I'm Not Her (7 page)

“Money is not an issue. We want the best for Kristina,” Mom says.

Kristina doesn’t move.

“Is that the expected outcome?” my mom asks. “Metal in her leg? What about her athletic career?”

My mouth drops open. No, she did
not
just say that. Dad continues his fascination with the tiles on the floor.

Dr. Turner lets out a quick breath. “In our opinion, an internal prosthesis probably wouldn’t give Kristina back full mobility. I can’t tell you for sure which will be feasible until we begin the process. We can hope for endo-prosthetic surgery, the internal prosthesis; however, often with limb salvage there are a bunch of activities that a patient will not be able to do, especially aggressive sports. We often recommend amputation if the patient wants to pursue aggressive sports. An external prosthesis is better for that.” The doctor makes a note on her laptop and looks up.

“No
,” my mom shouts. “We save her leg. It’s more important than volleyball.”

The room starts to spin a little. Amputation. Prosthesis. In my head I see a chain saw revving up and being held over my sister’s leg.

“No!” I echo out loud before my imagination carves off Kristina’s bone. All eyes turn to me. “She can’t lose her volleyball or her leg,” I say, and my voice is louder than I want it to be. Angry. “She’s the volleyball captain at school. The best player in the whole city. She’s going to play in college next year.”

“Tess,” my dad says, and I hear the warning in his tone.

“No.” I can’t stop myself. It’s unfair and I don’t want to hear it. Kristina can’t lose a leg or have a metal bone put inside her leg. She has plans. Plans that involve two legs.

“She needs her leg for a volleyball scholarship,” I sputter.

My dad steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “She doesn’t need a scholarship. We can afford any university your sister wants to go to.” He says it softly, but his hand squeezes harder and it feels like it’s bruising my flesh.

I push his hand away. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want people touching Kristina. I want to grab her hand and run from the room with her. Jump in her car and drive far away.

“But…” I sputter again, trying to put into words what I cannot say. “It’s not the plan.” I stop. She doesn’t have the grades, I want to yell. I’m the smart one. She’s the athletic one.

“Shut up, Tess,” Kristina hisses. “This isn’t about what you want.”

I deflate. She glares at me but her expression is unrecognizable. The life in her eyes is gone. They’re dull. Even her posture is different. Her back is bent over, hunched, and the glow of perfection has faded. I close my eyes tight.

“I won’t play volleyball if I keep my leg?” Kristina asks in a quiet voice.

The doctor clears her throat. “It’s too soon to say what is going to happen. It depends how treatment goes. It will take time to find out. I do have patients who go on to do sports.”

“No,” my mom says again. “Kristina, you’ll keep your leg.”

Kristina doesn’t even look at her. She’s focusing on the doctor. “Like Paralympics, you mean?”

The doctor doesn’t answer that question. “You need to be prepared for all the options.”

My mom sniffles loudly and pulls Kristina in tight, as if she can keep out the big bad world with her embrace. Dad returns to his spot against the wall, stiff.

The doctor clears her throat, watching our family fall apart. “There is support available. Because Kristina is eighteen she’s not considered a child, but we have resources for adults as well. Pamela, my nurse, will give you all the information you need.”

Dr. Turner stands. She bows her head and then looks up. “Okay then. We’ll be in touch. Please make sure you get all the information from Pamela.” She leaves the room and with her, normality flies out the door.

Kristina starts to cry but it’s soft and unbearable. “You can’t tell anyone at school about this,” she says to me. “I don’t want anyone finding out I might lose my leg. Not a soul.”

“But…”

“You listen to your sister, Tess,” Mom says, cutting me off as I’m about to tell her how impossible that will even be. “We’ll work out something. We’ll worry about breaking the news later. Kristina needs her privacy right now.”

She does? Or does she need friends who can back her emotionally and let her know she’s still okay? I suspect Mom wants to keep it a secret for her own reasons and I want to yell that Kristina is a person who needs people around to help her deal, but I don’t want to upset Kristina even more.

Dad says nothing. I stare at him and wait for him to tell them it’s a bad idea, but he’s mute. Anger flashes through me. How long do they expect they can pretend that everything is fine? And how can it be the right thing to encourage her to keep it quiet? Do they think people just won’t notice her absence? She’s not me. She doesn’t fly under the radar.

Is she supposed to be ashamed of her bones?

When I turn the corner inside school, Melissa waits at my locker. Her hair is flat, and she tucks a strand behind her ear. When she sees me her eyes widen, almost as if she’s frightened. I’ve been avoiding her and she knows it, but not why. I try to keep my expression neutral but it takes every ounce of control not to burst into tears and spill the whole thing. My sister’s words echo in my ear.

“Not even Melissa.”

Kristina slipped into my room after we got home from the doctor and sat on the edge of my bed. “You can’t tell anyone. Not even her.”

I looked her right in the eye. “But, Kristina,” I said. “She’s my best friend.”

She shook her head. “She’s not as nice as you think and she’s no fan of mine.”

I wanted to fight her on it, but under the circumstances, I let it go. Hiding her cancer seems like a stupid, stupid idea, but I’m the only one who thinks so, and for now it isn’t my decision. If she wants me to keep it from everyone including my best friend, it’s the least I can do.

“Hi, Tess,” Melissa says, but her greeting is almost a question.

I wipe a dribble of sweat from my brow.

“You rode your bike again?” she asks.

I nod and shrug. “I need the exercise.”

She stares at me. “You hate exercise.”

“Kristina’s, uh…sick. I think it’s a bug or something.”

Or cancer. Limb-stealing cancer. I close my eyes tight for a second and take a deep breath.

“She’s kind of milking it, don’t you think? Missing this much school for a cold.” Melissa’s bitter voice slices through my skin and leaves me covered in goose bumps. I never noticed how much it sounds like she really hates my sister. I mean real hate.

The two of us bitch about Kristina all the time, but it’s not supposed to be vicious. It’s supposed to makes us feel better about our own ineptness, slamming one of the chosen ones. To whom I just happen to be related.

“No. I mean, she’s sick so she stays home. It’s no big deal, right?”

“She’s a drama queen,” Melissa says.

“She is not.”

My hands shake a little as I stare at her. The best friend I’ve ever had. She and I have been inseparable since she moved to Great Heights in fifth grade. Well, at school. Her parents don’t let her socialize much outside of school.

We were thrown together, the last two girls picked for sports teams and the last two paired up in class. We bonded over brain power and challenge each other academically. Sometimes Melissa gets carried away with her gossiping but it’s mostly harmless. I think it’s because Melissa isn’t good around people she’s not comfortable with. And she’s uncomfortable with almost everyone. It’s our biggest weakness in the quest for Honor Society takeover.

Melissa stares at me. “Is everything okay?”

I nod and attempt a smile as if everything is peachy keen, jelly bean.

Melissa shuffles her feet in a mini box step. “Are you mad at me about something?” She peeks up from under her bangs.

I shake my head quickly but she just blinks. I’m about to try to convince her when movement and color catch my eye and I look to see Devon and Gee marching down the hallway. They’re coming straight for us.

For me.

“Shoot,” I mutter under my breath.

Melissa looks over and her eyes widen.

“Tess Smith,” Gee calls.

They walk right up and stop. I avert my eyes before images of what Devon did with my sister burn into them.

“What’s up with Tee?” Gee asks.

I focus on her. She’s taller than me, with equally long limbs, but hers have been blessed with the gift of coordination. Instead of being gangly, the long legs and arms work on her.

“Uh…” I search my brain cells for something to say. “I don’t know. She’s got a bug or something.” I long for the days when the two of them ignored my existence.

I don’t tell Gee that Kristina and Mom met with the principal. Mom decided to tell him in person and asked for his discretion about sharing the news. I still don’t understand why Kristina can’t trust her friends to know the truth.

“A bug? You mean like a cold or something? Tee doesn’t miss practice, games, and this much school for a cold.” Devon’s usually loud macho voice is kind of soft, dare I say almost worried. “She hasn’t returned my calls or emails.”

“I’ve been texting her every hour for the last few days and she hasn’t answered me. This is not like Tee,” Gee says.

Devon nods at Gee. “She hasn’t called or texted anyone. It’s like she’s gone missing. It’s totally bizarre.”

He sounds upset and looks surprisingly unashamed of it. I wonder if he really does like her, if she means more to him than just hooking up. If so, I feel sorry for him. It wasn’t really fair, what she did with him, for her own reasons. I’m on her side, but obviously she didn’t think it out. I don’t think she tried to hurt him, but either way, he’s left with a memory too. A memory that he’ll connect to her cancer when he finds out.

“She’s fine.” The word almost scalds my tongue and I bite down on my lower lip and study my shoes. “She’s just tired and not up to going online or picking up any of her messages right now. Um, I have to go to class.” I spin around and dart away as fast as I can, leaving Melissa alone with them. Probably scarring her for life.

Gee calls my name but I speed up and turn a corner. I slam into a body and groan a little from the impact. It’s Mr. Meekers, my art teacher.

“Tess,” he says. “Try to watch where you’re going.” I wait for him to give me hell.

“Sorry,” I mumble when he says nothing.

He tilts his head for a second and then puts a hand on my arm to stop me from moving past him.

“How’s your sister doing?” he asks.

“Fine.” The rehearsed lie rolls off my tongue. I look him straight in the eyes. “She’s doing okay.” I shrug as if it’s irrelevant to me.

He moves his hand to my shoulder and squeezes. It’s awkward and it gives me the creeps, and even though he doesn’t say anything, I’m certain that he knows. It’s occurred to me that most of the staff knows despite what Mom and Kristina wanted. Gossip is a powerful drug.

***

I hate myself.

I do not want to walk into the hospital room. I do not want to see my own sister. Instead my impulse is to turn, sneak to the elevator, walk out the door, jump on a bus, and go home. I want to work on my art, or even just turn on the Discovery Channel and watch lions have sex. But as soon as I got home from school, Mom shuffled me to the car, not caring about my resistance in joining her.

“Your sister needs you,” she says as she pushes me toward her car. “She’s started her chemo and if you’re not there for her, you’ll regret it someday.”

“What about Dad?”

“Your dad has to work late. He won’t be around until later.”

Nothing I say will change her mind. End of story. We drive to the hospital without saying one word. When we arrive and she finally finds an empty spot in the parking lot, she walks me all the way through the admitting floor. It smells like cleaning products. We pass a flow of people on our way to the elevator leading to Kristina’s floor. Some look like patients, some like doctors. There are lots of people wearing different-colored scrubs. They could be nurses or janitors; it’s impossible to tell. I wonder if there’s some sort of code. Some sort of hierarchy that determines which color people wear. I see a lot of dark pink uniforms. A priest or reverend or whichever one it is that wears a black shirt and white collar passes by and smiles at me. I immediately wonder why he’s smiling.

When we reach the elevator, Mom holds the door, tells me Kristina’s room number, and then says she’s going to pick up a coffee from the cafeteria and will join me in a minute.

“I never slept a wink last night worrying about your sister. I need caffeine,” she says.

My guess is that she wants me and Kristina to have some alone time. As if Kristina’s going to confide in me.

When the elevator opens there’s new activity on the fourth floor. I pass a hand-sanitizing station and stop to clean my hands. People in scrubs walk past but no one stops me or asks what I’m doing or who I’m visiting. I wander up the hallway until I find her room and walk in slowly. Kristina doesn’t hear or sense my presence right away. She’s propped up against some pillows and her blond hair flows limply over them. She’s staring out the window across from her bed. The only view I can see from where I stand is a brick wall. Great hospital scenery.

A nurse stands beside her, fiddling with tubes jutting out of Kristina’s chest. Kristina started the drip a couple hours earlier, while I was in school avoiding her friends. She’s hooked up to stuff inside a bag and it looks like bright orange Kool-Aid. Her chemo. It’s awful stuff from what I’ve read on the Internet.

“Hi,” I call, but my voice is weak. My feet feel clumsy and heavy as I walk toward her.

Kristina turns her head. I stop walking. Her skin tone is almost green, not helped by the ultraviolet lights in the room. She looks tired and so, so sad.

“Hi,” I say to the nurse.

She smiles her greeting and walks over to a counter by the window where she grabs a pen from her pocket and starts jotting notes on a chart. She gives Kristina and me privacy without physically leaving the room.

My heart aches. I swallow and swallow but it’s painful and dry. There’s a big lump in my throat, a bump of trapped words and trapped tears. I force myself to move closer. There’s a silver chair in the corner by the window, so I pull it out and move it beside her bed.

“So,” I finally say, trying to sound normal. “Everyone at school is asking for you. Your popularity hasn’t waned in your absence.” I attempt a smile, but she doesn’t respond in any way.

Slowly, I sit. I don’t bother telling her how much grief her absence is causing me. Here in the hospital room, it seems stupid and petty how freaking hard I think my life is because of her. People talking to me, staring at me, is nothing compared to lying in a hospital bed being poisoned.

She closes her eyes and for once the quiet actually bothers me. I try to think of something to say. “Um, so, I found out about this really prestigious drawing contest. The winner gets a scholarship to the Academy of Art University and a trip to San Francisco. I’m actually going to enter, can you believe it? If I win, I get to take someone. I thought it would be really cool if you could come with me, you know, if you’re done with your chemo and everything…”

Her face gets even paler and then Kristina opens her eyes as if she’s alarmed and begins to cough. It takes energy she doesn’t seem to have and then she groans and it’s a horrible sound, more like an animal than my sister. The nurse who has been watching her closely darts to her side and then a spew of liquid shoots from Kristina’s mouth and the nurse’s blue uniform is splattered by foul-smelling stuff. I jump up from the chair and almost knock it over. The nurse mumbles as Kristina chokes and then throws up again.

Mom picks that moment to walk in, as Kristina projectile-vomits on the nurse again.

Mom runs straight back out the door and I stand frozen in place not quite believing what is happening. The nurse scrambles around as Kristina cries feebly. Seconds later, another nurse comes rushing in the room with towels in her arms and Mom right behind her. The nurse points at me and then the door as she rushes to Kristina.

I gratefully hurry out into the hallway and stand outside the room, shifting from foot to foot, listening to the retching sounds and then weak crying, barely audible beneath the reassuring words from the nurses.

Mom comes out of the room a minute later, still clutching a cup of coffee. “Jesus Christ, they need to give her better anti-sickness drugs on her next cycle.”

I close my eyes, not wanting to think about my sister going through this again. Mom’s hand brushes against my arm as she hurries past me toward a trash can and pitches out her coffee. We stand in the hallway awkwardly. Inside, we can hear Kristina retching and crying. Mom goes back inside but I’m frozen to the spot.

Eventually, one of the nurses comes out of Kristina’s room with a handful of soiled towels.

“It happens like this sometimes,” she tells me and gives me a sympathetic look before hurrying off, probably to the laundry chute. “We gave her antinausea meds, but we didn’t get the dose right.”

***

At school the next day, I duck down in my chair like I’m three years old. I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Kids wander into class and sit, draping bodies over chairs and desks, checking out their phones and texting. Despite trying to be invisible, I feel curious stares on me and hear my name and Kristina’s whispered. Rumors circulate the air, invisible but always there, like tiny particles of dust.

I sit up a little straighter, wondering how I’m going to pull this off. It’s nothing compared to what Kristina’s going through, I know that, but my world doesn’t seem the same anymore either. It’s a lonely place pretending that everything is fine.

I pull books from my backpack and check over my unfinished homework as the classroom fills up. After the bell rings, Mr. Pepson stands, tells everyone to put away their phones, and begins speaking. He’s the lead school faculty advisor for the Honor Society chapter, so I’ve invested many hours demonstrating what a great student I am to him. By habit I pretend to be interested in his lecture about
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. I’ve worked hard over the first term to show him I’m quality HS material, but after a while suspect if he doesn’t finish his lecture soon and I have to sit still another minute, my head will explode. As he assigns a thematic essay on Shakespeare, I gather my stuff and walk to the front of the class.

Clark Trent watches me with undisguised curiosity. I ignore him and lean forward and whisper. “I’m feeling sick,” I tell Mr. Pepson. “I need to go see the nurse.”

He stares at me for a second too long, and I’m about to resort to the female problem excuse that makes male teachers squirm, when his eyes flicker with sympathy.

“Fine, Tess. Go.”

Mr. Pepson acts as if it’s normal for me to get up before the bell and leave. An anal Honor Society wannabe. I head for the door, sensing curious, staring eyeballs on my back, but rush out. Instead of going to the nurse’s office, I bolt down empty hallways, heading toward the front door of the school.