Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

I’m not even that sick after the first couple days. I go to school, call his mom at the hospital a hundred times a day. He seems to be doing better. His mom lets him talk to me on the cell. All we say is “Hey,” and then he starts to cough again.

I make up the work I missed and work ahead.

I notice Scott is with a different girl. He is way too good for this one. Sleaze is putting it mildly.

He catches me on my way out of English. We have it together this semester. “Beth.”

I stop and turn to him, can’t help raising an eyebrow.

“I hear he’s in the hospital.”

I nod.

“I’m sorry.”

I duck my head and bolt.

When I finally get to go back, Derek’s mom is totally exhausted, leaves me on watch. He looks so much better than the last time I saw him. He tugs me down onto the bed with him as soon as we’ve got the room to ourselves.

It feels so right to have his lips slipping over my face and down my neck, and then back on my lips, responding to my open, hungry mouth with his sweet, soft tongue. He’s weak—can’t keep it up very long—but he gets me wondering. How hard can it be to take out a catheter?

“You’re making me crazy.” I chew on his earlobe.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

“How much better are you?”

“I don’t think it would kill me.”

I start to get excited, kiss him long and slow, pressing my body hard against his.

“The trouble is,” he finally says, “this medication that’s saving my life—makes my extremities go numb.” He runs his hands over my shoulder. “I can’t feel this.”

I capture his hand and kiss his palm.

“That either. No sense violating you if I’m not even going to feel it.”

“But I’ll feel it.” I start to undress but he stops me.

“Save it for Scott, Beth.” There’s a resignation in his voice that frightens me. “I owe him that much for letting me have you all this time.”

“What are you talking about?” I cuddle up to his chest. He doesn’t know about my rupture with Scott.

“When I’m gone—” There’s anger, pain, and sorrow in those three words that neither of us can bear to admit.

“Stop that. You’ll be fine.”

“Beth, listen—”

“No. This is going to work. They’ll put you back on the active list.”

The whole transplant thing makes me angry. They let smokers on it. People who crapped up their lungs on purpose and not my Derek. It’s supposed to be too risky because they have to give him lots of immunosuppressants after the operation. A lot of patients get infections post-op. If you are resistant to all antibiotics, you die. But what’s the alternative? They could try. Why would his new lungs be resistant? I don’t get it at all.

“Listen.” I draw spirals on his chest. “I’ve got two lungs with five healthy, pink lobes.” At last being an absolute Amazon is a good thing. You have to be mega-tall to be considered as a living donor. “You can have one.”

He ignores me. Derek saw me reading those books his mom left. I’ve gone through them all three times. If I give Derek a lobe, then we’d just need an uncle or friendly giant to give him another one. They usually only do living lobar transplants on small women and children who have small ribcages for the smaller lungs, but wouldn’t little lungs be better for Derek than no lungs? “I’m going to get tested. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it to somebody else.”

“No one is cutting you up.”

That gets to me. I can’t talk anymore or I’ll break that promise about losing it in front of him. I don’t want him to know there’s a lump in my throat too big to swallow. His arms wrap around me, and I relax on his chest. He falls asleep holding me , comforting me . I think he does know.

I don’t want to move. He’ll wake up. I can’t sleep. What if I relax my grip, and he slips quietly away? I lie there, hour after hour, listening to him fight through each breath. Meg and another nurse come and go all night like I don’t exist. This is strange. What aren’t they telling me? They up his oxygen flow, put a new bag on his IV, plug his feeding tube in the slot in his stomach, punch up his morphine pump.

All this stuff that keeps him alive—it used to scare me.

Now I love that IV. I love the tube. I should be nervous they want to cut him open and take out his lungs, but the only thing in my heart is hurry, hurry, hurry . Make him active again. Ship him to Toronto. Let’s do this thing. Take part of me if it helps.

At four in the morning, he stops breathing.

I jam the call switch and start to shake him. “Derek. Come on. Please.”

The nurses rush in with a medical team right behind. Meg shoves me out of the way.

I stumble into the bathroom, sweating cold, and wretch over the toilet.

Meg appears behind me, hands me a damp washcloth. “How long was he out before you buzzed us?”

“Seconds. Is he—”

“Asking for you. You saved his life.”

“This time.”

She goes off to call his parents. His mom left strict instructions for updates.

I sit by his bed, holding his hand, while therapists work to clear his lungs—gently. They roll him onto his side and pound his back with cupped hands like his mom used to do every day, four times, morning, noon, afternoon, and night. Whatever clogged his throat is gone now, but he starts to cough up thick green phlegm and blood—chokes on the mess, gasps, manages to somehow breathe again. They give him an inhaled antibiotic treatment and more Ventolin, the thinning stuff.

Things calm down by the time he’s finished the treatment. Meg checks his monitors one more time. “Call me,” she orders and leaves the door open.

I take Derek’s hand again and look at him. It’s trembling. I look at his gray face and closed eyes. I realize these past two weeks have been filled with false reports. He faked it pretty good this afternoon. Kind of like how he faked me out ever since I met him. What did those nights that he stole away from the hospital to see me cost him? And this afternoon, what did those few minutes of exertion cost? Have I killed him?

His fingers move against my hand, and he opens his eyes. “You brought me back.”

I shake my head. “It was them.”

“No. It was you.” His eyes drift closed again.

I lean over him. “Derek. Derek. Come back.”

“I’ve been waiting . . . for you. Next time—” He opens his eyes and stares at me.

I shake my head, can’t stop denying what he’s saying. “Rest now. You’ll be fine.”

His eyes drop closed. “You need to let me go.”

I kiss his forehead and whisper, “I can’t.” I’m not ready. I’m so not ready.

“The place I’m going—I’ve been there a couple times now. There’s peace—love—a joyfulness I can’t explain. Let me stay. Next time . . . I’m ready to stay there.”

Take me home, take me home, take me home.

He wants to go, but I can’t leave him. “Take me with you then.”

He frowns. “Not allowed.”

“Have you told your mom?”

“Will you?”

I bow my head over his hand. Pain throbs in my chest. I can’t do this. I can’t let him go. I only know how to hang on. I wish I knew something about praying—had the strength of that slave girl in my solo singing down by the river Jordan. Oh, the glory of that bright day

When I cross the river Jordan.

She knew something I don’t. “Give me that,” I whisper. “Please.”

The weight on my heart doesn’t lift, but a calm, soothing sensation flows from Derek’s hand into mine. Comfort emanates through me. “How are you doing that?”