Then I thought of how shitty it would be for me to withhold that information after the way I’d betrayed him at Porteras. Obviously, I wasn’t going to wake him up and tell him. I would find the right moment, first.
The right moment didn’t come. Neil became so dehydrated from nausea and gastrointestinal horror that he wasn’t discharged from the hospital. It was a devastating blow to him; he cried when Dr. Grant told him that he would likely stay in the hospital until after the transplant.
Over the next few days, as expected, Neil’s white blood cell count dipped lower and lower, as his body was stripped down for restoration to factory settings. Once his cells started going, they didn’t really stop.
I’d like to say it wasn’t difficult for me to be without him, but it was. I knew Holli would have to leave soon. It was sweet of her to offer to stay longer, but I couldn’t ask her to stay away from Deja and their life in New York for too long. Though Emma and Michael would be staying with me at the house, I didn’t want to burden them by being a third wheel, especially when Emma had to deal with her father going through all this.
The fact was high dose chemotherapy was terrifying. About six days into his hospital stay, Neil got a canker sore. By the next day, his entire mouth was swollen and covered in huge, painful patches that cracked and bled. This was another side effect of the chemo, and it affected his entire digestive tract. He couldn’t stand to eat or drink anything, so the doctor ordered a nasogastric tube inserted in Neil’s nose and down to his stomach for feeding, a procedure that was disgusting to watch and uncomfortable for him to go through. I held his hand through it and acted very brave, but I think he knew that when I excused myself to the bathroom afterward, it was to shake and throw up.
“I look like a corpse,” he complained when I came back. “Now I have this... thing. I’m going to scare children.”
“You don’t know any children,” I reminded him. I went to my purse for a piece of gum to cover up the vomit on my breath.
“I smell like death, I look like a skeleton, I have tubes sticking out of me all over...” He closed his eyes. “Promise me you won’t do anything open casket. I couldn’t stand it.”
“Hey. We’re not talking like that,” I said softly, seriously. “A closed casket won’t work for a Viking funeral. I had planned to set you out on an ice flow.”
“I think you’re confusing Vikings and polar bears.” But he smiled, at least. That was all I could hope for.
He dozed off a minute, then roused himself through sheer force of will and asked me, “Your videos. I haven’t asked you how those have been going.”
“Oh, um. Fine. I’ve actually got some interest in, um...” Well, I might as well tell him what India had offered. “India Vaughn got me an audition with Wake Up! America. I need to go back to New York in December, and if I get the job, I’ll be doing four segments or so a year, on beauty trends.”
“Sophie, that’s—” he winced as he tried to push himself up. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s not that amazing. I mean, they asked somebody else, first.” I shrugged. “Are you mad at me?”
“For what?” he frowned, then comprehension crossed his exhausted face. “Because of Porteras.”
“Yeah, I thought you might not be happy with India getting me the audition.” I held my breath, waiting. Work-brain Neil wasn’t far from the surface of chemo-stupor Neil, and I suspected he would come roaring out with a bug up his ass about ethics really, really soon. “I didn’t ask her to do this, by the way.”
“You didn’t ask her to go hunting for book deals for you either. I’m beginning to consider the possibility that she’s not planning on staying with us.” He made a motion toward his things on the nightstand. “Get me my phone, I want to call Rudy.”
“As much as I don’t want to tell you what to do with your business, because doing so almost tore us apart before, I can’t in good conscience allow you to go to work with a tube sticking out of your face.” I crossed my arms. “India hasn’t asked me for anything. No compensation or percentage. If she’s leaving Porteras, it’s definitely not to agent me.”
“Mhm,” was all he said in reply.
I wasn’t going to argue with him. I leaned down and kissed his forehead. I snuck the occasional kiss or unnecessary touch in when I could, even though we were trying to keep the risk of infection down. “I’m going to go. Visiting hours are almost over, and I’m going to do a scarf-tying tutorial tonight. How to cover up your bald head during chemo, without looking like a pirate.”