Lisa Jones - Being Me

* * *

Once we’re in L.A. and in the back of a private car to the hotel, Chris checks his messages. “Blake found Ella’s flight out. It was one-way. Do you think she planned on staying in Paris and didn’t want to tell you?”

“She left everything she owns and she said she’d be back in a month.” I shake my head. “No. She didn’t intend on staying. She was going to Italy, too.”

He punches in a text to Blake with that information and gets an instant reply. “Blake says he checked any outgoing destination from Paris for Ella. There is no record of her leaving for Italy. He wants to know if you’re sure she didn’t resign her job?”

My brow furrows and I’m already dialing. “I hadn’t thought of that.” I have to leave a message for the right person. “I hope they call back quickly.”

“Find out about her status at the school, and if she hasn’t resigned I’ll have Blake’s team dig around some more.”

I nod and prepare myself mentally for the school’s returned call. Not only do I need to hear that Ella is safe, but it’s time I officially resign. It’s a bit daunting despite my new dream career.

The car pulls up to the hotel and we rush in to drop off our things in our room and head to the hospital. We arrive just in time for an event Chris is holding for a group of twenty kids all battling cancer, along with many of their parents. After Chris and I receive excited welcomes from everyone, and pose for pictures I didn’t expect to be included in but am, I finally meet Dylan, the young boy with leukemia. It’s clear that Dylan is deeply attached to Chris, and Chris to him. He’s an extremely likable kid, both friendly and smart. My heart twists at the dark circles under his eyes, his bald scalp that tells of his cancer treatments, and the frailness of his thin body, which makes him look younger than his thirteen years.

Chris takes a seat at an easel at the front of the room, and I sit beside him with Dylan. Together, Dylan and I watch as Chris draws special pictures by request. Spellbound by Chris’s interactions with the crowd, my heart is truly in my throat more than in my chest as he brings smiles to many a haunted face.

* * *

An hour into the event, I head to the cafeteria to grab Chris a drink and a candy bar since he hasn’t eaten since lunch and it’s now seven o’clock. Dylan’s mom, Brandy, a pretty thirty-something blonde, catches me in the hallway and falls into step with me. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” I assure her. “Dylan’s a great kid. I see why Chris is attached to him.”

“Thank you, and yes, they have a special bond. Chris has been a godsend on so many levels.” The elevator door opens and we step inside as she continues: “Did you know he calls Dylan every day, and on top of that, he calls either me or my husband, Sam, to check on us?”

“No, but I’m not surprised. He talks about you guys often.”

The elevator door opens again and we head to the cafeteria. “He’s paid what our insurance hasn’t, and that isn’t a small figure.” There’s a mix of appreciation and sadness in her voice.

“He’d pay whatever it costs to save Dylan,” I say simply.

She stops walking. “No money will save him.” The words tremble from her lips and fade to a whisper. Unshed tears gather like raindrops in her eyes. “He’s going to die.” She grabs my arm, her fingers biting into my arm, her urgency obvious. “And you do know that Chris is going to blame himself, don’t you?”

My throat restricts. “Yes. I know.”

“Don’t let him.”

“I don’t think I can stop him, but I will be there for him.” I say softly, “And for you, too, if you need me. Please put my number in your cell. Call me anytime, Brandy. Ask me for anything.”

Her grip slowly loosens on my arm and we exchange cell numbers. We silently head to the cafeteria, and after a somber silence, remarkably we manage to shift to random chitchat and it’s not long before Brandy and I are in the back of the room watching Chris and Dylan in animated conversation while they scarf down chocolate.

“The doctors don’t like him to have candy,” Brandy whispers, “but how can I deny him the things he enjoys?”

“I wouldn’t deny him anything he wants, either,” I say, my eyes falling on the young boy and shifting to Chris. He’s good with the kids, and I wonder if he’s thought about having his own. I’ve never thought about kids, but after today, I’m not sure I want to be a mother. How can you love this much and have that child stripped away from you? Losing my mother was hard enough. If I lose Chris—

“You love him,” Brandy says softly. “I see it in your face when you look at him.”

My gaze lingers on Chris. “Yes. Yes I do.”

“Good,” she says approvingly as I shift my attention to her. “Sam and I see the pain that man carries around. He needs someone to hold some of it for him.”

This analysis punches me in the chest. Chris has held everything life has burdened him with all on his own since he was a teen. That Brandy sees what he hides beneath his affable exterior speaks volumes about the kind of people she and her husband are. They are living in excruciating pain, but they still see beyond it to worry about Chris. I think about how upset he was on the phone two nights before, and it’s crystal clear to me that he needs me to carry some of his load this weekend. This isn’t the time to share my inner demons with him, and not because I want to put off the dreaded event. Because now is a time for me to be here for him, to show him I love him, even if I don’t dare tell him until I make sure he knows who I really am.

Brandy points to the front of the room. “We’re being summoned.”

I glance up to find Chris and Dylan waving us forward and a few minutes later I have caved to the impossible. I’ve agreed to watch Friday the 13th with Chris and Dylan while Brandy and Sam have agreed to go home and get some much-needed rest.

* * *

Three hours later, Chris and I have curled onto the hospital lounge chair by Dylan’s bed, with Chris’s painting of Freddy and Jason propped on a roller table, when our horror flick finally ends. Dylan hasn’t stopped laughing at my yelps and complaints, and his pleasure is music to my ears. He is such an amazing kid. He deserves to live.

Chris picks up the remote to the DVD player, turns it off, and checks the clock. “It’s eleven o’clock. You better go to sleep, Dylan.”

I grimace. “Sleep for both us, Dylan. I sure won’t be getting any myself.”

Dylan laughs and snuggles down into the bed. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?”

Chris and I share a look and I nod my agreement. “We’re right here, buddy,” Chris assures him and he lowers the lounge chair downward like a bed. I curl up with my back to his front and his arm wraps around me.

Dylan dims the lights with the button on his bed and I close my eyes. I’m exhausted. It’s been an insanely crazy day, full of jagged edges and twists and turns.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Chris whispers in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Me, too,” Dylan whispers, clearly having overheard.

“Me, too,” I reply to them both. It’s been a day full of jagged edges, twist and turns, and bittersweet discovery.

He is everything I am, and everything I am not. I do not remember where I begin and he ends, or where he ends and I begin. He is my Master. I am his slave. I’m struggling to remember who I was before he was. It’s terrifying to think that I could give myself to him this completely when I know he has not done the same for me. What will I be when he is gone? Do I dare stay and find out the answer is nothing? And what will he do if I tell him I’m leaving?

I jerk awake with one of the final chilling entries in one of Rebecca’s journals spinning in my mind. Sunlight beams into the hospital room, which is empty but for me, and I realize Dylan and Chris are gone.

A piece of paper crinkles under my hand and I lift it to find Chris’s handwriting. Snuck Dylan out for secret meeting with kitchen and a stack of chocolate chip pancakes. We have to get to the hotel and shower by ten. The nurse left you an overnight kit in the bathroom.

I glance at the clock and it’s 8 a.m. I can’t believe Chris and I both knocked out this hard and long on a lounge chair. I stand up and stretch and head to the bathroom, taking my phone with me in case Chris calls. On the sink, under the small bag of toiletries, is a folded newspaper I’m clearly meant to see. I pick it up and blink at a photo of me with Chris and Dylan, and Chris has scribbled, Mark should be happy. I frown a moment until the light bulb goes off. Oh yes, Mark will be happy. Chris and I have on our Allure shirts and they are clearly visible. I snap a picture of the paper and text it to Mark. I’ve barely opened my new toothbrush before Mark replies. The shirt looks better on you than Chris. I stare at the message and let out a short laugh. Huh. This is one of those off-the-wall replies Mark gives me in e-mails, and apparently text messages, where he seems more man than Master. There’s more to him than his stiff “Ms. McMillan this, Ms. McMillan that,” and I wonder if he really is the man in the journals. Somehow, I can’t see the Master Rebecca has written about making jokes like this one or ending an e-mail quoting The Hunger Games with “may the odds be forever in your favor,” as he once did to me. I type a reply and delete it two times and then snatch my toothbrush. Why am I fretting over a text to Mark?

A few minutes later I’ve combed my tangled mess of hair into order, and my equally brown eyes seem to make my pale skin two shades paler, which is pretty darn pale. But it doesn’t matter as it might have just twenty-four hours ago. Watching these kids and their families fight for their very lives has given me perspective on my own insecurities. It also makes me think about how important living in the now is, how easily life can be ripped away, as it was for my mother, and for Chris’s. No matter how terrifying the ultimate decision is, I have to resign from my teaching job on Monday.

I leave the bathroom and walk back into Dylan’s room, thinking I will share this decision with Chris, to find I’m still alone. The sound of voices draw my gaze to the half-opened door where I glimpse Brandy in deep conversation with a man in scrubs and a white coat, and she doesn’t look happy. The man I assume to be the doctor squeezes her shoulder and walks away. Brandy drops her face in her hands.

I’m across the room and out the door in a quick dash. “Brandy?” Her hands fall away from her face and I see the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh honey, what’s wrong?” I wrap her in a hug and she clings to me.

“His cancer is progressing faster than expected.”

I feel as if I’ve just had my insides carved out, and Dylan isn’t even my child. How must she feel and how can I possibly console her?

After several moments, she steps back. “I need to see my son. I need to call Sam. He’s at work.”

“I’ll call him,” I offer. “You go freshen up and be with Dylan.”

She gives me Sam’s number and hugs me again, her body shaking. I look up and my heart lurches as Chris steps off the elevator with Dylan by his side. I wave him off and he quickly backs into the car and pulls Dylan with him. A silent breath of relief escapes my lips at what could have been an emotional meltdown between mother and son. Somehow, I have to help Brandy gather her composure and be strong for her son, when I know she’s dying inside with him. And somehow I have to get Chris through this. Deep down, I am certain this is going to wrench open deep wounds in my already damaged man, and I hurt just thinking about it.

When finally I have Brandy somewhat composed, I text Chris that he and Dylan can join us. A few minutes later, Dylan ambles into the room, grinning and singing the song from Nightmare on Elm Street, “One, two, Freddy’s coming for you. Three, four, you better lock your door. Five, six, grab your crucifix.”

Chris follows behind him, a one-day dark blond shadow on his jaw, his hair rumpled and sexy, and his eyes as haunted as Brandy’s. He’s not heard the news about the cancer progressing but he’s smart enough to assume bad news is coming.

Dylan continues to sing as he plops onto the bed. “Seven, eight, you better stay up late.”

“Enough,” I exclaim, but I am smiling at his attempt to tease me.

“Yes, enough,” Brandy agrees, laughing. “I get creeped out from that song, too.”