Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

The door to his room flies open. A short, sturdy woman with Derek’s eyes darts into the room and gets between me and Derek’s bed. “Control yourself, young lady.” She grabs my wrists. “I don’t know who you think you are or what you think you’re doing here, but you need to get your evening gown theatrics out of my son’s room.”

I stare at her. “But I’m Beth.”

She lets go of my arms. “We don’t know any Beth.” She herds me toward the door.

“Derek! ” He can’t lie there and let her do this to me.

“Stop, Mum.”

“She doesn’t even know who I am.” My knees buckle, and I sink to the floor, crimson gown and all.

His mother whirls around to face Derek. “Do you know this girl?”

“We met in Lausanne.”

“No. You said Blake met a girl in Lausanne.”

“Not like the one I met.” He sucks in air and whispers. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Hearing that makes my tears start again. His mother stares at me and then back at him. “You didn’t tell her? Oh, Derek. How could you do that?”

She comes back to me, helps me up, and hugs me. “I’m sorry, honey.” She keeps an arm around me, and I lean against this woman I don’t know. Maybe she’ll tell me—if Derek won’t.

From his bed, Derek struggles up onto an elbow. “I was going to tell her once I got back on the active list, but it’s taking way too long. Go away, Beth. Forget you were here. I don’t want you in this world.”

Active list? What is that? I’m sure he thinks I’ll leave him here like this—that I’ll ever leave him again. “How can—”

“Hush, dear, he doesn’t mean it.” His mom turns back to him. “It may never happen. You have to tell her—now.” I like this woman. A lot. She emanates sense and strength.

She leads me back over to Derek’s bed, leans over him, smoothes his hair off his forehead, and kisses the spot.

She squeezes my arm, bites her lower lip, and leaves us alone.

chapter 28

TRUTH

I’m not angry anymore. The terror returns.

“Can you go back to the chair and sit for a minute.” The only thing I hear in his voice is utter weariness. “I need to finish this.” He puts the mask back on, lays his head on his pillow, and breathes, with kind of a gasp and a rattle, into his mask.

I move the chair close beside his bed and take his hand. He worms it away so he can hand me the tissues from his bedside table. I use up half the box, wiping my runny face. Then I lay my cheek down on his upturned palm.

In a few moments he starts to speak. “Did you ever wonder why my skin tastes so salty?”

“No.” I kiss his hand and lick my lips. “I just like it.” I didn’t get past Scott’s mouth. Derek’s the only guy I ever tasted.

“I was a really sick baby. Always a cold or pneumonia. I screamed all the time and wouldn’t eat. Then I’d eat and eat and eat until I started screaming again.”

“Poor Derek.”

“My poor mum. My dad worked nights—even back then. She couldn’t keep me quiet so he could sleep. And then I’d scream all night, too.”

“What was wrong?”

“Nobody knew. Her doctor said she wasn’t producing enough milk. Stuck me on formula.”

My eyes go to the bag on the second IV pole. That’s what the stuff in it looks like, baby formula.

Derek pushes the sheet down past his waist and pulls up his hospital gown. The tube is attached to a plastic disk embedded in his stomach. “Now you know why I always wore bulky sweatshirts, backed off when you got too close, went ballistic when you tried to take my shirt off.” He notices my eyes following the tube to the bag of stuff on the pole. “It’s a feeding tube. People with my condition need a lot more calories to thrive than normal people.”

“But you eat. I’ve seen you.”

“Not enough. I was a skeleton baby when the doctor finally stuck me in the hospital. One of the doctors suspected and gave me a sweat test.” He nodded. “I have CF. That’s why my skin tastes so salty.”

I lift up my head. My face pulls into a knot. “But you’re not in a wheelchair. I can’t believe your brain is messed up.”

“No. You’re thinking CP—cerebral palsy. Cystic fibrosis, CF, makes all the mucous in your body extra-thick and sticky. That’s why I cough.”

“That could be allergies—or asthma.”

“No, Beth. It’s CF. It blocks up my pancreas and messes with my liver, too. I have to take a handful of enzymes if I want to digest anything. I was a snot-nosed brat who wouldn’t eat, so Mum stuck me on the tube.” He glances at the IV pole and bag. “I’ve been doing night feeds at home to keep my weight and growth normal since I was a kid.”

“Then why do you have to be in the hospital now?”

He closes his eyes for a minute to nerve himself, opens them again. “I’ve got a jungle of exotic bacteria growing in my lungs.”

“Why don’t they give you antibiotics?”

“Like that?” He glances at the IV. “And that’s what I just breathed in, too. I live on antibiotics.” His face turns bitter. “Too much antibiotics.”

“Your drug habit?”

He manages to lift his eyebrows. “That’s just the beginning.”

I sit up straight, wipe at my face, feeling stupid for not catching on that he was sick—not being here for him sooner. Blake was right. What kind of crap girlfriend am I? But it’s going to be fine now. He’s safe in the hospital, getting treatment. Antibiotics will fix him. I squeeze his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me? You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been going through.”

“My whole life I’ve been the boy who was going to die.” He struggles to pull air into his lungs.

Die? He’s not going to die.

His scratchy voice continues, “All my friends know I’m going to die. My ex back in Amabile was the heroine because she loved the boy who was going to die. Every girl since junior high who liked me knew I was going to die.” He coughs and lies back on his pillows.

I plaster a brave smile on my face. “But you’re in the hospital. They are taking care of you. You’re not going to die.”

He squeezes my hand. There’s no strength behind it. “I needed a place where I wasn’t sick. Where I could just be the boy who loves you.”

“I still would have loved you.”

“Not the same way. I needed a whole heart once in my life. Is that so wrong?”

“You’ve got my heart.” I get up so I can lean over him. “All of it.” I smooth back his hair like his mom did. “And you’re going to get better. I can help you now.”

“My CF is kind of severe. I got listed for a double lung transplant two years ago.”

I draw back, afraid. “They want to cut you open and take out your lungs?”

He nods. “Last spring, after we got pegged for the Choral Olympics, I took a real dive. Lots of hemoptysis—coughing up blood.”

I try not to flinch. I don’t think he noticed.

“The bacteria took control. I got a massive infection. They almost lost me twice.”

My lips start trembling. I struggle to keep them still. Bite them. Hard.

“You better sit down.”

I sink back in the chair, confused. Except for a bit of a cough, he was fine in Switzerland. And every time I’ve seen him since. He was always tired. Coughed a bit. Other than that, he seemed fine. But how much can you tell from a phone call or an online chat?

“My mom got me into a drug trial for a brand new cocktail of treatments—including a heavy dose of a new space-age antibiotic. I survived—that usually doesn’t happen without a lung transplant. It’s kind of a miracle I made it to Lausanne. My choir—wanting that trip—hearing your voice and deciding I had to find you—got me out of the hospital and onto that plane. Poor Blake.” He sort of shakes his head, hardly moves it. “Our room was like a clinic.”