Page 584 - A Little Life: A Novel

became seriously worse. He knows, he does, that this past year and a half
was his warning—a long, slow, consistent, unignorable warning—but he
has chosen, in his arrogance and stupid hope, not to see it for what it is. He

has chosen to believe that because he had always recovered, that he would
once again, one more time. He has given himself the privilege of assuming
that his chances are limitless.
Three nights later he wakes again with a fever; again he goes into the
hospital; again he is discharged. This fever has been caused by an infection
around his catheter, which is removed. A new one is inserted into his
internal jugular vein, where it forms a bulge that not even his shirt collars

can wholly camouflage.
His first night back home, he is coasting through his dreams when he
opens his eyes and sees that Willem isn’t in bed next to him, and he works
himself into his wheelchair and glides out of the room.
He sees Willem before Willem sees him; he is sitting at the dining table,
the light on above him, his back to the bookcases, staring out into the room.

There is a glass of water before him, and his elbow is resting on the table,
his hand supporting his chin. He looks at Willem and sees how exhausted
he is, how old, his bright hair gone whitish. He has known Willem for so
long, has looked at his face so many times, that he is never able to see him
anew: his face is better known to him than his own. He knows its every
expression. He knows what Willem’s different smiles mean; when he is
watching him being interviewed on television, he can always tell when he is

smiling because he’s truly amused and when he is smiling to be polite. He
knows which of his teeth are capped, and he knows which ones Kit made
him straighten when it was clear that he was going to be a star, when it was
clear that he wouldn’t just be in plays and independent films but would
have a different kind of career, a different kind of life. But now he looks at
Willem, at his face that is still so handsome but also so tired, the kind of

tiredness he thought only he was feeling, and realizes that Willem is feeling
it as well, that his life—Willem’s life with him—has become a sort of
drudgery, a slog of illnesses and hospital visits and fear, and he knows what
he will do, what he has to do.
“Willem,” he says, and watches Willem jerk out of his trance and look at
him.
“Jude,” Willem says. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick? Why are you

out of bed?”