Trust And Hope

Chapter 10

I walked into our bedroom and Richelle was doubled over her leg, clutching her Aircast.

"Richelle?" I asked quietly, sitting down on the bed next to me. "You okay?"

Richelle looked up at me, her teeth grinding together. "It hurts," she whispered.

"Do I need to ask Mom for painkillers?" I asked, my brow furrowing in concern.

"Yes," Richelle said through the pain.

I nodded, sliding off Richelle's bed and running out looking for Mom. Richelle's pain level always gradually went up a few days before chemotherapy, as the tumor slowly started growing when the effects of the chemotherapy medication wore off. We'd already put off her chemo treatments for a couple of days for the two-day vacation, but Mom would be likely to cut it short if Richelle's pain went up too high.

"Mom, Richelle needs pain meds," I said, walking into the kitchen where Mom was cooking dinner.

Mom moved to the cabinet behind her, swinging it open by its hinges. About ten or fifteen medication bottles labeled 'Richelle' stood there. Mom looked over her shoulder at me. "Does she need a breakthrough or regular?"

"I don't know," I shrugged. "What's the difference?"

"Her pain level," Mom said. "Is it higher than normal?"

"Yes," I nodded.

Mom sighed. "Breakthrough, then." She grabbed a bottle and handed it to me. "Give her this. She'll know what to do." Mom rubbed her temples. "God, I hope this vacation doesn't get cut short."

It was a valid concern. The first time we had gone on vacation with Eva after her diagnosis, her pain got so bad, that we had to take her to the nearest hospital. Mom wasn't going to let that happen to Richelle. She'd hightail us all out of there if Richelle started feeling bad.

I ran back into our room, holding two white pills and a cup of water. "Richelle?"

My sister looked up, her eyes full of pain. She held out her hand silently for the pills.

I dropped them into her hand dutifully, and she guzzled them down with the water in mere seconds. She sighed, holding her leg. "I can't believe this is happening," she murmured. She looked up at me. "It's the exact same thing that happened to Eva four years ago."

"Richelle, you're not the same as Eva," I said, sitting next to her.

Tears were shining in Richelle's eyes. "I'm close enough," she said quietly. "We were mirror twins. I share a lot of the same genes as she had. We even share Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. Now we share an osteosarcoma diagnosis."

"But," I said slowly, thinking through my words. "You're not the same person. You're different."

Richelle's voice cracked. "How?"

"Your personality," I said. "You may look alike, but you're not."

Richelle shook her head, standing up. She winced, even though the Aircast took most of the weight off of her foot. "It's enough." Richelle looked at me, her eyes  misty, and walked off.

And that was that.

Richelle's pain level increased steadily, so of course, as planned, Mom cut the vacation short, which just made Richelle more depressed.

The drive home seemed to take longer than seven hours. Granted, seven hours was still a hefty amount of time, but still. At one point, when we had reached Watonga, it seemed like Mom went right past our street. Maybe I was seeing things. Or maybe I wasn't.