Sixteen and Dying (13 page)

“The woman who opened the door?”

“Actually, she’s a volunteer. She lost a son to AIDS, and now she wants to help others. I’ve made my dad promise not to let me die stuck in the hospital,” Anne explained.

“But, what if—” Morgan blurted, wishing he’d thought before he’d spoken.

“What if I get so sick, I die at home?” Anne finished his question. “That’s my goal. I want to die in
my own bed, with no machines or impersonal surroundings.”

His eyes grew wide. “It’s that control stuff again, Morgan. I can’t stop myself from dying, so I’m choosing my place and my way. It was hard to convince my dad. It’s not much, but it’s all I have.”

Morgan stayed for dinner that night. With effort, Anne came to the dining room table, where she, Morgan, and her father ate and made small talk. All through the meal, Morgan sensed an undercurrent of hostility coming from Anne’s father. After Anne was tucked into bed, he decided to talk to Dr. Wingate before he left.

Morgan approached him in the living room. “Can I speak to you, sir?”

“What is it?”

“I would like your permission to stay here in New York and to visit Anne regularly.

Dr. Wingate tapped his fingers and gave Morgan a skeptical, searching look. “Why?”

“I care about her.”

“I care about her too. I don’t want her hurt.”

“I don’t plan to hurt her.”

“She’s going to die, Morgan. We don’t know how much longer she has, but it could take months.”

“I don’t care how long it takes. I want to stay.”

Dr. Wingate paused, thinking. “Look, I’ve attended classes about how to properly care for Anne at home. We have a team of doctors involved, and volunteers too. There are precautions that must be taken every step of the way.”

“I’m not afraid of catching AIDS.”

“The precautions aren’t for your sake. They’re for hers. She’s vulnerable to infections. Even a common cold could kill her, and we just made it by after her bout with pneumonia.”

“I’ll do whatever you want. I’d just like your permission.”

“I know she likes having you here. She’s shown more spirit, more spark today than she has in the last month. I won’t lie to you—these past few months have been pretty hard on me. I attend a support group for parents.” He adjusted his glasses and stared hard at Morgan. “If you want to stay, I won’t stop you. If you can make my daughter’s life better, I can make room for you here in the apartment.”

“Look, I don’t want to put you out. Maybe I can find a place—”

“This is New York City, Morgan, not Colorado. You don’t want to be in some fleabag hotel. No … you’ll be better off here—if you want to be.”

Morgan thought his offer sounded almost like a challenge. “All right,” Morgan said. “I’ll move in. Thank you.”

“You may not thank me for long, Morgan. I’m doing this for my daughter. Whatever time she’s got left, I want her to be happy. You make her happy. Please, don’t do anything to hurt her. She’s suffering enough already. She got AIDS through a blood transfusion that we thought would save her life. Now, no one can save her.”

M
ORGAN READ EVERYTHING
Anne’s father gave him about AIDS. The facts made him shudder. What a terrible way for a person to die, he thought. About as terrible as having Huntington’s chorea. “The real enemy is death,” Anne told him during one of their many long talks. “Sometimes when I hurt really bad, I think of death as a friend, but then I think about how wonderful it is to be alive, and I see death as terrible. I wish I could live. There’s so much I wanted to do.”

He reached over and took her hand. If death was her enemy, he wanted to hold it off for her. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”

She clung to his hand. His skin was warm, and it felt so good to be touched. These days, few people touched her without wearing latex gloves. “Ask me
before the pain pill takes effect and I get spacey,” she said.

“The night I asked you to stay with me … would you have stayed if it hadn’t been for HIV?”

She thought for a long time before answering. “I know this is going to sound corny, but I’m going to say it anyway. That night, I wanted to stay. But deep down inside, I’ve always wanted to wear white at my wedding and have it mean something. Not that I’ve ever longed to get married,” she added hastily. “I always wanted other things first. College, of course. A career. But if—and this is a big if—I ever was to get married, I’d want my husband to be the first man and the only man.”

“It doesn’t sound corny.”

“Knowing that I could have infected you with HIV made me know to stop. Still, I want to believe that even if I hadn’t been HIV-positive, I would have said no. It’s nice to think that you can do something noble, even when it goes against what you want to do.” She touched his cheek, “Morgan, I
was
tempted.”

He smiled ruefully. “I wanted you to stay, but in a way, I was glad you didn’t. Even though the rejection hurt, it made you more special.”

She fell asleep smiling. Morgan watched her, reliving the short time they’d shared in Colorado. The night he’d held her, almost made love to her … the afternoon in the old church and cemetery … the picnic in the field of flowers …

Looking at her now, he saw beyond the gauntness, beyond the skin eruptions, the shorn hair, the pallor of her flesh. What he saw was a girl he loved and could never, ever have.

… … …

On Christmas Day, Anne’s father carried her out to the tree in the living room. He settled her gently on the sofa and proceeded to heap her lap full of gifts. “Dad, you shouldn’t have,” she protested.

“Hey, it’s Christmas. You know I couldn’t let it pass without buying you my usual assortment of useless presents!”

She struggled with the wrappings. He knelt on the floor in front of her. He reminded Morgan of a little kid trying hard to please. “Here, let me help. I told that clerk not to use so much tape.”

She opened boxes packed with sweaters, socks, a fleece bathrobe, sets of pajamas, and classical music CDs. “It’s too much, Dad,” she admonished.

“I saved the best for last,” he said, pulling out one more small, flat box.

She opened it and let out a delighted cry. “Daddy, it’s a first-edition Emily Dickinson! You shouldn’t have! I love it. It’s beautiful.” She held up the book and flipped through it, eyes glowing. She leaned down and hugged him.

“I did a computer search and found it in an antiquarian bookstore in Boston.”

Anne showed the book to Morgan. “Give my dad that box with the red paper, please” she said. “I’ve got something extra special for you too, Dad.”

Morgan fetched it, and Anne’s father shook it du-fully. “It’s heavy.”

“Be careful with that.”

He undid the box. Inside lay a hinged photo frame, and when he swung it open, tears formed in his eyes. On one side was a photo of Anne’s mother;
on the other, a photo of Anne. Morgan, looking over Dr. Wingate’s shoulder, couldn’t believe the resemblance between the two women. “Mrs. Hankins helped me,” Anne said, seeing her father’s reaction. “I slipped your favorite one of Mom—the one that got damaged years ago—from the album and had it restored and hand-colored. The one of me was my sophomore yearbook photo.”

“You told me they weren’t any good.”

“Well, I changed my mind. I mean, considering the way I look now.”

He looked up at her and held the photos to his chest. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You’re both beautiful, and I’ll treasure this forever.”

Morgan felt awkward, as if he was intruding. “I got you something too,” Anne told Morgan. “Mrs. Hankins selected it, but I told her what to get.”

Morgan ripped open the box to find a heavy sweater of dark navy blue, along with a framed photo of Anne on Golden Star.

“Marti took it this summer and sent me the negative. I had it enlarged.”

He couldn’t take his eyes from it. She looked lovely and perfectly healthy. “Thank you,” was all he could manage.

“It was one of the best times of my life,” she said. “I’ll always be glad I went.”

“Aunt Maggie shipped this to me for you.” He fished around under the tree and dragged out the gift he had for Anne. He wanted Anne to like it, hoped she’d grasp what he really wanted to tell her, but couldn’t put into words.

She removed the paper slowly, with effort, because
her hands ached so badly. Inside the box lay a pale buckskin dress, adorned with beads and feathers. “Remember, I told you that my great-great-great grandmother was a full-blooded Cheyenne?” Morgan asked.

The afternoon in the cemetery by the church sprang vividly into Anne’s mind. “I remember.”

“That’s a Cheyenne ceremonial wedding dress. I thought you might like to see what one looks like.”

She placed the soft deerskin against her cheek. She understood what he meant through the gift, what he couldn’t say in front of her father. A large lump swelled her throat shut as she gazed into the depths of his blue eyes. “The Cheyenne must have been wonderful people,” she said softly, “to have dressed their brides in such splendor.”

He wished he could tell her how special he thought she was. He wanted to thank her for allowing him into her life. He wanted to tell her that this was the best Christmas he’d known in years. “Cheyenne women are brave and beautiful,” he replied. “And I should know.”

Anne’s father served turkey with all the trimmings. Morgan ate heartily, to make up in part for Anne’s eating almost nothing. Afterward, he insisted she call Marti, who squealed with delight when she heard Anne’s voice.
“Feliz Navidad
,” Marti shouted.

Hearing Marti’s voice triggered a flood of memories. “Morgan tells me you’re going back to the ranch next summer,” Anne said.

“Oh, Anne, if only you could come back too.”

If only
 … “I’ll be with you in spirit.”

“I’m glad Morgan’s with you,” Marti said, her tone subdued. “I
told
you he liked you.”

“Have a wonderful life, Marti.”

“Te amo
, Anne.”

“I love you too.” Anne hung up and wept softly. There were so many people she was going to miss.

“I didn’t want you to be sad,” Morgan said, apologetically.

“It’s all right. I’m glad I talked to her. You make sure Skip treats her right. Her old boyfriend didn’t. She deserves the best.”

Toward nightfall, Morgan went for a long walk alone. Snow had fallen, fresh and white, but had turned dingy in the streets. Everywhere he turned, there was traffic, noise, and people hurrying along the sidewalks. He began to miss the solitude and beauty of Colorado. Yet, he’d promised himself he would stay for as long as Anne was alive. He thought about trying to find a job, something to help Anne’s father with expenses. He wanted to contribute in some way.

By the time he returned to the apartment, it was late. Certain Anne was asleep, Morgan crept toward his sleeper sofa. A light coming from Dr. Wingate’s study caught his eye. He wondered why Anne’s father would be working on Christmas night, then decided to talk to him about getting work. Morgan tapped on the door, and entered after hearing a muffled, “Come in.”

He saw Anne sitting in front of her father’s computer. Surprised, Morgan blurted, “What are you doing up so late?”

She gave him a weary smile and gestured toward
an empty chair beside the desk. “I’ve been touring various libraries,” she said.

“What?”

Anne tapped several computer keys, and the printer began clacking. “My father gave me the idea when he told me how he searched for the Emily Dickinson book. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

“Think of what?”

“Doing a computer search about Huntington’s chorea,” she said. “Sit down. I’ve discovered some very interesting information for you.”

M
ORGAN WENT HOT
and cold all over. He wasn’t sure he wanted any more information about Huntington’s. “You should be resting,” he told Anne. “It isn’t good for you to be up this late.”

“I’ll have an eternity to rest,” she said matter-of-factly. “I only have now to be alive.”

“Don’t talk that way.”

“Sit down,” she repeated. “There are some things you need to know.” He sat. She tore off paper from the printer. “I researched medical magazines and newspaper articles. I’ve read and printed out the material for you. The interviews with people who are facing the prospect of Huntington’s are interesting.”