Always and Forever (11 page)

Michael reached for a bag he’d slipped beneath her bed and removed a book with a handsome cloth-and-leather cover. It smelled faintly of disinfectant, and as she thumbed through the pages she was moved by his attempt to “de-germ” it for her safety.

“All the pages are blank,” she said.

“That’s because it’s a personal journal. You’re supposed to write on the pages.”

“Like a diary?”

“Kind of. You just write in it when you feel like it. You don’t have to write every day if you don’t want to.”

She ran her palm over the supple, dark blue cover. “It’s beautiful, Michael. Thanks. Dr. Moffat—that’s the shrink who helps us deal with our cancer—” she rolled her eyes in exaggerated tolerance, “Dr. Moffat says writing down your feelings in letters or diaries is a good idea. She says it’s therapeutic, but, I don’t know … I think it sounds dumb.”

“ ‘Therapeutic’?” Michael grimaced good-naturedly. “If you’re going to talk ugly, I’m taking my gift back. I just wanted to give you something to keep you busy.” He paused, then said, “But maybe the shrink is right. Maybe you need to write about this whole stinking experience. In this book you can tell it like it is. And who knows—years from now, when you’re rich and famous, you could have it published and make another million on your memoirs.”

She smoothed her palm over the ivory-colored pages. “I’d rather think of it as portable bathroom walls where I can write all kinds of dirty words about these last few weeks.”

Playfully, he grabbed at the book. “I didn’t mean to create a monster.”

“Don’t touch my book.” She held it against her breast and gave him a menacing glare. “Or I’ll be sure and write unsavory things about you in it.”

He laughed and stood. “Well, I’ve got to go. Mom’s coming up during her lunch hour and that’s not too long from now.”

Melissa pulled the mask away from her mouth, allowing him to watch her lips as she said, “Promise me you’ll take up your balloon some morning this week.”

“I’ll try.”

“Did I tell you that I’m using your balloon in my imaging therapy?”

“You know you didn’t.” He leaned against the near wall, his thumbs hooked through the front belt loops of his jeans. “So tell me.”

“Well, supposedly it’s important for me to use my alpha brain cells to fight my leukemia. Some sort of holistic approach to cancer treatment.” She shrugged her bony shoulders.

“It seems like a lot of mumbo jumbo, but I think I read something about that in Mom’s books. So how does my balloon fit it?”

Enthused, she hunched forward. “I close my eyes and imagine that I’m riding in your balloon—without getting sick,” she qualified. “I’m riding along through my bones, and whenever I see one of my cancer cells, I toss a firebomb at it. It blows up”—she snapped her fingers—“without ever touching me, because the balloon’s basket protects me.”

“Does it help?”

She heard the skepticism in his tone and said, “Yes, it does. After a really good session, after totally
relaxing, I feel better. It helps me not to be so sick to my stomach after the chemo treatments, too.”

“Whatever works.”

“It does work, Michael. I know it sounds crazy, but it
does
work.” She picked at her bed sheet. “I want to go home. I want everything to be normal again. I’ll do whatever they want me to do in order to get out of here.”

She watched him work his jaw. “It won’t be much longer. You’re bound to respond to all these treatments soon.”

“That’s what they keep telling me,” she said. “So … how’s my room at home? Does it miss me?”

His smile was brief and rather sad. “It misses you like crazy.” She felt an overwhelming wave of homesickness wash over her.

“You’d better go before I try to crawl into your pocket and leave with you.”

After he’d gone, Melissa tried doing a school assignment, but her attention wandered. She thought about so many things—home, the PSATs, Brain Bowl, her illness. Even if she did go home soon, how would she adjust? How could she ever think of herself as “normal” again?

She picked up the book Michael had given her and considered what to write in it. Should she describe what it felt like to stare mortality in the face? Or should she write about more practical things, like fighting to maintain her place on the Brain Bowl team? Or about trying to obtain a National Merit Scholarship that she might never use?

Or maybe she should explore her feelings about her family and friends. About how much she cared about them, and how precious they’d become during her illness. And what about life once she got out of the
hospital? Who would ask her for a date? Who would ever kiss her or want her? Melissa sighed and thumbed through the blank pages.
Sixteen is too young to die
, she thought. She tossed the book aside, knowing that she had a lot to say and no earthly idea of how to say it.

That afternoon, feeling stronger, Melissa asked a nurse to help her to the sun room. Located in the oncology ward, the room was lined with windows so that the sun streamed in and reflected off the antiseptically clean linoleum floors. Settling into a green upholstered chair, Melissa opened her history book and was soon lost in the drama of the Civil War.

“Hi. What’chya doing?”

Melissa jumped in her seat. A small girl was standing in front of her, holding a coloring book and a box of crayons tightly against her chest. “I’m reading,” Melissa answered.

“What’chya reading?” The child was dressed in hospital pajamas a size too large for her tiny body. She had a fuzzy scramble of strawberry curls and big, bright blue eyes.

“I’m reading for school. It’s homework.”

“I’m going to kindergarten soon. Then I can read and do homework. My names Rachael and I’m this many years old.” She held up four fingers. A heparin lock was taped to her arm.

Melissa ignored the paraphernalia and concentrated on the child’s upturned face. “I’m Melissa and I’m this many years old.” She displayed ten fingers, then five and one.

Rachael studied them carefully. “Wow. You’re old.”

Melissa laughed. “You’re right.”

“I have leukemia,” Rachael announced, dropping to her knees and opening her coloring book on the table next to Melissa’s chair. “What have you got?”

Perhaps it was the child’s unabashed honesty, her uncomprehending acknowledgment of their unlikely sisterhood, that brought a lump to Melissa’s throat. “I have leukemia, too.”

“I was in mission but now I’m not anymore.”

A shudder ran up Melissa’s spine. “You mean ‘remission,’ don’t you?”

“Yup. I don’t like it here, but Mommy says I have to stay for a while.” Rachael flipped open the crayon box and dumped a rainbow of colored sticks across the table. The warm sunlight softened them, and the room became scented with the familiar smell of crayon wax.

“I don’t like it here either, Rachael.” Despite the sun, Melissa felt chilled. A
relapse
, she thought. Rachael had survived chemo, lived outside the hospital, then relapsed. Her leukemia had returned.

“I have a baby sister. Do you?”

“I have an older brother,” Melissa said.

“Older?” Rachael glanced up from her coloring, her expression registering disbelief. “Are you friends?”

“Yes. Best friends.”

“I don’t like my sister very much. She cries a lot and keeps my mommy busy.”

“You’ll like her someday.”

“Maybe.” Rachael continued coloring and said, “The medicine they gave me makes me throw up.”

Her sudden change of topics momentarily confused Melissa. “The medicine makes me throw up, too,” she said.

“They stick needles in my back. Do they do that to you, too?”

“Yes.”

“I used to think if they stuck me with needles everything inside would leak out. But that was when I was only three and I was still a baby.”

Melissa bit her lower lip hard. She reached out and touched the soft, shining curls on Rachael’s head. “Your hair’s very pretty.”

“It all fell out once. But now it’s back.” She beamed a broad smile. “Are you a mommy?”

The question struck Melissa like a splash of ice-cold water. Confused by a rush of emotions, she fumbled with her history book. The bright, sun-washed room was suddenly making her dizzy. “I have to go back to my room now, Rachael.”

“Are you sick? Are you gonna throw up? I brought my dish just in case. Want to use it?” She held up the receptacle Melissa knew so well.

“No, thanks … It’s just that I—I’m cold.”

The child nodded. “Oh, I get cold at night. Sometimes when my mommy can’t stay with me, I make the nurse bring me two blankets. She holds my hand till I go to sleep.”

As Melissa slowly moved out the door she heard Rachael say, “Come visit me tomorrow, Melissa. Can we be friends?”

Safely back in her room, Melissa crawled between the sheets, her teeth chattering. She felt an overwhelming urge to cry but couldn’t.
What’s wrong with me? Why am I feeling this way?
She turned on her side and shivered. She squeezed her eyes shut, but she kept seeing Rachael’s face.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she spied on the bedside table was the journal. She
reached for it, opening to the first cream-colored, fresh-smelling blank page. She sat up and rummaged in the metal drawer until she found a black felt-tip pen, and began writing in her most graceful penmanship.

Melissa reread the entry, underscored the last sentence, then put the journal away.

“Good morning, Melissa.” Dr. Rowan breezed into her room the next day, his face lit with a smile, a clipboard and a manila folder in his hand.

Warily she lowered the textbook she was studying. “My lab results?”

“Your lab results.” He flipped open the folder. “Your platelet count has stabilized and your white count is acceptable. However, there’s a marked decrease of polys, which means you’re still quite vulnerable to infection, so you’ll have to avoid crowds and keep that surgical mask on when you go outside … ”

“Outside?”

“I’m discharging you. Although we haven’t achieved remission yet, I think we’re close.”

Her mouth went dry over the news.
I should be happy about this
, she thought. But in reality, she was scared. She hated the hospital, but there she was sheltered, and her doctors and nurses were at hand to help her. At home, she’d be on her own. “Is it really safe for me to leave?”

“It’s both safe and necessary,” Dr. Rowan said, shaking his head of unruly hair. “You need to start leading a normal life again. Get back into the mainstream.”

Wasn’t that what she wanted too? “But what if I have a problem?”

“Your family will be instructed how to deal with most things. And if there’s something they can’t handle, or if there are any questions, I’m a phone call away. You aren’t being released from therapy, Melissa. Outpatient care is just one small step on the road to recovery.”

“Can I go back to school?”

“Not right away.”

“When?”

“I can’t say yet. Your chemo program will change, but until you’re on maintenance, I’d rather not have you in a classroom environment.”

“I want to be back in school in another week.”

“That’s too soon, Melissa.”

“When?”

“If all goes well, maybe after Christmas. It’ll be safer then.”

“Christmas! The school year will be half over by then.”

“But you’ll be stronger and more able to fight off infections.”

Melissa struggled against panic. Dr. Rowan couldn’t make her wait so long to return to school.
She’d already missed most of October and part of November. She couldn’t stand the thought of staying out until January. “But the PSATs are being given next Saturday. I have to take them with my class. They’re for college.”

“You’re a stubborn girl, Melissa. Of course, I can’t forbid you, but it isn’t a good idea.”

Her palms were clammy. “It’s one test for just a few hours. My friend Jory can take me, stay with me, bring me straight back home.” She squared her chin. “I’ll wear my mask the whole time.” She imagined herself sitting in the vast auditorium with a surgical mask strapped to her face. The image caused her to shudder, but she’d do it if it meant she could take the test.

Dr. Rowan was speaking to her, but she heard only part of his speech. “…  your mother comes I’ll have your discharge papers ready. Someone can bring you to the clinic day after tomorrow for your chemo. DeeDee Thomas will administer it, so you’ll still be seeing plenty of familiar faces. Feel free to come up here to the floor whenever you want to visit. It encourages the other patients, you know, seeing someone living on the outside. There’s a teen support group that meets once a month which you might like to join.”

Melissa nodded, unable to sort through all he was telling her. The only thing she cared about was that she was going home. When Jory called and Melissa told her, her friend squealed so loud Melissa had to hold the phone away from her ear.