“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.”
I nod, starting to get there. “That’s why you flipped about him taking Sarah there.”
He touches the tubes that run into his nose. “I had to have oxygen on the plane—and all night and the mornings except when we performed.” He weakly lifts a hand and points to a black mound of Kevlar on top of the dresser. “I took my vest and inhalation mask. Three times a day, I inhaled antibiotics and this stuff that thins your mucous, and then I was in the vest for twenty minutes.”
“What does it do?”
“Moves the gunk in the smaller passages of my lungs into the bigger ones so I can huff it out.”
“Huff?”
“Like a cough without a cough.” He closes his eyes. “Before I got the vest, the guys used to put a piano bench on a flight of stairs and pound me. Blake’s almost as good at it as my mum.”
He’s losing me. “You sang, though. Your voice was totally pure.”
“I did extra treatments before performances. I spent the night in the hospital twice for IV antibiotics. Modern medicine is great.”
He wasn’t weak like this. I’m still confused. “How did you do that and keep up with the schedule?”
“I skipped out of most of the practices. I did performances and you.”
“But after, you were so active.”
“That might have been a mistake. I mean exercise is a good thing. My adrenaline cravings kept me strong and alive for years. I’d been so weak and sick, and suddenly I was alive again, relatively healthy again—and pumped full of you. You’re better than any drug, Beth.”
I shake my head.
“I went overboard after you left trying to keep up with Blake. Mountaintops aren’t a smart place to be if you have trouble breathing. I had to take my portable O2 tank with me when we went snowboarding. I got a few good runs in, sucked oxygen in between them. It was my last shot to live.”
He went overboard that last night with me, too. “We stayed out way too late. And then you had to go rescue Sarah.”
“That wasn’t so bad. I took a taxi. I took a lot of taxis in Lausanne. The only time I walked was with you. You just thought I was getting a cold.”
“You totally faked me out.”
“After I dropped Sarah off, I didn’t go back to the hotel room—went straight up to the hospital. The Swiss doctors were great.”
I remember him coughing as our bus rolled away the next morning.
“I crash-landed when I got home—right back to the hospital.”
“No cottage?”
“I lied, Beth.” His voice drops to almost nothing. “I lied a lot.” He closes his eyes, exhausted from all this talking. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.” There are tears behind his words. “Say hi to Scott.” He can’t stop the pain that takes over his face.
“I’m supposed to leave now?” I should be livid. Angry. Hurt. Scared. I look at his pale, sunken face, tinged blue and bruised, his lips more purple than pink, watch as he takes a labored breath and tries to control his emotions. He looks so young—especially with his hair slicked back like that. There’s nothing left of the confident singer, the intimidating composer, the sensitive boyfriend who wants to keep me a nice girl. He’s just a small boy, and all I want to do is take care of him. He’s not beautiful anymore; neither am I. But what I’m feeling inside is. I love him more than I ever did.
I lean over him again. “You’re going to be fine now. I’m here.”
His eyes flicker open. “I came to see you as soon as they let me out. Whenever I could escape”—his eyes take in the equipment around him—“this.”
“How did you expect to keep me in the dark if I joined the AYS?”
“I think there was a part of me that wanted you to find out. They let me out for practice when I’m up for it. I planned on getting better, not . . . ”
“I’m sorry. I would have been here, Derek. Every day.”
“I know.” He motions me close so I can hear him whisper. “The median life expectancy for CF patients is thirty-seven.”
I swallow. “That gives us loads of time. Remember? You told me they’re doing stuff with genetics.”
“Thirty-seven is the median age. That means half of us die a lot sooner.”
“Not you, though.”