The Perks of Being a Side Effect

Chapter 5

The dinner table is oddly quiet. Both my parents are acting strange and are forcing themselves to make small talk. None of their attempts for a conversation sticks and the three of us will sit in an uncomfortable silence.

"What's up?" I ask, they're never this quiet. Ever.

My fathers eyes flicker upwards from his plate to my mother. She doesn't return his glance.
My mom stabbed her food with her fork, her eyes were glued to her plate.

"We got a call from the doctor, Hazel." She said softly.

That wasn't surprising news to me. Doctors called the house more than telemarketers did.

"And?" I asked.

"Your tumours started growing again." Dad finished.

Mom dropped her fork on the table and covered her face with the back of her hand so her palm was facing outwards. My mother's shoulders shook as she fired quietly at the end of the table. Dad was silent.

Again? My tumours are growing again?

My body was in shock and my mouth had frozen in a half open position. We always knew my illness was terminal. We always knew that I'd never live a full life.
But even knowing these things, it seemed too soon.

Finally my body reacted and I looked at both my parents and then down to my lap. I swallowed a lump in my throat and felt tears prickle in my eyes.

What kind of sick joke was this? The miracle medicine was supposed to be helping.
My dad explained that because my body had become accustomed to the treatment, it was no longer as effective.

"Looks like I'll be joining Gus sooner than I thought I would." I say.

"Honey-" my mom croaks but I ignore her.

"It's the truth, isn't it?" I say harshly.

I immediately regret using that tone and I lean back in my chair. Frustration and an impossible to ignore feeling of failure hits me like a ton of bricks.

I shake my head and push back my plate. "I'm not hungry."

My parents don't argue, instead they let me retreat back to the safety of my bedroom and I cry quietly alone.

"Shit." I gasp and push my short hair from my face.

***

Against all odds, I survive until New Years.

Since the night my parents told me that my tumours were growing again, I had made several hospital runs for checkups and emergencies.

One night at around 3am the familiar drowning sensation woke me from my sleep and I realized that the air was being denied access into my body. I gasped and wheezed and made awful choking sounds. Awful enough to wake my sleeping mother who then woke up my dad. I was rushed to the ER and water was pumped from my lungs.

A checkup revealed that my cancer was spreading to other areas of my body. I was reminded of Augustus when he saw his test results light up with images of his cancer filled body. My results were similar and just as deadly.

Since that night, I've spent a total of two weeks in the hospital in a desperate attempt to keep me breathing and alive. However, I wish they would just leave me to die. Maybe that's the feeling of inevitable death getting the best of me but honestly, I'd rather go now than wait and go painfully later. Of course, no one would allow that. I would never be so lucky.

Charlie's letters were enough to keep my spirits high, I waited excitedly for them to arrive in the mail. Unfortunately, my breathing was becoming increasingly worse and a single trip down the stairs was enough to leave me breathless.
Retrieving the letter from the mailbox was a challenge I found myself struggling to complete each time the mailman arrived.

Over the past few months, Charlie has been doing considerably worse as well.

He met some new friends, a pair of seniors that he calls Sam and Patrick. They are step-siblings.
Charlie is infatuated with Sam who has made a different impression on Charlie than any other girl has before. He attends a Christmas party, he recalls the night his dear Aunt Helen died, feuds between his family members, his psychiatrist, his school life, his metal health, and tells me that he is regrettably beginning to relapse.

It breaks my heart to hear these things. And once again I find myself fantasizing about him. Not in a weird, stalker-ish way that a regular girl will fantasize about a cute boy. I tried to imagine what he would look like, how his voice would sound. I wondered if he bit the inside of his cheek when he was nervous. Or if he shifted his feet when he was uncomfortable.

I wondered what a conversation with him would be like. How would one damaged person speak with another damaged and dying person? Would he see me and apologize for the life I was unfairly given? Would I see him and pity him for his circumstances?
Would he think different of me? His friend? Would he tell me his real name? Would he know my real name?

Would I meet Sam? And Patrick? Would he be interested to know I travelled to Amsterdam to meet my favourite author who then later turned out to be a jerk? Would he like all the same books I liked?

But one questions presented itself as more important than the others.
Would I even be alive long enough to have the slimmest chance of meeting him?