Send Me a Sign(5)

I stared at the car’s ceiling, speaking around the stutters in my breathing. “It’s aggressive. That’s the word they kept using. ‘An aggressive form of cancer,’ ‘its spread is aggressive,’ ‘we need to start aggressive treatment immediately.’” I shut my eyes and tears traced salt lines down my face.

“That’s why I went to the party tonight. I just needed to feel normal for a few more hours. Before my life becomes a mess of chemo and doctors and drugs.” The last barrier between me and detachment fell, and the doctor’s words hit with suffocating reality. “God … I have cancer.”

He tugged on my elbow and pulled me toward him. I resisted at first; his sympathy would make it harder to stop crying. His other hand closed on my shoulder, and I surrendered, allowed him to draw my head to his chest and fold his arms around me.

I could feel the thud of his heart through his T-shirt, interrupted by the convulsions of my sobs and his unsteady breathing.

It grew hot in the car—late-June-in-Pennsylvania humid—and I couldn’t tell tears from sweat. I needed to stop. To calm down. I couldn’t go home blotchy and terrified. I unclenched my fingers from a fistful of his shirt, sat up, and focused on slowing my breathing and tears. I took another sip of his water and asked, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m mentally shouting every swear word I know.” He rubbed his forehead with both palms, then leaned back against the seat and shut his eyes.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Am I okay? Am I okay? Of course not, but who cares? How are you? What does all this mean?”

“I don’t really know … I haven’t had much time to figure it out. We’ve got piles of brochures at home, and Dad’s already ordered every book he can find.” My fingers were at my throat, twirling my necklace in frenzied loops.

“So what do we do?”

His “we” filled my eyes again and I couldn’t answer.

“Mi? What happens next?”

“I check into the hospital tomorrow for more tests. I’m not coming home for a while, like, at least a month. Probably not till August. Dr. Kevin—that’s my doctor, my oncologist—said they’d keep me there so I don’t pick up infections.”

“A month! What about school? Are you going back in September?”

The mention of school sparked a different reaction. I put my feet on the floor and sat up straighter. “It’s only been a day. I don’t know. I haven’t figured out all the details yet.” I sounded angry, but the alternative was tears and I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—lose control again.

He sighed and squeezed my shoulder. “Mi, I can’t believe this.”

“Get this, my horoscope today was: ‘Kick back and enjoy the flood of contentedness! It’s a great day to appreciate what you’ve got and stop worrying about getting more.’” I stared out at the litter-strewn parking lot. A lonely toddler-sized flip-flop. A cracked sand pail.

“I don’t know why you read those. They’re crap.”

“Maybe. Or maybe the point is I should start appreciating my life, because this is as good as it’s going to get.” My words slipped from bitter to wistful.

“Don’t,” Gyver warned.

“Don’t what?” I peeled my eyes away from the beach debris.

“Don’t you dare start looking for pessimistic signs. You’re going to be fine.”

The windows were fogging, obscuring the lake from my view. “I need … I need air.” I pushed the door open and stumbled into the humid night. Wiping my eyes, I crossed to a picnic table and sat facing the lake.

“Here. Drink.” Gyver handed me his water bottle and sat on the tabletop.

We faced each other in a showdown of fear. I spoke first. “I don’t want to go home yet.”

“Understandable. How are your parents? I can’t believe they let you go out tonight. Well, actually, I can.” I looked away from the ripples on the lake and up at his disapproving frown.

“Dad’s turned into Captain Cancer Facts—charts and spreadsheets in full force. And Mom? She’s alternating between hysterics and a Prozac-fueled insistence that I’m going to be fine. When I left she was taking a bubble bath to ‘calm herself down,’ and Dad was cooking dinner with a spoon in one hand and a pamphlet in the other. There wasn’t room for my reaction—I had to get out of there.” I rolled the bottle between my hands and fussed with the sand at my feet, creating furrows with my toe and then smoothing them flat.

“Oh, Mi.” Gyver, with his perfect parents, shouldn’t be able to understand mine, but he’d spent enough time around my mom’s melodrama and my dad’s analytics to nod with comprehension. “You should’ve called me, or just come over.”

“I should’ve. Is your mom going to make a big deal out of tonight?” My parents might accept that parties were a part of high school, but his mother—the chief of police—never would. Living next door to Chief Russo meant D.A.R.E. lectures at neighborhood barbecues. “I don’t think I can handle her yelling right now.”

“Don’t worry about her. It’s not a big deal,” he reassured me.

“I guess not, comparatively.” I kicked at the pile I’d built beneath the bench and watched the sand scatter into darkness.