So This Is Life

Chapter 7

Jefferson's p.o.v

I stared dumbly at Franklin, which I seemed to be doing a lot recently, my mouth hanging open a little. James' hand was gripping mine fiercely, and when I glanced at him, his lips were pressed tightly together, the skin on them as pale as it could go.

"Why?" I asked quietly, dropping my gaze to the vomit-splattered linoleum. It really stank, and the smell was making me feel nauseous again.

"Nothing's wrong," Franklin replied hurriedly. "We'd just like to monitor your condition, hormones, all that. You okay with needles?"

"I've got used to them," I said. "But I still don't quite understand why you want me to stay here."

"It's just a precaution. I already told you, male pregnancies can be dangerous."

I rolled my eyes and scoffed a little. Everything from cheap ham to Donald Duck is dangerous these days.

"What could be so dangerous?" James piped up before I could say anything, sounding scared.

"Well, the male body isn't equipped to deal with pregnancy," someone, a woman from the gaggle of doctors began.

"Side effects such as morning sickness are often more extreme and frequent," a young man continued. Yeah. Like you needed to tell me that. Just look at the floor.

"The raging hormones could mess up the essentially important chemical workings in Thomas' body, so we have to watch him carefully so no harm comes to him or the baby," Franklin finished gently. I nodded again, now understanding a little more about why I needed to be monitored like a three-year-old.

"How long will I be here?" I said softly, one hand still encased in James', the other clamped on my leg as painful memories surged forward.

3rd person p.o.v- flashback

They could paint as many jolly faces of cartoon characters on the wall as they wanted, put as many ancient battered board games out as they liked and scatter any number of comic books over the peeling neon vinyl-coated tables as they pleased, but none of it would change the sombre atmosphere.

They were only 9, for Pete's sake. 9-year-old boys climb trees, that's just what happens!

It wasn't Thomas' fault. He'd lost his footing, fell, hadn't been able to grab anything in a panic. Neither was it James' fault. He'd been sitting too far away to catch him, and even if he'd been close enough, he was too weak and frail to keep him up for more than two seconds.

James sat sniffling in his mother's arms, his blue inhaler clutched in his trembling hand: crying tended to set off his asthma. He was 9, but he looked about 6. Short in stature, his growth had been stunted by constant illness and frequent hospitalisation.

They weren't here for James now.

The young boy's eyes were glued to the corridor whilst his mother ran her hands soothingly through his curly cropped hair as he leant back into her.

"Go to sleep, Jamie," she whispered, kissing the top of his head. He shook his head fiercely, unconsciously sucking his thumb.

"Gotta wait for Thomas," he mumbled, curling up a little tighter.

"Thomas is gonna be a little while longer," Eleanor replied. "Sleep, baby. I'll wake you up if anything happens."

He shook his head, but the fact that he was lying down as best he could and yawning betrayed his exhaustion. Pouting, he let his eyes slip shut, his breathing evened out and he was asleep.

Eleanor lay him on the chair, lovingly drawing a blanket over her small son. It was just after 2 in the morning. Thomas had been in surgery since 7. The fall had happened at 6:12 p.m., 22nd of August 1999. Eleanor knew she'd never forget that blood-curlding scream as long as she lived.

Suddenly, Jane Jefferson, Thomas' mother, burst through the double door. Peter Jefferson wasn't far behind. Eleanor jumped up, engulfing her best friend and fellow mother in a bone-crushing hug.

"He's going to be okay," Jane sobbed, holding Eleanor. Careful not to disturb her sleeping son, Eleanor pulled the other to a seat, sitting her down.

"What did they say?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"W-well, he's out of surgery," Jane said in a shaky voice. "They-they're not quite sure h-how much damage was done, but th-there's a possibility that he might not walk pr-properly again."

And she descended into crying again. Her sobs of anguish were so loud that they stirred James. The small boy rubbed his eyes blearily, slipping off the chair and pattering over to Jane, who was virtually his second mother.

"Why are you crying, Mrs Jefferson?" he lisped, eyes shining with tears. "I-is Thomas okay?"

His bottom lip trembled and tears poured out onto his chocolate brown skin. The two mothers swept him up, wiping away his tears, promising him his best friend was okay.

James glanced over to the chair by the tacky plastic dollhouse. His father was sitting stoically, back perfectly straight and staring straight ahead. When James coughed a little, he looked at him, his face breaking into a smile. He winked and nodded his head as if to say it's time.

That was the last time James saw his dead father until he was about to get married.

Jefferson's p.o.v- Flashback over

Franklin was talking, but I wasn't listening. He said something about overnight, and then I just tuned out.

"That's fine," I blurted, interrupting him halfway through. He smiled warmly at me.

"Right this way, please."

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Okay, so that got absolutely nowhere, but we got some hella tragic backstory. Yeah, when I said both fathers in the end of the last book, I didn't say one of them couldn't be in spirit form! I'm cruel, I really am. Hope you enjoyed!