Dignity - a novel - 1. Chapter 1: Holden Caulfield

Dignity

A Novel

“Or you'd just passed by

one of those puddles in the street

with gasoline rainbows in them.

I mean you'd be different in some way –

I can't explain what I mean.

And even if I could,

I'm not sure I'd feel like it.”

J.D. Salinger

by

AC Benus

for

FRANK LIU

Woodkid and love

unite us

Contents

PART ONE: Denial; Anger; Bargaining

Chapter 1: Holden Caulfield

Chapter 2: Under the Blanket

Chapter 3: Shit Hits the Fan

Chapter 4: Wave of the Future

Chapter 5: Carousel Horses

Chapter 6: Media Circus

Chapter 7: First Full Day

Chapter 8: "Cheeez!"

Chapter 9: Next Day/Crab Shack

Chapter 10: Betrayal; Fresh Start

PART TWO: Depression; Acceptance; the Beyond

Chapter 11: Orange Ribbon

Chapter 12: Drifting

Chapter 13: Rooftop Stars

Chapter 14: Brass Ring

Chapter 15: Gilded

Chapter 16: Confession

Chapter 17: Running

Chapter 18: Don't Give Up

Chapter 19: Death

Chapter 20: Hospital

PART ONE: Denial; Anger; Bargaining

Chapter 1: Holden Caulfield

Fuking 'puce,' even the word makes me want to vomit.

I hate being in this doctor's office. Who in their right mind still has the geeky colors of the 80s?! The goddamn f-in 80s!

I realize my legs fidget, so I use my hands to smooth down my denim, and try not to show any signs of nervousness. But, I know. This is not going to be good. Why? When you've been through it like me – picture clothes through a wringer, LOL – you can 'feel' it as it comes back.

My mom suddenly puts her hand on mine. She's sitting in the chair next to me, and I can barely glance over to meet her worried eyes.

Fuk 'em. Damn nauseating colors – 'plum,' 'mauve,' 'puce' – oh God, I think I might really be sick.

"It's ok, Mom..." I manage to get out.

I must sound kinda pathetic, or something, cuz a weird sort of choking sound catches in her throat.

"Jack, just don’t give up."

"Phew! – " I roll my eyes. "Who said 'give up?'"

This must make her feel better, which I kinda knew it would – that's why I said it.

Fuk, I hate this waiting room.

My phone vibrates. It's my bestie, Dawn; her text reads:

Yu f*ck up, Yu cant even do anything right, LOL

There is a second one right behind it:

But srysly, Yu'll b ok, i know it. Dont think abt that shit yu talked to me abt. Its not worth it

[But seriously, you'll be ok. I know it. Don't think about that shit you talked to me about. It's not worth it.]

I begin to thumb-punch a reply:

Wtng to go in now. It wont b good. TTUL

[I'm waiting to go in now. It won't be good. Talk to you later.]

I can feel me forcing down an involuntary swallow, and I turn my phone off.

˚˚˚˚˚

Dr. Kimball is handsome, and if I went in for older guys…but, who am I kidding? He's way old – has got to be around 43, and that's the same age as my mom – so, no.

He sits at his desk and pokes around in a manila folder that is supposed to make up 'my chart.' I know it is bullshit. My real file is the size of a dictionary. And besides, Dr. Kimball is stalling – I can tell – he doesn't have to reference a goddamn thing.

"Jack Shaw," he says. "Your spinal tap test results…well…they're not good."

I just hold his blue eyes. I can't say I feel much of anything right now. My mom though, she gasps and scoots way up to sit on the edge of her chair.

"It can't be!" she tells the doc with some anger. "He's only fifteen. It's not fair."

I don’t think I would have expected it, cuz, really, I have known Dr. Kimball for a while now, but there was something like a tear in his eye.

He made a sound similar to clearing his throat, but I think he was literally 'sucking it up,' as the old saying goes, LOL.

"Mrs. Shaw, remission is a tricky thing; leukemia is a tricky disease. We have a good prognosis that Jack can and will respond to the treatments he's had in the past."

"Good..?"

"Good." The doctor swallows while saying this, and even my mom, who desperately wants to believe it, doesn't.

"Right now, because of our vigilant monitoring, we've caught a suspicious increase in his leukocytes, this doesn't mean he has leukemia right now, but aggressive treatment will improve his chances."

"And…" I stammer. "Without, treatments..?"

Dr. Kimball bites his lip for a slip second, and his gaze slips off of me to my mom. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her nod permission for my doc to be straight up with me.

"Well, Jack. With no action, you may be ok for a while – that is – you may be asymptomatic and showing no signs. This state could last a month or two, or a few more, but then, once the symptoms do show up again, you will probably have only a matter of weeks, maybe six to eight weeks. Do you understand?"

My oncologist, who I've known since I was 7 years old, reaches across the desk with his hand out to me. "Jack, how do you feel? How do you feel about treatment?"

I don’t take his hand; I shrug – cuz, that's how I really feel.

"Jack!" my mom says way too loud. "You've got to fight!"

I tell her, "Save the melodrama, Mom. Who said I wasn't?"

˚˚˚˚˚

"So…" Dawn draws out the vowel. "What are ya gonna do?"

We're sitting in my basement room – my older brother and sister got the upstairs bedrooms. I kinda stall, looking over the posters hanging around my bed, which we are both sitting on.

There's a World of Warcraft I pinched from Best Buy, and a hot one of One Direction. Damn, Zayn Malik is so cute!

"Hey," she slaps my leg. "Dream boy, did you hear my question?!"

Dawn is kinda pretty, that is, for a girl – LOL. She's got shoulder-length hair the red color of autumn leaves, and some freckles on her cheeks and nose.

"Oww!" I ham it up. "You ain't got no sympathy, bitch!"

"Who you calling a bitch?"

She play-punches my shoulder, and I laugh as I draw my legs up like a shield.

We settle down again.

She wants to know, "So what did your doctor say?"

"Mumbo jumbo bullshit; it's back; same rounds of chemo and radiation. Bullshit. All they offer is fake hope and endless pain. You know I can't go through it again. They're all fake."

"You think they're all fake?"

"Most of 'em. When they say 'I'm so sorry…' and 'hang in there…' I know they're just thinkin' to themselves 'thank God it's not me…' or 'thank God it's not my child…' It makes me sick – no one says the truth, that they can hardly be bothered with other peoples' problems."

"Do you really feel that way?"

"Yes. I do. I don’t want to be Jack, 'the poor kid,' anymore. I hate the name, and I hate being him. The one who everybody pretends to pity, but in reality, just wants to run away from. They are too chicken-shit to say the truth, to tell me and the rest of the world what they are really thinking – thinking that they don’t want to stick around, in case they 'catch it' from me. The fukers, so fuk 'em. That's what I say – fuk them!"

She chuckles: "You're a regular Holden Caulfield."

"A regular, whofield?"

She looks all dumb. "Holden Caulfield." Her face turns to one of pity as I shrug my shoulders. "You know, the teenage boy from Catcher in the Rye."

"Never read it."

"Boy, you need to read more, and play less video games."

"Phew…" I stammer.

Her voice rises a little bit. "Holden Caulfield thinks all the grownups are phony, and calls out their bullshit."

She looks all sad, all of a sudden. "You don’t think your mom is faking it when she says you'll be ok, do you?"

Fuk. She's about to make me cry. I've got to stop it. "Look, she's got Hamish and Christie to worry about – "

She cuts me off. "Just 'cause she loves your brother and sister, doesn’t mean she doesn't care about you."

"Dawn, just stop. Please. This is hard enough as it is."

She stands up and starts picking at shit on my dresser. I sit on the edge of my bed, and she looks at me in the mirror.

"I don't think you should do it, wait a couple weeks at least until school is out, then maybe you and I can both do it."

"There's no use waiting, Dawn."

She takes some strings of Mardi Gras beads down from the mirror support and puts them on.

"What you need," she says as she swirls them around her fingertips. "Is a boyfriend."

I grunt a little.

"What about," she ignores me. "Kevin Foxwood! He's out, and on the football team!"

"He's a senior."

"So?"

"So…, he's a jock. He's never given me the time of day, and besides, he's like eighteen!"

She steps in front of me; she puts her hands on her hips. "And?"

"And, well, maybe I prefer younger guys."

"You pedo!" She laughs.

"What's wrong with liking guys my own age?!"

Dawn sits down, and is all serious. "Maybe you need a guy who's a little more mature, and who can look after you some. You know, spoil you, and shit."

I have to laugh: "Flowers and a heart-box of chocolates?"

"Well," she shrugs. "Why not? Isn't that all part of love anyway?"

"Remember, I'm not into the bullshit stuff."

She touches my hand. "You don’t think 'love' is bullshit, do you?"

For some reason, I think of Dr. Kimball in his office today. I didn’t allow him to touch me – to reach out, as it were – but it'd be a crap move to pull out of Dawn's grasp right now.

"Dawn…" my fuking voice sounds all emo. "Come on now." I slowly remove out my hand from hers.

"You're just scared, and need someone – "

I'm about to cry. "Stop it. I am not scared, I'm calm and determined, and it's totally not fair to think of pulling anyone else into my mess. I'm gonna die, Dawn. I'm ok with it, but I am going to die."

Her head falls into her hands. She starts to cry pretty hard. That gives me a chance to rally. I put my arm around her shoulder. I shush her, saying real soft: "Please, stop. Ok?"

She kinda, sorta does, and stands up again. As she gets a Kleenex, she tells me, "Your plan is crazy. Why L.A.?"

After she blows her nose, and comes back to sit with me, I just shrug my shoulders.

She gets all grown-up-like. "You know, you can't take your phone with you."

"Oh, yeah. I didn't think of that."

"Dumbbell. They can trace you with it."

"Yeah…" I consider the matter.

"You need a prepaid, disposable one, that you can top up with cash."

"Yeah. I'll get one in the morning."

"Do you even know my phone number?"

"Five, one, three…eight…" I peter out to nothing, with a big ole grin.

"Shit. I knew it. That's why – " she fumbles around in her back pocket. "I got you one, just in case."

She puts it in my hand. I stare at it, thinking I'm gonna start crying again.

"I pre-programmed my number in it. Ok?"

I feel me biting my lower lip. What can I say?

She asks me real tender, "Still think love is all bullshit?"

Fuk. I do start to cry.

"Why can't I go with you?"

"No, Dawn. You'd be my 'easy out,' my way home again – and I don’t want that. It's enough. There's no reason for you and everybody else to see me weak and feeble, dying in bed without any hair. It's best I go. That's it. That's all there is to the matter."

"So, what is it you do want?"

"To see the ocean, to sit on the beach – I don’t know. Just, live a little before it's too late."

She puts her arms around me, and draws me into a hug.

"You bastard," she whispers.

She pushes me back a little, asking, "Can we cuddle?"

"Sure."

I lay back and position my pillows so she gets one too. I extend my right arm, and she snuggles down so her head is resting halfway on my chest and shoulder.

"Better?" I ask her.

She nods, and drapes her arm on my belly and chest. Her fingers spread flat over my heart.

I feel calmer now. But, like a growing warmth that sneaks into your body after you come into the house again from a long winter car ride, I know my body is still cold. There is a creeping menace – that at least on a subconscious level – I can feel literally in my bones. It is the force, a hot one, or a cold one, I do not know, which drives me on. I may not be able to escape it, but I can haul it away, far away, from hurting the others who would pity me because of it. Maybe I am selfish, but I act out of consideration that when a person's number is up, why drag down others with him?

Her hand strays up to my bangs. She twists a little knot with them. "I like your hair."

"It's just brown."

"It's nice. I wish I had it."

I gather the loose strands out of her eyes. "What's wrong with strawberry-blond?"

"Would you want it?"

"Nope. But, it looks good on you, Heidi."

"Bastard," she mumbles, and flicks my tit through my Orange Crush t-shirt. I like wearing orange as a color – it's cool on me.

After a few silent moments, a whisper comes up from Dawn's auburn-framed face. "Stay, Jack. Get the treatment."

I kiss her forehead. "If you love me, you won't ask that again." Then I lighten my tone, and ask, "Do you think I can pass as eighteen?"

Dawn raises her head, and eyes me with some scrunched mental scrutiny. "So, how tall are you now?"

"Five-nine."

"Yeah, like, you're pretty tall, but you've got to work on your walk."

"What do you mean?" I'm a little incensed.

"Calm it down, Poodle! I just mean – you can, on occasion, still walk like a dweeby 8^th grader."

"How?"

"You know, arms and legs goin' all over the place, a little spasmodically."

"Phew! – " I let slide out of the side of my mouth. "Fuking big word."

"Yeah, but do ya get me?"

"Mmmmm…"

"Guys, like the juniors and seniors – and like totally foxy Kevin Foxwood – they walk all calm, and seem to pretend they've got joint pain, or some such crap. So, to be eighteen, you've got to walk like you've got no place in particular to get to."

"Joint pain, huh? Yeah, I can do that, cuz I actually have it! You mean I need to walk like I'm – Cool?"

"Yey-a, dweeb. Walk like you're 'kool.'"

"K."

I try not to think of anything too seriously, and wind up glancing at my One Direction poster. I guess it might be the last time I can relax from here and look at those sexy boys.

"Don’t you think Zayn Malik is cute?"

Dawn looks doubtful. "You and your roving eye. You think every guy is cute."

"Not every guy, but a lot of them!" I laugh. "But, few can match Zayn, don’t you think..?" I try to lead her into a confession by flaring up my eyebrows, as I do my grin.

She props herself on an elbow. I can tell she's not thinking about cute boys at all. At almost a psychic level, I know she wants to ask me to stay again. I slowly shake my head, and feel all my good spirits drain – all of them except the good feeling of love I have for Dawn.

"The way I walk?" I tell her. "You kiddin' me! You ever seen the way you twerk on down the corridor. It's disgraceful."

Teary-eyed, she bites her lip, and her hand comes and slaps my chest once. "Bitch," she smiles.

"No, you," I tell her.

"No, you!"

I have to laugh; I have to agree: "Yes. Me!" Then I ask her in all sincerity, "Now, will you help me pack?"