Fatal (4 page)

"Mom!"
I said, running from my room.

She was in the kitchen, sipping at a glass of water. A large duffle bag was slung across her lap, filled with some clothes, a few books she wanted to read, some photo albums. All the bits and pieces of life people wanted to cart around with them to
remember where they came from.

"What? Are they here yet? I just knew they'd get stuck in traffic. What... oh!" mom said.

I moved around behind her, leaned over and hugged her, resting my head as lightly as I could on her thin shoulder. The sweet smell of her medicine tried to lock up my throat, but I ignored it. She patted my forearm.

"
It's okay, Steph. You know it. This is the best thing that could have happened."

It wasn't. The best would have been if I found a magic lantern so that I could wish her cancer gone, loads of money, and the answers to all the big questions I could think of.

"I'll miss you..." I said, my heart thumping so hard I thought she could hear it.

I thought I heard footsteps out in the hall. Any second, they would knock on the door.

I hugged her tightly as I concentrated, trying to slow time down for just a few more minutes. It felt like I was never going to see her again, or hear the sound of her voice.

That was ridiculous, I knew. We could call each other. Who
knew, maybe they'd even have webcams in the hospital so we could actually see each other?

But no amount of rational thought could get rid of those fears.

My body jerked as someone rapped on the door three times. I held my breath, doing my best to pretend that I didn't hear.

"
Steph..." mom said, stroking my forearm with two fingers.

Another set of knocks.

"Hello?" a man called.

I forced my arms away from her. As I walked to the door, I flicked my hair back over my shoulders and ran my fingers through it, trying to concentrate on that sensation as the long, soft strands rubbed against me.

When I pulled the door open, the shorter of the two men had his fist raised for another knock. His eyes were right on level with mine. He smiled at me as the light shined off his bald head. The taller guy behind him had a clipboard tucked under one arm.

Clipboard, I thought, my mind returning to school, definitely a clipboard.

I wrestled my face into a smile as I tried to not think about school.

"This is the
Hursts, right?" the short guy said.

Both men wore the same white pants and button-up shirts with short sleeves. They had the same shiny black shoes.

"Yeah, we're the Hursts," I said, "Mom's in the kitchen."

I stepped aside to let them in. Both of them smiled at me again as they walked into the front hall. They seemed friendly enough, but I hated them. I wanted them out, back in their creepy white van and out of reach of my mom. I was the only person who should be taking care of her, not these strangers.

But they ignored me, following my mom's voice as she called out from the kitchen.

I went over to the doorway and peered around it. With two grown men in there, it was really apparent just how small the room was. It had always been a pain to get any real cooking do
ne in there, with the tiny bit of counter available between the chipped sink and the stove that was older than me.

Mom also seemed
too small. It had been a while since we'd had visitors, and even longer since she'd been outside. Seeing her next to others, she looked like death on two legs. The bit of color that had returned to her cheeks since I decided to accept the offer didn't help at all.

"You've got everything all ready to go, I see," the tall guy said, smiling as he squinted down at the clipboard and checked something.

"Yes, sir!" mom said, throwing one hand up in a mock salute. The orderlies laughed and smiled.

It was hard for people not to like my mom. She was always so nice, always ready with some little joke to get people laughing. It was the key to a good first impression, she always told me. A laugh and smile were the best icebreakers of all.

"So, uh, I didn't see an elevator on the way in...?" the short guy said, pulling a cloth out from one pocket and running it quickly over his bald scalp.

"Oh, there is no elevator!" I broke in. I realized how happy I sounded as they all looked at me.

Mom just winked, but the men couldn't seem to figure out whether I was always like this, or if I was just so excited to see my mother leave.

"Well,
milady," the tall guy said, tucking his clipboard back under his arm, "Shall we take you on your way?"

"Wait!" I said.

I rushed in and hugged her again.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you, too," mom said, hugging me back, "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"Trust me, little lady, we'll take great care of her. Nurses and doctors on call twenty-four-seven. Three
hots and a cot... well, it's more of a gurney," the short guy said.

"Stan!" the tall orderly said.

I covered my mouth with my hands as I watched them wheel her out. I watched down the hall as they got to the stairs. They had to lift her up, short Stan leading the way.

Mom waved and blew me a kiss as she disappeared through the door.

When the door to the stairs shut, it felt like someone had ripped my heart out right through my sternum. I wanted to collapse then and there, but I pushed myself back upright and ran to my room.

From there, I looked down at their van. It took them an agonizingly long time to get outside. I had horrible thoughts of them dropping her down the stairs, of an ambulance showing up with its lights flashing and siren blaring.

But they wheeled her out front. I leaned my head against the pane as they lowered a ramp from the back of the van, pushed her up that, and closed everything.

The van pulled away and disappeared from view a few moments later.

I turned around to look at the remainder of my life in Pasadena. It wasn't much; my makeshift bed, my packed bags, the envelope containing my ticket to Massachusetts.

I grabbed that envelope and sat cross-legged on my comforter.

Chapter 6

A shuttle picked me up the day of the flight. The whole thing was such a haze to me. I can't remember what I ate, whether the freeway was backed up, or even much of the invasive security at the airport.

I used to love going to LA with my friends, but they had all either moved away for school or stopped hanging out with me when they saw all the time and attention that went into taking care of my mother. I'd never really believed at the time that high school relationships could fade so quickly, but it happened right before my eyes.

I do remember forcing my backpack into the small carry-on compartment above my seat. I had a window all to myself, but didn't look out it.

A stewardess stood at the front of the curtain that separated the economy section from business class. She showed us how to buckle our seatbelts and how to pull on the oxygen mask in case of a loss of cabin pressure.

She was a pretty woman, with blonde hair tied into a bun at the back of her head. Her nails were painted red, and the light coming in through one of the windows kept flickering off them as she moved them expertly around the buckle and then the mask.

The fat guy with the Hawaiian shirt wheezing beside me sounded like he needed oxygen right then and there.

I kept trying to focus on my senses, to really feel the space around me. In a few minutes, I'd be rocketing at hundreds of miles an hour away from my mom, toward some uncertain future. I couldn't think about it.

So instead I concentrated on the rattle of breath up and down the fat guy's throat. I hoped he wouldn’t go to sleep. I had a feeling he was a snorer.

The seat was comfortable enough, but already the small of my back ached. The fat guy used up the armrest on that side, leaving me huddled against the wall.

The cabin reeked of dozens of different colognes and perfumes mingling with each other, with the distinctive smell of body odor lingering beneath it all.

I squeezed
against my remaining armrest and peered out the small window. It looked out along the top of the left wing, its white painted surface blinding in the sunlight. The back of a huge jet engine poked out from under it. It screamed as it warmed up.

I'd never been on a plane before all this. I wished it was under different circumstances. It felt like I should be terrified. That's how most people are on their first flight, right? But that base fear couldn't push its way through all the worry and anxiety surrounding the reason for my flight.

"First time flyer?" the guy said. He had a surprising high voice for someone his size.

I gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded.

"Don't worry," he said, "Take off and landing are the only exciting parts. Everything in between's just a nice chance for a nap, you know?"

"Sure," I said, trying to shift to find some position that didn't make it feel like a hard fist was trying to push its way through the small of my back.

A ding sounded through the cabin, and the "Fasten Seatbelts" sign at the front lit up red. I fumbled for a moment with the unfamiliar clasps, thinking about how dumb I'd been for not paying attention when I should have. But finally I managed, clicking the buckle in place.

The plane started out slowly, taking its position I suppose. It wasn't so bad. I wondered what all the fuss was about.

Then it started picking up speed, the little lights running alongside the runway blurring past at a rate that shot my heart into my throat.

I suppressed a squeal as the plane lifted. It was the most curious sensation. It felt like my stomach was still on the ground.

Then we climbed quickly, the pressure in my ears building until I finally closed my mouth, pinched my nose shut, and popped them myself.

Los Angeles was a dizzying distance below us. The buildings were hazy with smog, the freeways looping and rising like grey snakes in the grass, the cars and trucks on them like individual glittering scales.

There was no going back now. I had a one-way ticket.

My stomach soured as I watched California slide away beneath me.

"See? It's actually fun, if you think about it," the guy beside me said, a big smile practically splitting his face in half, "Everyone always worries so much. And for what? A few bumps. Nothing, really."

"Yeah," I said.

It felt like I was never going to see home again, like I was never going to see mom again. I tried to bring up that memory of her face, of the feeling of her arms as she hugged me.

Chapter 7

The landing was just as bad as takeoff. The plane jolted, the wheels screeching as they touched the pavement.

My legs were shaky as I made my way into the airport, my backpack slung over one shoulder. I tried to get a look out the window for my first view of the other side of the continent from ground level. But it was pretty much all
airport. Hangars, planes jockeying for position, baggage cars weaving their long tails around.

Noises of all sorts floated through the air. Announcements about cancellations and delays played, usually followed by a chorus of grumping and complaining. There were so many conversations going on that it sounded like I stood in the middle of a huge beehive.

It did help drown out some of my own thoughts, at least. I weaved my way around frantic groups of people trying to make their connection, stopped short as a baggage train came through. I narrowly avoided having my feet ran over by an old lady racing around on her little scooter.

Somehow, I found my way over to pick my luggage up off the revolving belt. It was a great relief to find both suitcases still there.

I don't know what I would have done if the airline lost it.

I decided I did not like airports, or airplanes. They were so full of purpose and potential. You went there because you had somewhere to be, or someone to meet. It just made me think of school, which made me think of my mother, which made me think of what I was going to do with myself.

School, too, was something like an airport. You went there to get somewhere else. Where? The rest of your life, I suppose.

There seemed to be an influx of flights at the moment. All the people were like locusts; you couldn't go anywhere without finding them everywhere. I got elbowed so hard moving down a hall that the sharpness of the pain took my breath away.

To be fair, you had to use your elbows and knees if you wanted to get anywhere.

From there, I found my way over to the shuttles.

We'd crossed at least two time zones in the plane, I knew. It felt to me like it should only be lunchtime, but the big digital clock in the sign outside said it was nearly four in the afternoon.

The outside air was warm, just like back in California. Except here it was also humid. An even, colorless light came down through the grey clouds swirling high in the sky.