Send Me a Sign (7 page)

“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.

“That woman!” Mom huffed as she stormed into my hospital room.

“Who? What happened?” I put my laptop on the side table and turned toward her.

“Nancy Russo crossed the line this time. She asked me who your counselor was.”

“Same as Gyver’s. Ms. Piper is the only guidance counselor at East Lake,” I answered.

“No, like
therapist
.” Mom spat out the word. “Like
you
need a therapist! You’re popular and well adjusted. You’re a cheerleader! If Nancy spent half as much time worrying about her own son, maybe Gyver wouldn’t have turned out like that.”

I gave myself half a second to be grateful Gyver had already left before asking, “Like what?”

“
Introverted
.” Mom pronounced it like it was the worst possible swear word. In her mind it probably was. “And then she had the gall to suggest family counseling. Like I’m some
crack mother she’s arrested who can’t take care of her own daughter. Family counseling!”

“You know she didn’t mean it like that.”

She tutted at me and went back to being offended. Their friendship was a one-sided competition and I knew from experience that my defending Mrs. Russo only made Mom feel more threatened.

I picked up my laptop and resumed the e-mail I was writing to the girls. I’d figured out it was easier to ask what they were doing than make up lies about all the old-people things I was supposed to be enduring.

The Calendar Girls didn’t doubt me once—which made me feel worse.

I thought about telling them sometimes. When I opened a particularly sweet e-mail from Ally, or one of Hil’s voice mails saying, “If you don’t escape the elderly soon, I’m launching a rescue party,” or when Lauren e-mailed me the rules she invented for drunk shuffleboard, or Chris and Ryan texted pictures from the shore.

Mom reassured me I was “doing the right thing,” but I started looking for signs and made deals with myself. If I don’t need a transfusion today, I’ll tell them. If I throw up less than three times today, I’ll tell them. If I stay awake until noon. If Nurse Snoopy’s wearing her ladybug scrubs. If my numbers
are … If the next person through the door is … If there’s green Jell-O with lunch. I never got my “if.”

I woke to laughter—a sound so foreign in my hospital room that I thought I must be dreaming. But no, Gyver and Dad were grinning and deep in conversation.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Music,” answered Gyver.

“Figures.”

“Did you know your dad used to play the sax?”

I raised my eyebrows and turned to Dad, who looked sheepish. “For real? In the marching band or something?”

“That, and I was in a regular band too. Nothing serious, just a couple of guys who liked to jam and considered themselves the next Clapton and Kenny G.”

“I can see it,” said Gyver. I was glad he could, because I couldn’t. The marching band, yes, but a
band
band? I couldn’t imagine Dad being a Gyver—on a stage with people yelling and cheering his name. Mom loved to reminisce about how Dad had been the geekiest of geeks when they met, and how she’d taught him as much about being social and stylish as he’d taught her about statistics.

“We should play sometime,” Gyver said.

“I’d love to jam … as soon as I figure out where Mia’s mom hid my sax.” Dad reached out for a fist bump. I wanted
to laugh or put my pillow over my face and die from embarrassment. “So, kiddo, now that you’re awake, what can I get you? Milkshake? Juice? How about some soup?”

I wasn’t hungry but Gyver would eat it, so I said “sure,” still staring at this stranger who looked like my father but was way more animated than I could remember seeing him.

“Be back in a jiff.” He whistled on his way out the door. Whistled.

“Who was that and what have you done with my father?” I asked Gyver.

“What?” he answered, shifting out of his chair and onto my bedside. “Your dad’s cool.”

“Since when are you guys BFFs? And how’d you learn he played the sax when I’ve never even heard him mention it?” I tried not to sound jealous.

“Mi, we carpool most days. Spend enough time in a sedan with someone and you bond.” He fiddled with the hospital bracelet around my wrist.

“What else do you know? What was his band called?”

Gyver laughed. “You can ask him, you know. He’d tell you.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, but part of me wondered if he would. It’s not like he’d lacked opportunities over the past seventeen years. Maybe, and the thought made me a little ill, he thought I wouldn’t care. Maybe, and this thought made me feel even worse, I wouldn’t have. Our relationship had always been based on tasks, not talks—we could do puzzles, play board games, use his telescope to find shooting stars—but anything deeper than “how was your day?” resulted in awkward pauses.

When Dad came back, he was bearing a tray laden with soup, milkshakes, three different bottles of juice, and french fries and wearing a guilty grin. “I know your mom wants me to go on a diet, but the fries smelled good.”

“I won’t tell,” I replied, breathing through my mouth because for me the fry smell was nauseating. “
If
you tell me more about your band.” I stifled a yawn and hoped I could stay awake long enough to hear his answer.

My phone chirped. Gyver lifted it from the bedside table, flipped it over, and scowled. “I think you’d better answer this one.”

“The cheering references too complicated for you?” I’d been here two weeks and the girls had left three days ago for Penn State. Their updates were prolific, silly, and bittersweet. Ally bawled when I told her I wouldn’t be back for camp. Hil called my mom and complained. Lauren promised to document everything and had bombarded me with photos and video clips.

Gyver handed me the phone, then stood and paced.

I looked from him to the screen. Ryan. So? He’d texted plenty before, and Gyver begrudgingly handled it when I was too tired or queasy. What was the issue?

I opened the message: Miss u. Can I drve up tmw?

What? I fumbled with the keys. No. Sorry. Not a good idea. Miss you too.

I put the phone down and debated whether I felt sad
because I had to say no, disappointed because I wanted to see him, or thrilled because he missed me. I hadn’t decided or responded to Gyver when my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mia. God, it’s good to hear you.” Ryan’s smile warmed his voice and my cheeks.

“You too.”

“How ’bout I call in sick, borrow Chris’s car, and come up tomorrow. I don’t have the address, but you said Bridgeport, right? That’s about four hours from here.”

“Ryan—”

“If I left early, I could be there around lunch. I’d stay until midnight—your grandparents go to bed early, right? And I’d be back before work the next day. I’d be tired, but you’re worth it.”

“Ryan—”

“I miss you. Don’t you miss me?”

“Of course, but it’s not a good time.”

“C’mon. Your parents can’t exile you to Connecticut. They won’t get mad if I visit. Your mom loves me. Or they don’t even have to know I came. We can be quiet.”

My eyes stalked Gyver’s back. I blushed. He was in the room during what amounted to a booty call. How I felt about Ryan booty-calling was irrelevant; there was no way I could say yes, so there was no point in thinking about how good it felt to kiss him. Or even if I still wanted to.

My door opened. It did all day, all night. I didn’t turn and look.

“I wish you could; it’s just not a good time.”

“What’s that mean?” Ryan asked.

“How’s my favorite patient today? Are you sick of the hospital yet?” Dr. Kevin’s voice boomed. I rolled to face him; his eyes were on my chart.

I held up one finger and spoke into the phone, “I’ve got to go.”

“The hospital? Did something happen to your grandfather?” Ryan asked.

“Yes.” My voice radiated relief; he’d created the perfect alibi. And technically, unfortunately, it wasn’t a lie. Pops had a nasty flu, which was why he and Gram hadn’t visited me. I sent another prayer I hadn’t jinxed his recovery.

“I’ve got to go. Bye, Ryan.”