My Oxford Year: A Novel

Say not the struggle nought availeth,

The labor and the wounds are vain,

The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been, things remain.

Arthur Hugh Clough, “Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth,” 1862

You can do this. It’s just a car.

A car that probably costs more than my entire education, but, still, a car.

A car with everything reversed. Like a goddamn fun house.

I check the mirrors yet again, automatically and absently reaching to the right for the shifter. Instead, my hand hits the door.

Jesus. Focus.

When the paramedics had asked me if I wanted to follow, I had nodded. Why did I nod? Because I’d needed to feel useful. They said the hospital was only three miles away. I can do anything for three miles.

But now the ambulance’s lights are flashing and the siren comes on and it’s go time. I depress the clutch and, with my left hand, shift into drive. I follow the ambulance back onto the motorway and we slowly pick up speed. The transmission grinds and I cringe.

As if driving a stick for the first time since I learned to drive on my aunt’s old Volkswagen Beetle wasn’t bad enough, driving on the opposite side of the road, sitting on the opposite side of the car, takes every single ounce of attention. The problem is, I don’t have an ounce left. Every part of my mind is consumed with Jamie. What signs did I miss? Is this normal? Is he all right? Is this just a glimpse of things to come?

We have to switch lanes and my eyes instinctively glance up and to the right, seeing nothing but the patchy clouds. Forcibly, I look left, to the rearview mirror.

I’m not cut out for this. I’ve never been around illness before. I’m useless. And for whatever reason, I’m the only one Jamie wants near him.

And I’m leaving.

Someone will have to take care of Jamie when I’m gone. Whether he wants to admit it or not, as he gets progressively worse, he’s going to need more help. It’s a fact. Decisions are going to have to be made.

Jamie’s going to need his family.

Oh God. A roundabout. White-knuckled, I follow the ambulance through it.

This is how crisis works, I think. In one instant, priorities can change.

Beliefs can reverse.

Somehow, some way, his relationship with his parents has to be fixed. I can’t leave him, come June 11, like this, like some animal slinking off into the woods to die alone.

Miraculously, we’ve made it to the hospital. The ambulance driver sticks her hand out the window and points at the adjacent, nearly empty parking lot. We’re somewhere in the wilds of Kent and it appears that we’re pretty much alone in the world.

Even without having to navigate around other cars, I swing too wide into the parking spot, and end up straddling the line. Screw it. Let them ask me to move. I’ve parked right in front of a sign that cautions no overnight parking and I think, Oh God, I might have to drive at night. With Jamie in the car.

Distracted, I turn off the Aston and open my door, stepping out into the crisp winter air. The distant sound of a train whistle reminds me, for the first time, of the ferry we’re not catching. Should I call the company? I don’t have the number. I’ll look it up on my—

The ground moves beneath my feet. An optical illusion. In reality, the car is rolling forward. “Shit!” I leap back into the car and yank the brake. But not before the Aston rolls into the “No Overnight Parking” sign, tipping it backward thirty degrees with a mournful creak.

I drop my head onto the center console. I don’t even want to look at the bumper. I take a deep breath.

Knowing what I have to do, I pull out my phone.

“I AM SO bloody sorry,” Jamie mutters yet again as I arrange and fluff a pillow behind his back, doing my best to make him comfortable on the couch in the drawing room.

“If you didn’t want to go you should have just said so,” I joke. “You didn’t have to pull a stunt like this.”

He sighs heavily with the faintest sound of a laugh.

Anemia. Severe anemia. Turns out he’d been feeling faint and lethargic for the past week, he just didn’t tell anyone (i.e., me). Before we left this morning, he’d been dragging, which I’d noticed but thought was just a side effect from the chemo. Or maybe I just didn’t want to notice. He didn’t tell me he’d nearly passed out in the shower. I feel horrible, as if this were my fault. Was I being selfish, or stupid, or . . . ?

The doctors had wanted to give him a blood transfusion, which would have involved staying in the hospital and had potential repercussions that made his oncologist nervous. Plan B was a series of shots that encourage the body to create more of its own red blood cells. Which is great. Except it’ll take two weeks before they can tell if there’s any improvement. So Jamie’s relegated to the couch. Indefinitely. We’ve been home for about an hour and so far Jamie’s really pissed and I’m really disappointed and both of us feel guilty about the way we’re feeling.

That’s as far as we’ve gotten.

“There’s no point in you being here. You should go,” he says.

I stop my fussing. “Go where?”

“On holiday, you dolt!”

“Don’t call me that!” I snap, nerves beyond frayed. The teasing grin on Jamie’s pale face instantly drops, and I take a breath. “I’m sorry. About everything, okay? I should have realized you weren’t—”

“No, please. Stop right there. You feel bad, I feel bad, but we will not plague each other with guilt. It’s an absurd emotion, reserved for those who we fear might feel less than they ought.” He looks in my eyes. “You and I, we carry on. If we stop, it is to only catch our breath. Well, breath caught.”

“Jamie, I’m not leaving you.”

He groans slightly. “You have our itinerary, everything’s confirmed. Please.” I straighten and sigh. He takes my dangling hand. “I couldn’t live with myself if you didn’t get to travel because of this.”

“So much for no guilt, huh?” I tease. He rolls his eyes. “We still have the Easter vac in March. It’s not a big deal.”

“No, Ella.” He sweeps a hand over himself. “This is not a big deal. I simply overexerted, that’s all. By the time you get back in a month, I’ll be right as rain.”

He looks so much like a little boy right now—optimistic, vulnerable, and so completely untethered from reality—that tears spring to my eyes. Tears that I turn away from him to hide. “We’ll see.”

He tugs my hand, urges me look at him. “Carry on. Yeah?”

Before I can reply, there’s a knock at the door. “That’s the food, be right—Sit!” I bark incredulously when he moves to get up. Worst patient ever.

We’d ordered Indian food as soon as we got home. I can’t vouch for Jamie’s appetite, but I’m starving. All I want is a huge bowl of rice and tikka masala and approximately fourteen pieces of naan. I reach into my pocket for some money and open the door, muttering “Sorry, I don’t have anything smaller than a fifty—” I screech to a halt.

Antonia.

And William.

Antonia exudes calm, but her face is etched with worry. “My dear girl, how are you? Is he all right?”

“Yes, yes, he’s fine.” Then, reflexively, we throw our arms around each other. I don’t know who initiated it, but it causes me to tear up again. I had long since forgotten the relief and comfort a mother can bring to a situation. I’m shocked to discover how much I needed it. “I’m fine,” I breathe into her hair. “I just wasn’t expecting—”

“You’ll pardon me.” William pushes past us, his impatience as obvious as his anger. “James?”

Antonia quickly escapes our embrace, squeezing my arm as she mutters, “Sorry.” She chases after her husband. “William, don’t make me ask you to wait outside.”

I close the door and quickly follow. As I round the corner to the drawing room, Jamie exclaims, “Bloody hell!”

William stands over Jamie’s prone figure on the couch. “Enjoying your holiday?”

“What are you—”

“Are you happy now?” William seethes. “Do you see what your recklessness has done?”

Jamie pushes himself up into a proper sitting position, less exposed. “What are you doing here?” He looks angrily to me. “I said they were not to be called.”

Antonia steps in, saving me. “Yes, and I could throttle you for asking it of her.” She drops on the couch next to him, taking his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Are you all right?”

Jamie grabs her hands and lowers them gently, his agitated gaze darting at William. “I’m fine. Really. It was just a dizzy spell. No need for the cavalry.”

My eyes bulge. A dizzy spell? He can’t even be honest with them.

This is why I had told Antonia to be patient, to let me talk to Jamie, warm him up to the idea of their coming down here. For one very obvious reason, which happens to be standing behind her right now, scowling. I never thought they’d just show up. Scotland is a six-hour drive. They must have gotten in the car as soon as we hung up. Or maybe there’s a private plane I don’t know about.

William won’t be put off. “Against all advice, doctor or otherwise, you insist on frolicking off to the continent,” he booms. “When were you planning to have your follow-up? Hmm?”

“When I returned. Obviously,” Jamie bites out.

“In January? After a month? Splendid! A month of eating whatever you want, running yourself ragged, drinking to excess, and shagging like a teenager who’s just discovered his cock?”

I wince. Not at William’s crudity, but at his accuracy. Said this way, leaving for a month does sound reckless. Jamie jumps off the couch and starts pacing, fueled by adrenaline.

“Jamie, which treatment will you be starting in January? William, don’t be crass,” Antonia says, the voice of reason.

“Chemo,” Jamie replies tightly.

“Chemo?” William barks. “What about the stem cell?”

Jamie takes a breath. “I already told you—”

“Dr. Solomon said he’d convinced you to reconsider—”

“I did reconsider and I came to the same conclusion.” I look at Jamie. I didn’t know this. He glances briefly at me, looking slightly embarrassed when he says, “I’ll revisit the idea when Ella’s gone back to America—”

“If you’re not dead.”

“William,” Antonia snaps. “I forbid you to say that.” There’s flint in her voice. “Do you hear me? I won’t have it.”

William rolls his eyes and spins away, facing the far wall.

Was he right, what he said at the ball? Is Jamie not doing the stem-cell therapy because he doesn’t want to be away from me? A sick feeling begins to settle in my stomach.

Antonia sighs. “What is your plan, my love?”

Jamie waves his hand dismissively at his mother. “I’ll keep on with the chemo, as maintenance. In six months, I’ll assess my options.”

“You stubborn sod!” William bellows, spinning back around. He advances, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand at each beat for emphasis, as if angrily tracking the iamb. “You don’t keep the dog at bay, you wring its bloody neck!”

Jamie, losing his strength, sinks back into the couch.

“At the very least, do the trial,” William implores.

“What trial?” I hear myself ask.

A look of smug superiority fills William’s face. “It seems Jamie doesn’t share everything with you, after all.” It takes all my control not to remind him that he’s only standing here because of me. He looks back to Jamie. “Shall I tell her? Or would you prefer to?”

Jamie clenches his jaw. He speaks quietly. “It’s a new drug, for people who are terminal. My father would have you believe it’s a game changer—”

“They’ve seen very promising—”

“Good God!” Jamie exhaustedly snaps. “It’s not a cure. There is no cure. We’re talking about something that may, may, buy me more time.”

“Why didn’t I know about this?” I ask, temper flaring. “Why haven’t you mentioned it?”

Jamie stares at the coffee table. “Because of the cost.”

“The cost!” I shout, louder than I intended. “Are you serious—”

Jamie clenches his eyes shut. “Not financial cost, personal cost. Side effects.”

“Which are?”

“They have no bloody idea! It’s a trial. That’s the point.” He sits forward suddenly, elbows on his knees. He stares at William as he draws a steadying breath. “Oliver did a trial and it killed him. Slowly, painfully. He bled out internally, drowning, suffocating on his own blood—”

“The drug didn’t kill Oliver.” William interrupts yet again.

Suddenly Jamie’s finger pops out like a gun, pointing accusingly at William. Hand shaking in repressed rage, he glares at his father. I’m taken aback. I’ve never seen him this angry.

William alters his tone. “I’m only saying Oliver was too advanced. You’re the perfect candidate for this.”

Jamie’s voice shakes when he says quietly, “I won’t submit Ella to unknown side effects. I won’t abide her turning nursemaid—”

“This isn’t about me!” I cry, appalled at his reasoning, just as William yells, “This isn’t about her!” We glance at each other warily, uncomfortable in our agreement.

Antonia shakes her head. “You’d think we’d all have learned something from the last time round.” The moment she speaks Jamie and William demagnetize, separate like two boxers going to opposite corners once the referee steps in. There’s silence. It feels like this roller coaster is slowing, pulling into the station. Though I’m not unfastening my seat belt just yet.

She looks between them. “This illness is not easy on any of us. Decisions are not easy for any of us. Yes, Jamie, you will decide your future, but we will all live with it. There is no right answer. Wouldn’t it be relieving if there were?”

Her diplomacy is inspiring. I could take a lesson from her.

“So, my love. Listen. Consider. Don’t discount something simply because your father is suggesting it. Then make your choice. And we shall support it.”

William has retreated to a corner of the room, looking at the floor. Jamie absently rubs his forehead. He looks exhausted, yet contemplative. I’m still in awe of Antonia.

Jamie goes completely still for a moment. Then:

“I’ll do the trial. On one condition.” He looks up at his father. “You are to stay out of it. You are not to talk to my doctors. You are to neither call nor visit. I am to be left alone for the next three months.”

William looks as if he’s going to detonate.

“Jamie, is that really necessary?” I ask.

Jamie’s eyes never leave William’s. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer. William finally speaks. “I’ll be outside.” He leaves. Not another word. No “I’m sorry.” No “Jamie, please.” No “I love you.” He doesn’t look at anyone. He just exits.

Antonia turns to Jamie on the couch. She kisses his cheek. She lingers there. Then they embrace. Just hold each other. Standing behind Jamie, I watch tears leak out of Antonia’s tightly shut eyes. This is what was inside her the whole time. I hear a choked, fractured voice say, “I love you,” and in this moment I can’t tell if it came from Jamie or Antonia. It doesn’t matter.

I’ve only felt love like this once in my life, and I can’t bear to think of it right now.

Antonia pats Jamie on the back, and pulls away. “Gorgeous boy.”

“Beautiful mum.”

She gets up and reaches for my hand. We don’t dare hug. I think we both know we’d lose it. She inclines her head in the direction that William exited. “Apologies, Eleanor.”

What the hell is she apologizing for? I shake my head, try to lighten the mood. “He’s a bit of a bull in a china shop, isn’t he?”

“That’s generous, my dear.” She smiles slightly, seems to think about this for a second. “Though sometimes one must ask oneself why the bull is in the china shop in the first place.” She leaves.

As her footsteps recede I debate going after her. I want to know why he’s in the china shop. I want to know what is going on between father and son. I glance at Jamie and see that he’s tipped his head back, closed his eyes.

“Jamie—” I begin.

“I need a moment.”

He’s angry. I get it. I’m angry, too. I step out into the hallway just as the front door closes behind Antonia. Too late. She’s gone.

I won’t go out there. That would be asking for trouble and we’ve had enough of it for one day. But I find myself gravitating to the window beside the door, curtained with a simple muslin panel. Standing to the side of it and looking through the space between the window and the drapery, I can see directly onto the front stoop without having to push back the material. I know I’m snooping, but I can’t help it. This feels necessary.

Antonia has paused on the top stair and gazes down upon William, who, at the bottom of the stairs, has taken hold of the handrail and is violently pulling at it until it breaks free from its rusty bolts. He throws it down into the bushes next to the stair. He stands motionless for a moment, panting with flared nostrils. He kicks the railing for good measure, then just looks at it. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket, takes out a cigarette, lights up, and begins pacing. Kicking up dirt. Forcing air and smoke in and out of his body, clearly wanting to do more damage, but not sure to what.

Antonia slowly but deliberately descends the stairs. William points his cigarette at her, his face contorted, a bomb ready to go off.

I reach for the door handle; I think better of it. Because Antonia calmly takes one more step down to William, bringing herself eye level with him.

I’ve never seen two people speak so clearly, yet wordlessly, to each other.

William finally moves. He goes to toss his cigarette, but Antonia snatches it from him. She takes a long drag, tips her head back, and exhales. She looks back at William and tosses it onto the pavement. William hangs his head, but looks up at his wife, a conqueror who has been conquered. She is right there for him.

She takes his shoulders as he falls forward, the top of his head finding a place to rest between her breasts. His hands find her hips, settling there with long-held familiarity. She runs her palms down the length of his back, up and down, up and down, the way you rub a dog when it’s come and put its head in your lap. William turns to the left, toward me, and I see his eyes are closed, his lips a tight, straight line, a mask of tension. Antonia drops her head back and looks up at the sky, mouth open, sucking in air.

I don’t know whether it’s the sight of their unguarded pain or intimacy that causes me to finally turn away, but I do.

I walk back into the parlor to find Jamie still on the couch. His eyes open as I approach. “Listen,” he begins.

“No, stop. Just stop, Jamie. Enough. I’m sorry they ambushed you. Just to be clear, I didn’t ask them to come. But I’m not sorry I called them. They have a right to know what’s happening to their son.”

“You don’t want to get involved in this, Ella. It doesn’t concern you.”

“It does. You know why? Because I’m the one who’s here now.” I’m channeling Antonia. So when Jamie opens his mouth to protest, I continue. “You told me nothing’s changed. And I believed you in that moment because I wanted to, but, Jamie. Everything’s changed.” I watch this land in his eyes, the sad recognition of a truth denied. “It doesn’t have to stop us, this.” I gesture between us. “But we can’t ignore it either.”

I sit down on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of him, knees to knees. “You know me well enough by now to know that I like having opinions.” He snorts at this. “But luckily for you, I’m good at it. People pay me for my opinions, but I’m giving them to you for free. So keeping things from me isn’t going to keep me from having opinions. It’s just going to keep me from having informed opinions. Which is pointless.” I take his hand. I take a risk. “Do you want me here?”

He looks into my eyes and I get a flash of the Jamie from our first tutorial. “Of course.”

“Then treat me like I’m here. Don’t shut me out. Don’t act like it’s already June eleventh. Because it’ll come soon enough.”

After a moment, Jamie sighs. “So we carry on, then, together?”

I nod. “Together. We’ll go in March. The weather will be better anyway.” Everything will be better, I tell myself.

After a moment, he picks up my hand, bends it back at the wrist, and kisses the palm. He lets his lips linger there. His eyes close. He inhales. He murmurs, “‘We are here as on a darkling plane. Where ignorant armies clash by night.’” He opens his eyes, looks over my hand at me. His eyes, though tired, call to me like midnight pools. The hardest part of this is the fragility. The shroud of look-don’t-touch over these moments of connection. The are-you-all-right-how-do-you-feel filter.

He drops his head. I reach out and run my hand through his hair. He turns his head into my palm, like a cat. He leans forward, and places the top of his head on my chest, between my breasts.

“I swear,” he mutters. “If that man is day, I’m night.”

His hands find my hips.

He turns his head to the left.

As I begin rubbing my hands down his back all I can think is, Day and night are just two sides of the same planet.