The Fighter

Chapter 47: Letters

The night had eventually dragged itself away for the sun to follow. Mark asked to sleep over for the foreseeable future. He had been staying at Xavier's since he arrived, but it was too upsetting for him now that Xavier was in the hospital. 

He slept on the couch and I slept on the other one. We couldn't leave each other alone, or rather, we couldn't let ourselves be alone. I'm sure we managed to sleep at some point, but for most of the night all we could do was talk in sad ways, and about sad things. 

"You must really care about Xavier to put your life on hold for this long," I began, when we had settled under our blankets. "Just buying a one-way ticket, and living out of a backpack for--" I lifted my fingers to count, "4 months?"

He made a bitter chuckle. "Depends on what you mean by life," he flopped over to stare at me. I watched as his face was lightened by the flashing of the TV. Blue, then orange, then barely visible at all. "Back in Florida, I don't really have a place to live."

My brow furrowed. "You're homeless?"

He swallowed. "Cancer; it costs a lot." He fluffed up his pillow vigorously, before settling into it. "And it drove my mom to rehab." 

I exhaled deeply, flipping onto my back to stare at the ceiling. "Wow... you've been holding that in for a while."

"Don't tell Laura," he said. "Don't tell anyone. It's been nice pretending that I'm normal." 

I raised my hand up and shook it back and forth to show him 'normal' wasn't necessarily the vibe he gave off. "You cancer boys sure like to lie a lot to people you care about." 

He laughed and I laughed. "'Cancer boys'," he said. "Sounds like a band." 

In the morning I remembered what Xavier had said about the letters. I wanted to know what they were for, I wanted to know what they contained and I wanted all of it and all of what he said to keep going. I wanted the letters to be like the pot of pasta in Tomie dePaola's Stregga Nonna; never-ending. 

I mentioned it to Mark and he scrunched his nose. "I'm not looking for those." He was sorting through the pile of his crumpled clothing on the ground. Sniffing shirt after shirt. 

"Why not?" I asked, eyeing his behavior warily. "He has no qualms about reading through people's things." I thought about when he had read through my diary. 

He pulled on a sweatshirt. "Are you kidding?" His voice was muffled until his head reappeared. "Reading your diary is not the same as reading his letters."

I put my hands on my hips. "Yes it is! They were letters to my diary, that I wrote about my deepest fears and insecurities." I made my way closer to him. "And, I didn't even ask him to read it." 

Mark huffed. "He only told you about his letters because he thought he'd die before he could give them to you. I'm not looking at his death letters...ever." 

I inhaled deeply. "He mentioned them, I think he wants us to have them, regardless of what they're for."

He shook his head, his lip raised in disgust. "I said no." 

I crossed my arms. "Fine, I'll just go get them myself." 

"Fine," he mimicked back, shocking me with his prickly words. He had never acted this way in all the days I knew him, granted, I had only known him for six months... and really, I felt that I had just gotten to know him a few hours ago.

***

Where does a teenage boy keep his most important documents?

I gazed at all of the dirty socks that were strewn about Xavier's room. It became clear to me why he and Josh were friends. They had the same throw-my-underwear-on-the-floor condition and they must have met at a support group for it. Though the smell in Josh's room could kill you. Xavier's room was much cleaner in that sense.