Send Me a Sign (8 page)

“Is Gyver here?” I asked Nurse Snoopy when I woke to see her adding a bag of fluids to my pole.

“Right here.” His voice circled from my other side. He had a tired smile on his face. “Your mom’s getting lunch.”

Nurse Snoopy asked, “How are you feeling? I know you were uncomfortable this morning, but that shot of pain meds I gave you should have kicked in by now.”

“I’m okay.”

“That’s a good friend you’ve got. I think he spends more time here than I do.”

“Possibly,” Gyver conceded.

“Gyver’s the best,” I cooed.

Nurse Snoopy smiled. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what kind of name is Gyver?”

I giggled. The sound startled me and I giggled more. “Ask him what it’s short for.”

Gyver snorted. “What’d you give her? She sounds wasted.”

“Morphine. What’s Gyver short for?”

“MacGyver!” I crowed.

“Like the show? Say, if I gave you a paper clip and a stick of gum, could you build me a hang glider?”

“Uh-oh, Gyver doesn’t like those jokes,” I warned.

“I loved that show—or I loved Richard Dean Anderson. He was gorgeous.” Nurse Snoopy fanned her face.

“My MacGyver’s gorgeous too,” I protested.

“Yes, he’s very handsome,” the nurse agreed. “Why don’t you go by Mac?”

“There was a nickname in middle school,” he explained, sucking air through his teeth.

“Mac ’n’ cheese,” I helped.

“Gyver hated it.”

“And Hillary loved it.”

“I like Gyver better anyway. I don’t care what Hil says. She’s wrong, you’re cool.”

Gyver shook his head and laughed. “At least I’m cool.”

“Very,” I reassured him. “You always were. And then you got hot—”

“Baby girl,” Nurse Snoopy interrupted, “why don’t you save your confessions for when you’re a little less medicated? How about you and Gyver watch TV?”

“Okay,” I agreed. I handed a grinning Gyver the remote she’d given me.

“And I’ll make a note on your chart that you’re very sensitive to pain meds.”

Ally called sobbing the day she got home from camp. “I heard!”

My heart raced—I wondered if I would set off a monitor. “What’d you hear?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Ally paused to blow her nose. I clawed at the blankets, sweaty and claustrophobic. “I shouldn’t have had to hear it from Ryan.”

“Ryan?” He knew too? My throat tightened.

“I am so sorry about your pops. Are you okay? When’s the funeral?”

“Pops?” I was swept up in a flash flood of relief and confusion. “He didn’t—he’s not dead.”

“But Ryan said—”

“Ryan’s wrong. Pops is fine.
Fine
.” I repeated the word to reassure myself.

“So can you come home soon?”

“I hope so.”

“What’s your address there? We’re sending you a care package.”

“Ally, I’ve got to go.” As the panic receded, it left me exhausted.

“Already? Well, text me the address for the box. My mom even made brownies.”

Ally’s mom’s brownies were legendary, but they were sent to Connecticut. By the time the package was forwarded to me they were stale. Gyver and the nurses still enjoyed them and made me put on the plastic tiara included in the box.

“Can you eat those in the hall? The smell’s making me nauseated,” I lied. When the room was empty, I looked at the girls’ cards and photos, covered my face, and cried.

“Mom?” I hated to wake her. Leukemia had changed her as much as it had me; she no longer wore business suits or heels or makeup. She wore frowns and creases between her eyes. An air of fear, desperation, and fragility clung to the threads of her cotton tops and pants—clothes intended for yoga or gardening and never before worn outside our house and yard.

“Mom?”

“Mia? What’s the matter?” My mother’s hands reached for me before her eyes opened.

“I can’t sleep.”

“What can I do? Do you want a sleeping pill?” She smoothed her hair and sat beside me.

“I guess.”

She pressed the call button and took my hand. “Dr. Kevin said sleeplessness is normal.”

I nodded. Her hand seemed so cold.

“Is there anything else I can do, kitten?”

“No. Thanks.”

“You’re sure?”

I looked up, alarmed; there were tears in her voice. “Mom?”

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped.

“Sorry? For what?”

“This is all my fault! These cancer genes had to come from somewhere. Bad DNA your father and I passed on.”

“It’s not anyone’s fault.” I was shocked by her apology. “It’s bad luck.”

“But what would we do without you? You’re all we’ve got, and I can’t do anything to fix you. I feel so helpless!”

“I’m going to be okay.”

“You’re right, you’re going to be fine. Of course you will be.” She sniffed and tried to get herself under control.

Southern Nurse arrived. She was only on duty at night. The less I dealt with her, the better. Not because she was mean—she was pecan pie sweet—but because if I didn’t see her, it meant I slept. She listened to Mom’s request and came back with apple juice and a pill.

“Mom?” I whispered. The pill had started to pull me toward sleep and I needed to get this out. “Do you think I was stupid not to tell? I miss my friends.”

“I know you do, but they’d just sit here feeling useless and uncomfortable. Do you want them to see you like this?”

The words hung in the air: guilt wrapped in a cocoon of maternal caresses and a gentle tone. I knew it was her projecting how
she
felt, but it didn’t make it less true. She kissed my cheek and added, “Of course it’s your decision, but things will be back to normal soon.”

The sleep meds caused weird dreams. In a blurry, drugged subconscious, I dreamed of Gyver—on stage with his band, Empty Orchestra. In my dream, just like in real life, I marveled how Gyver’s look—just off of normal in high school halls—worked on stage. Really worked. In a girls-in-the-audience-swoon sort of way. I was trying to convince the bouncer—Business Nurse—to keep all East Lake girls out. It wasn’t because I didn’t want them to see me in a hospital gown, it was because I didn’t want them to see him on stage or hear him sing.

Dr. Kevin had replaced Gyver’s drummer, and Business Nurse wouldn’t be bribed, not even when I promised to let the volunteers make me latex-free balloon animals. Yes, even the lounge clown had a cameo in my dream.

I woke to find a pick on my pillow and Nurse Snoopy in the doorway. “Gyver was here all morning. You just missed him.”

“I know,” I whispered. My left hand was still warm from holding his. I’d missed him and I missed him. More than made sense. More than I should.

“I’m waiting at the airport for my parents. They’re coming back from visiting Louisa and her new baby. I had a few minutes and figured I’d call.” Lauren was an eleven-years-younger-than-her-sister oops.

“You didn’t go?” I asked.

“Nope. It’s all baby gushing and I’d worry about dropping him. I’ll see him when he’s bigger. Plus, no parents equals parties. I wish you’d been here, it was insane. So, how’s Connecticut?”

“Fine. Boring.”

“Yeah right. I’m totally convinced the reason you’ve stayed so long is you found some gorgeous preppy with his own yacht and you’re acting out a Nicholas Sparks summer romance.”

“What?” I laughed. Only Lauren. As long as I shut my eyes, I could pretend I wasn’t in a hospital room with Mr. Russo and Dad discussing football a few feet away. Pretend this was a normal conversation.

“It would be a hundred percent okay if you met someone. It’s not like you and Ryan are exclusive.”

“I know that.” This was a sore point and she knew it. Why would she bring it up, unless … “Wait, has he?”

“Not in front of me. He’d be crazy to do anything while we were at Chris’s house—Hil would castrate him for you. But I think every girl on the beach knew his name. I mean, are you surprised? You disappear for a lifetime and you know he’s a man-whore.”

“Thanks, Laur.” I smacked the bed in frustration—sick of being stuck and forgotten.

“What? Would you rather not know? Geez, shoot the messenger. He did ask about you, and if you’d been there, I’m sure it would’ve been the Mia-Ryan show.”

I was teetering between hanging up and clinging to this bit of normal. I was angry: at myself for being here, at Lauren for prattling on about the “stupid no-boyfriends pact,” at Ryan for being Ryan, at my life for not being what I’d planned and worked so hard for.

“Everything’s falling apart.” It was a whisper. A confession. If Lauren had pressed, I would’ve spilled everything.

“Okay, drama queen.” I could practically hear the eye roll in her voice. “If you’re sick of Ryan’s games, move on. So anyway …”

I didn’t hang up. Just sighed and half listened as she told me about the “mutiny-worthy guy” who worked at Scoops, launching into rhapsodies about his ability to make a frappe and complaining about the weight she’d put on drinking them. I tried to feel connected, tried to care, but it all felt so foreign. My contributions to the conversation were minimal and awkward.

“Oh, here are my parents. I’ve got to go. Come home soon!”

I said good-bye and opened my eyes. No parties. No cute ice cream scoopers. Just sterile white walls and stacks of photos of them having fun without me.