And who am I, living in the middle of history, to tell the universe that it—or my observation of it—is temporary?”
“You are fairly smart,” I said after a while. “You are fairly good at compliments,” he answered.
The next afternoon, I drove over to Gus’s house and ate peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches with his parents
and told them stories about Amsterdam while Gus napped on the living room couch, where we’d watched V for Vendetta.
I could just see him from the kitchen: He lay on his back, head turned away from me, a PICC line already in.
They were attacking the cancer with a new cocktail: two chemo drugs and a protein receptor
that they hoped would turn off the oncogene in Gus’s cancer.
He was lucky to get enrolled in the trial, they told me. Lucky.
I knew one of the drugs. Hearing the sound of its name made me want to barf.
After a while, Isaac’s mom brought him over. “Isaac, hi, it’s Hazel from Support Group, not your evil ex-girlfriend.”
His mom walked him to me, and I pulled myself out of the dining room chair and hugged him,
his body taking a moment to find me before he hugged me back, hard.
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