@angieb86 -- You're my first feedback-er! Thank-you!
I tend to gravitate towards different, because I'm, well, different myself. xD Thank-you for your enthusiasm; it means so much!
Thanks for commenting, and enjoy this next update!
@Bewitchedyke -- It's nice to hear from you again.
Thank-you for being so excited about this!
Thanks for commenting, and enjoy this next update!
@Mrs. Pineapple -- Angst is always fun in a strange, sick way, isn't it? xD Thanks for commenting, and enjoy this next update!
@rawrmeister -- Hey again!
If it makes you feel better, I'm bad for my own grade point average. xD I am sorry, though. xD Thanks for commenting, and enjoy this next update!
@Starlight -- Thank-you so much!
Thanks for commenting, and enjoy this next update!
@LonelyTara -- Was it really? ...I don't want to say 'good', because that's horrible, but that's what I'm thinking. xD That's what I was going for; cancer really is heartbreaking itself, and I'm trying to incorporate how it affects its victims and their loved ones in my writing. Thanks for commenting, and enjoy this next update!
***
TITLE: Never Let You Go
AUTHOR: lilcheesenip
RATING: PG-13 -- Mostly just for swearing.
DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I don't own any of the Buffyverse characters. Wish I did, but Joss Whedon does. >.> I only have claim on the original characters.
SUMMARY: For as long as she can remember, Tara Maclay has been sick. At seventeen, the cancer that is slowly wearing down her body is also doing its damage on her family. While dealing with the knowledge that she is slowly dying, she is also watching her parents' marriage fall apart, and her younger brother slowly retreat inside of himself, and because of this, she is starting to wonder if it would be better if she just ended it herself.
Then she meets Willow Rosenberg, her new neighbor, who has moved to Sunnydale after the divorce of her parents. Without even really realizing it, Tara begins to fall in love with her, and struggles with the decision between her family, and romance, and life, or death.
SPOILERS: None that I can think of. It's all AU, so no monsters, or anything. ^.^ May steal dialogue hear and there.
FEEDBACK: Absolutely! I live for it. ^.^
PART 2
-------------------------------------
Willow cooked dinner that night – which basically meant that she set off the smoke alarm, got a call from the fire department, and her father had to pick up Chinese food on his way from work.
He wasn’t angry at her, like he should have been. He had only chuckled when she had called him, and when he had arrived home with the substitute dinner, he had smiled at Willow’s sheepish expression. To prove she wasn’t completely useless, she had set the table in preparation, and his smile of approval had almost made her forget the whole incident.
They sat across from each other, chewing in silence, until Willow attempted to spear a piece of chicken with her chopsticks, and sent it rolling across the table, and onto the floor. She ducked down to retrieve it, and reappeared flushing with embarrassment, only to find her father watching her with that same slight, amused smile.
As she placed the chicken on the edge of her plate, her father cleared his throat. “So...” He paused for a moment, seeming to struggle for words. “How was work today?”
“Good. Buffy broke the machine, though.” Willow couldn’t help but smile at the memory of Buffy shrieking as the machine had sprayed her with coffee in front of the lunch rush, even though she had pitied the blonde for her mortification.
“Did you get it fixed?”
“No. Jane has to order a new one, so I don’t have to work for a couple of days.” Willow grinned again. “It’s not fair to say Buffy broke it, because, according to Jane, the machine was ready to go, anyways, and Buffy was just the unlucky one who happened to be using it at the time it decided to poof.”
“I’m sure she was pleased,” Ira replied, but, already, Willow could tell he was distracted. A moment later, he held up his vibrating beeper in the palm of his hand, to read the number. “Damn.”
He scraped back his chair, and hurried into the next room, pulling out his phone as did, leaving Willow seated at the table alone. She sat for a moment, quietly chewing through the last of the food on her plate, until her father returned, already pulling on his coat.
“There’s an emergency at the hospital. You’ll be okay, won’t you?” It wasn’t really a question; it was more of a statement, or an order, because he couldn’t afford for her not to be. He was already heading towards the door, snagging his keys on his way, ready to save another life, because he couldn’t save his own.
“Of course. Try your best.”
“You’re the best daughter a man could ask for,” Ira said, and, with a parting smile, he disappeared out the door and into the fading evening light, slamming the door shut behind him.
Willow tried hard not to notice, like she always did, how the echo of the door was swallowed by the sudden, heavy silence in the house. But she could still feel it pressing down on her as she finished her dinner, and then cleared the table, stowing the leftovers in the fridge. She even washed and dried the dishes, just to keep her mind and hands busy, to keep the silence at bay. But when the last plate had been slid into its new home in the cupboards, she could feel it pushing down on her even harder than before, stealing her breath away.
With the kitchen clean, she locked the front door, and then ascended the stairs to her room. She shut her door, and retrieved her lap top from where it sat on her otherwise empty desk. She powered it up, then navigated the internet until she found a recent pop song she didn’t really like, but had heard on the radio. She cranked the volume until it scraped against her eardrums, until the bass thudded in her chest, and made it hard to breathe.
With the music screaming at her, she didn’t feel so alone. It was almost a comfort, even if she didn’t like the song, because with it playing, the thick silence, filled with broken promises and shattered hearts, wasn’t so loud anymore.
[center]*/*[/center]
Family dinner was a ritual at the Maclay house, one of the few they still clung to, and followed through with. Every night at six, rain or shine, at home or at the hospital, the family of four gathered to eat a meal prepared or purchased by Holly Maclay, Tara’s mother.
That night, it was a roast, accompanied by various vegetables. Looking at it all, Tara felt sick with the knowledge that she could not eat one bite, even though all she had eaten that day was a small bowl of cereal at breakfast.
A feeling of abdominal fullness – that was what the doctor had called it, hadn’t he? It was one of the symptoms of a swollen spleen, along with the near constant ache underneath the left side of her ribs, which in turn was a symptom of the accelerated, or the second, phase of Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia – CML.
Leukemia – cancer. It had taken Tara a long time to be able to wrap her mind around the word. Now, she could say it without hesitation, even though it still twisted her mouth with its bitter aftertaste. She was dying, and she knew it – she had known it since she was seven years old, first diagnosed with CML. Now seventeen, she was considered a lucky one – a survivor. Even though the cancer was not gone, just hibernating under her skin, poisoning her little by little, she was still counted among the survival stories because of her age.
Her mother piled her own plate high with mashed potatoes, then filled half of Tara’s plate with a mound that would have put Mount Everest to shame. Tara’s lips parted, to protest that she didn’t need such a large portion, but then her mother looked at her, with that same hope shining in her eyes, hope that Tara would suddenly miraculously be healed before her eyes, and Tara suddenly couldn’t utter a word.
She knew she was dying; she had accepted it a long time ago. But had her mother?
...Back when Tara was a real girl, family dinner was the highlight of the day. When she gravitated automatically towards the table at five to six every night, it would be piled high with food, so much the table would groan under its weight. They would sit together, her and Donny on one side, her parents across from them, their chairs so close their arms brushed constantly, smiling so hard it hurt, and they would pass the food around between the four of them. Her parents would laugh, because Tara’s appetite never seemed to cease, despite her slight frame, and it seemed then that Donny was going to take after his older sister, because between the two of them, nearly all of the food would disappear...
“Meat, Tara?”
Her mother’s voice dragged her from the memory. Tara blinked back into reality, then shook her head. “No, thank-you. I’m not very hungry.”
As soon as she said the words, she wished fiercely that she could take them back. Her mother’s face fell, ever so slightly, the change between facial expressions so subtle you would only notice if you looked hard, quick as the beat of a humming bird’s wings, and just as delicate.
And then, after only seconds, her mother had recovered, so swiftly Tara wondered if she had imagined the whole thing, and began to spoon some of the potatoes onto Donny’s plate. Tara’s younger brother was pressing the buttons of his Gameboy under the table furiously.
“Eat your vegetables, Donny,” Holly said firmly. “And, please, no electronics at the table.”
Donny muttered something under his breath, then switched the device off, and set it on the edge of the table, easily in his mother’s view. At twelve, Tara couldn’t help but notice the resemblance between him and her father. They had the same dark hair, while Tara shared her mother’s light brown, and their mouths turned down in the same way when they were disgruntled or frustrated. Holly smiled at her son, then turned to her husband.
“Potatoes, Andrew?”
Tara’s father dragged his eyes away from the newspaper spread out in front of him, then took the bowl his wife offered, and scraped the last of the potatoes onto his plate. Without a word, he went back to his newspaper, and Tara saw, once again, the humming bird-disappointment in her eyes. Was she remembering the old times, too, before Tara was diagnosed, when their laughter would ring, so full of life, of the future, to every corner of the house? Was she remembering the way the glow of the candlelight would warm their faces? Was she remembering all of it, and reflecting on how the house felt empty and cold without their laughter brightening it, how the kitchen light seemed harsh and unforgiving, just like Tara was? Was she remembering how good it was before Tara became sick, and ruined it all?
Tara picked up her fork, and filled it with mashed potatoes. Even though it nearly killed her to do so, she ate – ten bites, and then her stomach couldn’t take any more. She pushed her plate away, and resisted the urge to rub the spot beneath her ribs where her swollen spleen was stretching, pushing against its limits.
Her mother didn’t miss the flicker of pain that danced across her features for a split second. She put her fork down, and studied her daughter carefully. “Does something hurt, Tara?”
“No.” A lie – and her mother could sense it.
“Why aren’t you eating? Is it not good?”
“It’s good, Mom. It’s perfect,” She said, letting rare confidence bleed into her voice to reassure her.
That wasn’t enough to please her, because she continued to watch her with hawk eyes, taking in her every move, every emotion that flitted across her face, until Tara picked up her fork again, and forced down another bite. Her stomach cramped, screamed at her to stop, but she swallowed another, and then another, until she finally made a dent in the pile of potatoes.
By then, the discomfort in her abdomen was too great to bear. “Can I be excused?”
“
May you be excused.”
Her mother put on a good show, pretending to be a normal mother of a normal family, one where children misbehaved, or mispronounced, or needed to be corrected, with firm, loving guidance. This fantasy family had no room for sick children wasting away by the minute; there was no place for them, not now, not ever. Maybe that was why her mother preferred it over her real family. “
May I be excused?”
Her mother’s eyes met her’s, calculating. Then, after what felt like years, she nodded.
Tara pushed back her chair, and gripped the edge of the table to support herself as she got to her feet. She moved slowly, cautiously, terrified of the crippling pain that came without warning and pinned her muscles and joints together, held her tight in its grip until it drove her onto her knees, into submission.
She was not its plaything today – not this time, anyways. She stood without complication, pushed her chair back into place, then headed down the hall to her bedroom. With the door shut, and her safe in its sanctity, she collapsed heavily on her bed, both of her arms wrapped tight around her abdomen, trying to stifle the pain. She took a deep breath, and instantly regretted it – a stab of pain, stronger than before, attacked her, took her breath away. She lay gasping, struggling to reclaim her breath, but every time she drew in a lungful of air, the pain would strike again, leaving her breathless once more, a vicious cycle.
She wondered, not for the first time, if this was finally the end. Was it going to end here, in her room, on her bed, as she fought to breathe, and failed? Would she slowly turn blue from the lack of air, and, unable to call out, finally lose consciousness? Would someone find her, barely breathing, and would she be rushed to the hospital to be saved, just in time, or would they only find her lifeless body? Would there be anything to find at all, or would she just disappear?
But it was not the end. Not then. As her racing heart calmed, she found she could focus on taking quick, short breathes, ones that did not hurt her abdomen as much, and slowly, but surely, she regained control over her body.
Her pulse was still thudding in her ears when the whole ordeal was over. Tara sat up slowly, testing the ice, and, upon finding it thick enough to walk on, breathed a sigh of relief. She was not dying tonight.
After a few more minutes of calming breaths, the world slid back into full focus, and Tara noticed that, from somewhere nearby, a familiar song was wailing. Her window was open, allowing the cool night air to filter through the screen on her window, and into her room, filling it with the sweet scent of damp earth, and the quiet chirps of drowsy birds. Tara pushed the blinds aside, and found herself faced with the open window of her new neighbour, the cute redhead who she had caught staring earlier that day. She watched with amusement, a soft smile on her face, as her neighbour appeared at one end of the window, danced across the length of it, moving to the beat of the song, and then disappeared at the opposite end.
She was still standing at the window when the redhead reappeared. She was halfway across the windows when she turned, and noticed Tara staring, a complete role reversal from earlier that day. She froze, and then quickly darted to the side. Tara frowned, already rebuking herself, sure she had scared her away, but she rematerialized after the music cut off suddenly.
“Um, hi,” She called across the short space between their windows, her voice tentative. “Sorry – the music’s not too loud, is it?”
Tara shook her head, then, realizing the redhead probably couldn’t see the movement, she mustered her courage, and sucked in a deep breath, cringing at the twinge in her abdomen, and called back: “No, not at all. Sorry. I was just curious.”
That seemed to please her – even with the distance between them, Tara could see a smile play across her face. “I’m Willow. Willow Rosenberg. I’m, um, new here, which you have probably already figured out. It’s a pleasure to meet you, um...?”
Willow. Tara repeated the name to herself, entranced by the way her mouth moved to form the word. She smiled again, to herself, but then realized that Willow was obviously waiting for a response, and bit her lip as she drew in enough air necessary to make her voice loud enough to carry.
“Tara...Maclay. It’s nice to m-meet you, too.” Damn her stutter. It had been so long since her old speech problems had bothered her; they had to pick now, of course, to resurface.
“Tara,” Willow echoed, and she grinned again. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. It was nice talking to you. We’ll have to do this again some time...when I can actually see you properly. Because it’s kind of dark out. And wow, what a way to point out the obvious. Um...” Willow hesitated, and Tara, unsure of what she was supposed to say, waited for her to continue.
It took her a moment, but Willow finally seemed to find the words she was desperately searching for. “Well...goodnight!”
And with that, she closed her window, and snapped the blinds shut, leaving Tara bemused, and with an ache in her stomach that had nothing to do with her disease.
[center]/*/[/center]
Willow woke sometime later, to complete darkness, and the sound of sobbing. She slipped out of her bed, and crept down the hall to her father’s bedroom. The door was open a crack; she pushed it open a bit further, hesitantly.
“Daddy?” She whispered, but her father didn’t hear her. His back was to her, and he was taking off his white jacket. His breath hitched, and
Willow back out of the room, easing the door back to its original position, because she knew that she didn’t belong in that moment. She was a trespasser, invading on someone’s borrowed grief.
She tiptoed back down the hall, and into her room, shutting the door behind her. Once she was curled back under her comforter, safe, she let herself wonder who had it been this time. Had it been that young boy – eight, nine? – with his hair missing from the chemo he had been enduring? Was it the elderly woman with breast cancer, or the young man with lung cancer that had been developed because of his smoking?
Which patient had died tonight, and who was grieving for them?
Who had cancer stolen this time?
Login
Register
FAQ
Search
). Dealing with a serious family illness seems to have made him grow up faster than he should.
