tell that his face
was going to be badly bruised. His mother would fuss over him and lecture him
about his health, even though he had a perfectly good reason for the bruising,
and his dad would frown and ask him if he was sure he was up to playing on a
team.
Jack grimaced, holding the toilet
paper more tightly against his nose. The bleeding had slowed, but it hadn’t
stopped yet. A hint of worry edged into his mind, but he pushed it away. It was
just a nosebleed, caused by being hit hard in the face by a basketball. It wasn’t
a symptom of anything worse.
Ten minutes later, he carefully
pulled the toilet paper away from his nose, relieved that the bleeding had
finally stopped. He looked into the mirror, splashing water on his face to wash
away the bloodstains from his upper lip and nose.
Jack grimaced as he noticed a
couple of spots of blood on his shirt and the darkening bruise on his face. It
was nothing to worry about, but his parents would undoubtedly give him the
third degree when they noticed. He could wash the shirt himself, but the bruise
couldn’t be hidden.
Touching his nose carefully to
make sure it was okay, he tossed the toilet paper in the trash and headed back
to practice, more tired than he’d been before but knowing that he needed to get
through it if he wanted to be on the team.
*****
Jack fell asleep early that
night, worn out from basketball practice. His parents had indeed fussed over
his bruised face, in spite of his insistence that it was perfectly normal for a
bruise to form after being hit in the face with a basketball. He didn’t tell
them about the nosebleed, and was glad when he heard them murmuring worriedly
when he went off to bed at seven o’clock. He told them that he was going to
stay up for a while, maybe IM his friends, but he was awakened by his mother
looking in on him half an hour later and shaking her head worriedly. He quickly
fell asleep again, assuring himself that there was nothing to worry about.
He awoke again at two o’clock in
the morning, reaching in annoyance to wipe his runny nose. When it continued to
run, he sat up, turning on the lamp beside his bed—and froze at what he saw.
His pillowcase and the edge of
his top sheet were soaked with blood. He looked at his hand and found that it
was bloody from where he’d wiped his nose. As he sat there, more blood dripped
down his face, spattering onto his sheet and hands.
Groaning, he reached for the box
of Kleenex sitting on the nightstand. Pulling one out, he pressed it to his
nose, pinching it shut in an effort to stop the bleeding.
It didn’t help. Jack let go of
his nose after a moment as the blood started to build up inside. Grabbing
several more tissues, he pressed them over his nose, hoping that the nosebleed
would stop soon.
It didn’t hurt much, but he could
tell that he was losing a lot of blood. Briefly, he thought about waking his
parents, but thought better of it. It was just a nosebleed—nothing more.
Undoubtedly he’d put pressure on his nose where he’d hurt it earlier and that
was why it was bleeding again.
Still, as time passed and his
nose continued to bleed badly, he began to worry. Maybe it was more than
a simple nosebleed. Maybe he was more badly injured than he thought, or…
He pushed the thought away. The
leukemia was not back. It couldn’t be. He was in remission, or cured. He would
have been referred to another oncologist if he wasn’t better. He had nothing to
worry about. He’d simply gotten hurt during basketball practice. It could
happen to anyone.
The box of Kleenex was nearly
empty by the time the bleeding finally stopped. Jack touched his nose
carefully, confirming that it was no longer bleeding, then looked in
consternation at the huge pile of blood-stained tissues. If either of his
parents saw them, they would take him straight to the doctor no matter how
loudly he protested.
He couldn’t put them in the trash
for fear that they would be found, but finally he gathered them up and got out
of bed, staggering as his head swam dizzily. He sat back down for a moment,
waiting until the dizziness had passed, then tried again.
He knew that he had lost too much
blood, knew that he needed to wake his parents and get help, but he knew that
they would take him straight to the emergency room—and as long as he avoided
doctors, he could keep assuring himself that everything was fine.
I’ll feel better in the
morning, he assured
himself. I’ve had nosebleeds before. It won’t kill me. All I need is some
sleep and maybe a glass of water. I don’t think I’ve ever been so thirsty in my
life.
Still stumbling dizzily, he made
his way across the hall to the bathroom, throwing the entire pile of Kleenex
into the toilet. It took several tries—and several uses of the plunger—before
it all disappeared.
Jack was shaking by the time he
stepped over to the sink and filled a cup with water. He felt slightly queasy
now, but he took a small sip anyway, thirsty in spite of the queasiness. He
looked into the mirror, recoiling at what he saw.
His face was as white as paper,
except for the bruise, which looked darker than ever. He splashed some water on
his face, rinsing away the remaining blood, then set the cup down. He swayed
slightly as he turned to leave the bathroom, forgetting everything but the
exhaustion that had come over him.
Jack leaned against the wall as
he made his way back to his room. He nearly fell through the open door before
he steadied himself, walking slowly and carefully back to his bed. He fell upon
it and flipped the pillow over, hiding the blood-stained side, and then pulled
the covers over himself, shivering in spite of the reasonably warm night.
He thought briefly of closing the
window, but forgot about it as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was dizzy,
thirsty, and cold, but his exhaustion mattered more than anything at the
moment.
In moments, he fell into a
troubled sleep, unaware of anything but his body’s overwhelming exhaustion
following the loss of so much blood.