Send Me a Sign

Chapter 6.3

Hil called on a bad day. If my thoughts had been less muddled, I wouldn’t have answered. Her voice sounded full of points and pinpricks; it hurt my head and distracted me from her words.

“So it happened. But I’m okay. Really. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.”

“What?” I asked, having comprehended nothing after hello.

“I saw Keith. At the grocery store, of all places. At least I wasn’t buying something embarrassing like tampons. He was with his mom and she wanted to chat.”

 “Chat?”

 “Yeah, like I could stand there and make small talk with the guy who dumped me the night he graduated.”

 “Oh.”

 “I said I had to go and walked out without the cookie dough I was supposed to bring to Lauren’s. It was so strange to see him, Mia. He looked good, like he was still my Keith. I had to stop myself from hugging him . . .” Hil hiccuped and took a deep breath that ended in a whimper. “God, that sucked! But I’m okay. Really.”

 “Really?” My brain could only hold on to her last word and parrot it while I tried to process the rest of her rapid-fire speech.

 “I think so. I will be. Please come home. We miss you. I need you.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Love you, Hil.”

As I hung up, I felt vaguely like I’d failed her, but my body insisted sleep was more important than figuring out how.

                                                                              ***

“Are you excited? Last day of chemo.” Nurse Hollywood smiled encouragement.

“Yeah.” My lips were dry; the word made them split and bleed.

“Then what?” It was Gyver’s voice; I turned and found him sitting in the chair to my left, flipping a pick between his fingers. He looked as exhausted as I felt.

“Then we wait for her white cells to grow back cancer free.”

“And she’ll start feeling better?”

The nurse busied herself checking the cups on my bedside table. She picked up two empties and answered as she exited, “Not right away, but in the long term.”

Gyver looked from the nurse to me. “I made you a new playlist.”

“What’s it called?”

“Notes against Nausea. It’s a good one.”

I fiddled lethargically with my necklace. “I haven’t listened to your last three. I try, but I fall asleep.”

 Gyver laughed. “That’s kinda the point. They’re called Sleep Songs. Like all good playlists, they progress toward a focus track. If you weren’t asleep by the end, I failed.”

 “So I shouldn’t play them on shuffle?” I teased. “What’s on them? Iron and Wine? Coldplay?”

“Some Iron and Wine, Stars, The National. Not Cold- play.”

 “I like Coldplay. Are they not cool anymore?”

 Gyver looked insulted. “When have I ever cared whether a band is considered cool? It’s always about finding the perfect song for the moment.”

 “So then what’s your issue with Coldplay?”

 He shrugged. “It’s not really an issue, just that a guy should never put Coldplay songs on a playlist for a girl. They’re the ultimate surrender band.”

 “Surrender band?”

 “As in, I surrender, I’m totally hopelessly in love. Not for friends.” Gyver flushed and unhooked my iPod from his laptop.

 “Is that an everyone rule, or just a you rule?”

 “Probably just me.” He passed me the iPod. “How about some Brothers K?”

He pulled the book from his bag and returned his laptop. Since I was too nauseated to focus, he’d started read- ing our AP summer books aloud. Audiobooks couldn’t compete with his deep, soothing voice. And they wouldn’t summarize what I missed when I fell asleep. I nodded and scooted over, making room beside me and waiting for his voice to take us out of the hospital to nineteenth- century Russia.

                                                                               *** 

“Aren’t your friends even worried?” Gyver asked as he scrolled through e-mails on my laptop. He pulled up a photo of the girls sitting on the beach. There was a fourth chair between Ally and Hil, empty except for a plastic tiara. They all pouted at it.

 “They don’t know they should be.” I pushed away my dinner tray. I had less than no appetite. Even the sight of food made me want to puke.

 “How can they not suspect? You haven’t answered half of these and you never turn on your phone.”

 “They probably don’t think anything, because they’re busy living their lives. I told them there’s lousy reception and I respond when I feel up to it.”

 When I let myself think about it, the desire to claw my way out of this hospital room and back to my old life—the fourth beach chair, the parties, the lazy afternoons of laughter and chatter—was suffocatingly strong. But I wouldn’t fit like this: broken and sickly. And if I forced myself upon them, I’d ruin all their fun too.

 Gyver sat on the edge of my bed and picked up my hand. I was so used to holding his hand now—when I got shots, when they drew blood, when something hurt. We’d held hands constantly when we were little. When had it turned taboo? Why hadn’t I missed it?

 “You’re not alone—you have to remember that. So many people care about you. Love you, even.” Squeeze. “I’m here. Our moms are downstairs in the cafeteria. Your friends would come if you let them. You don’t have to do this on your own.”

But I did. When the thing you’re fighting is your own body, you don’t get tag-team allies. There’s no “sitting out this round” or “taking a breather.” I was at war with myself, and that’s lonely.