One Last Miracle [complete]

XXVII

XXVII

fourteen days...

The silence with James lasts all of three days before I cave. I don't tell him in person; I'm too much of a coward for that. I send the message through text like some hypothetical tale: what happens to people with cancer? and a link to a related forum. And even that? That, I stew on for days until it becomes a real-life nightmare I live every time my eyes are open. I worry about how James will react. I worry if I told him in the right way—though the answer to that is obvious from the onset. I worry about... everything.

Worse, for the longest time James doesn't respond. I don't know if it's because he hasn't seen the message or he's simply ignoring it—but the idea that the latter is the case is like a plague, consuming me. Just when I'm about to go insane—because screaming into a pillow does nothing to quell the raging panic—he responds. The reply, however, is arguable worse: across a few words he just swears. Creatively too. Two more days go by before I can even look at my phone again. And in that two days I discover that, once again, screaming is not a cure.

"Alyson." A knock. "Alyson. Are you okay?"

So quiet. So innocent. So... heartbreaking. Or it would be if my soul hadn't already shattered. Weakly, I scrub a hand over my face, plastering on a smile. "Come in?"

Gingerly my bedroom door eases open and a leg appears. Then another. Then Rick, still donned in his Batman Flannels, is in the doorway, hands clasped in front of him. "Alyson?"

"Hey." Briefly, I wonder if I look dead—because I feel it. I know for a fact my eyes are red. "What's wrong?"

In the low light, I see him nibble his bottom lip. "I wanted to see if you were okay."

No, I'm not. I'm so far from 'okay' it isn't even remotely funny. "Are you okay?" Deflection. And if he were any older he'd see right through the façade.

He shrugs. "I had some pancakes for breakfast. They were good."

If only my worries went so far as pancakes. Staring at Rick, I can't help but start to mourn. In... however long... these conversations will never happen again. My room will never be slept in again; I doubt anyone will even be able to enter. "Did you?"'

"Yeah. Dad made some before work." A pause. "There's some left for you in the fridge."

He knows something is going on, but I wonder just how much. Dad has been testing the waters, trying to prepare his as subtly as he can: a few nights ago, we watched Table 19 all together, and though it was eventually a happy ending, one of the side characters died of cancer. No one will dare mention anything aloud, but if something sneaks in about the topic while were doing mundane things? Then that's just how we're all trying to get through this.

"Thanks. I might come down to get some." I pat the bed. "Come here. I want to hug you."

His eyebrows raise slowly, but he concedes walking over to the bed. As he crosses his legs, sitting beside me, I leave him enough room to wedge into my side. His head nearly reaches my shoulder and I'm once again reminded how tall he is. I can't even imagine what puberty will do—

And I won't ever get to the find out.

The thought is sobering.

"Alyson?" Quiet. Questioning.

Without even subconsciously realising it, I've tensed all over. I force myself to relax, laughing it off like nothing is wrong. Truthfully, the pain goes well beyond anything physical, but it's difficult. I tell myself he can't see straight through the lie, but that's purely for my own self-reservation.