Alternative

November 20, 2008 at 8:21AM

I woke up today feeling refreshed. Had a good sleep. I have this vaguely positive feeling, like everything's going to be fine with Beth's mom; she'll go to the doctor and find out that she's perfectly healthy, that the doctor had made a mistake. He'd taken a precaution by checking it out, which was never a bad course of action, but it ultimately isn't anything to worry about. This'll create a wave of relief and everything will go back to status quo.

Sitting in English class, I blow on my hot coffee, willing it to cool down, and shift the cup into the light coming in from the window so I can see the steam rising.

Beth's mom is about to find out the results of her biopsy, or maybe she already found out. I look over at the door and wait to see who's creating the approaching footsteps. I'm the first one in the class and I brace myself for Beth; it isn't her though, it's Mr. Vincenzo.

I take a sip of coffee and nod at him as he walks into class.

"Well, nice of you to show up so early," he says.

"Yup," I respond.

He ambles over to his desk chair and flops down into it, leaning back.

The silence feels awkward, so I explain why I'm early.

"I had a good sleep and woke up early. Didn't know what else to do so came here."

I shift in my seat and accidentally move my head too quickly, which hurts my neck. I notice Vincenzo eyeing me and preparing to ask me something.

"You don't talk much in class, do you?"

"I guess not."

"But your work's not bad."

"Thanks."

"I liked your paper on Kafka. You paid attention. And the thing on Richard III and the TV show House. Good stuff."

I don't want to continue the conversation out of fear of saying something stupid about Kafka or King Lear, causing him to adjust his perspective on me. I also wasn't the one to compare King Lear with that TV show. He's mixing me up with another student.

"Hey, you ever read poetry?" he asks.

I hadn't. "Nope," I respond.

"I should have put something in the syllabus. Hmm. Next year. Some Frost or Whitman. Think you'd like Whitman. Were you around when we read Leaves of Grass?"

"Uh... I think I came in late that day," I say, lying to him.

"Oh, it's a must read. I should bring in my copy and loan it to you."

Other students start to trickle in, and the conversation ends. It's nice to know that he has a decent opinion of me, but also hard to really focus on anything besides Beth. And her mom.

I keep waiting for her to come in.

Class starts and she isn't there.

About thirty minutes in, I know she definitely isn't going to show up.

I write up a text and send it.

You ok?

No response. 

I spend the entire day at school unable to hear anything anyone says.

I try to keep myself occupied when I get home by reading the Joseph Conrad short story Mr. Vincenzo asked us to look at. I keep having to re-read the first paragraph because I'm not really absorbing any of the words. After about twenty minutes of struggling through it, my phone starts to vibrate. I quickly pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

Her voice sounds small and distant on the other line. It's a lower register than I'm used to, and there's static in the background. I can't tell where she is, but it sounds really far away.

"How's it going?"

All I can hear is static and quiet breathing.

I try to prepare myself: Don't say the wrong thing. Don't say the wrong thing. Don't say the wrong thing. She needs you. You need to be smart and compassionate and say the right things.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"I'm really scared."

"Beth... it's going to be okay."

"No, it isn't... you don't understand."

She's right. I need to listen. I need to force my broken brain to work, to understand.

"It's bad."

"What is it?"

"She has pancreatic cancer."

It sounds like she's struggling to breathe. I'm trying to remember what the pancreas did, where it is in the body.

"It's the worst kind," she says. "It's metastasized, they don't know if they can contain it."

I try to process the information, but it seems unreal to me. I feel like I was just talking to Beth's mom a week ago—she'd been totally fine—how could things go haywire so quickly?

"I'm so sorry, Beth. Is there anything I can do? Can I see you?"

"She might not even make it to Christmas," she says.

"Beth—"

"She might be gone before Christmas."

She's beside herself now. Sobbing. I'm racking my brain, trying to come up with something to calm her down. Something that'll make an impact. I have a responsibility now and I don't know how to handle it. Pathetic. Useless.

Nobody cares about your feelings right now; just say the right thing.

Before I can attempt to, she says, "I should go. I'm just in the cafeteria at the hospital. I want to get back to see her."

"Okay."

"I'll call you tomorrow. I'm not going to be in school, but I'd still like to see you if you have time."

"Of course. Talk to you soon," I say.

I hang up. Lay down on bed. Head swimming with thoughts and feelings too big to hold, to write down... swirling around too fast to properly identify, clashing, unable to click, to form into anything concrete. I feel dizzy.