A Year of Novembers

Chapter Sixteen

        James Augustus Rush dies November 21, 1990.

            I come in the day before, and he doesn't wake up upon my entering like I thought he might, and then there's this screaming sound from one of the machines, and he doesn't move, doesn't do anything, and before I can work out what's happening, this flood of nurses rush in.

            The one nurse who'd explained what had happened to James at the beginning enters and sees me as I'm leaning over James, realizing what the screaming machines mean.

            She grips my shoulders. "Come on, sweetheart," she whispers, guiding me towards the door, and I can't take my eyes off of James. He's lying there, pale and dead and disappearing, and I know that he could be okay if I just wake him up.

            I slam against her, pushing back, and she cries out in surprise, holding me tighter. Her hands are clawing my biceps, burning me, and I fight harder.

            "No, no," I scream, "Please, you don't understand. That's James, that's my James, and I haven't said goodbye, and I'm not ready."

            She murmurs something and I scream, my legs buckling.

            "Please, please, let me say goodbye," I sob.

            "Sweetheart, we have to go," she says, and I hold the doorframe, crying.

            I can't breathe, I can't breathe, and James is dead and the world is spinning too fast and I want off.

            "He's all I have, you don't get it, and he's the only person who understands," I shriek, and I can feel eyes on me from the corridor, but nothing matters because James is there and I am not close enough to say goodbye.

            I have so much to tell him, and I have worlds inside my soul, and I want to explore them with him.

            "Please, sweetheart, let's go," the nurse pleads, her face pale, but I dig my nails into her arms, and with an outcry of pain and frustration, she can't help but to let me go for an instant.

            The people are huddling about his bed, placing defibrillators on his chest, and I can faintly hear them tell the nurse to get me out of here, but all I can see is James, James, and he is laying and looking funny.

            "James, please wake up," I beg, my voice coming out strange and choking, and I repeat myself, adding, "Please, please wake up. You haven't finished your book yet." I smile, and then gasp for air. "James, please don't leave me behind."

            He doesn't wake up. He just lies there, too small and too quiet and too him to let go of.

            I feel hands on my back- more than two- and I flail against them, screaming, "Please, please leave me alone, please; I can't do this."

            There are three nurses, all pulling me and tearing me apart, and I slam my palms against my head.

            No, no, this isn't happening. James is not dead. James is not dead, God, no.

            I drop to the floor, and I want this all to go away, to stop, to leave me alone and let me go back to when he and I talked about art and November and white and we were both such beautiful things. I just want him back, I just want him to be okay, because people don't just die.

            I can hear my heart in my ears and the room is full of noise. I clamp my hands over my ears, groaning and crying, but it's all still there. I can hear the heart monitor shrieking this perpetual monotone, the sound of the defibrillators alive with electricity, the sound of a doctor saying, "He's gone. Time of death: seven minutes before four."