Radiate (9 page)

I stretch my hands out and accept the nice gesture from him. I pull open the tabs to the box and see what appears to be a book. Then I look closer and see that it’s an e-book reader. “Cool! Thanks, Gabriel!”

He moves toward me. “Yeah, and I downloaded a bunch of free books for you. Classic stuff like Dickens, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, the Brontës, and such, and then a bunch of romance books.” He tosses his hair out of his eyes and squints at me. “That’s what girls read, right?”

A giggle explodes out of my chest. “Girls do read romance. This will be awesome.”

“There’s sudoku, too,” he adds.

I stretch my arms out and hug him tightly. I begin to tremble a bit and hold on to him for a bit too long. His arms are strong and sturdy, and I feel safe, just like I did six years ago when he protected me from the nest of earwigs.

Gabriel rubs me on the top of the head and whispers, “You’ll kick cancer’s ass.”

“Thanks,” I mumble back.

Mom and Dad walk out of the house just then, and Gabriel and I pull apart.

“Ready to go, Little Kid?”

I lift my eyes to Gabriel’s and smile brightly. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

***

Dad turns the truck onto I-65 north just outside Montgomery, and I finally tug the earbuds off and take a break from the Electronica I’ve been blaring into my skull the last hour. I’m in the back seat with my small suitcase packed with my new e-reader, my toiletries, a few changes of clothes and underwear, my favorite black Reef flip-flops, my netbook, my Bama teddy bear, cell phone, and a deck of cards that Mom threw in. You’d think I was going off to camp instead of to the hospital.

“How much farther?” I ask like a little kid going to Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving. Too bad there’s hospital food at the end of the ride instead of a succulent turkey and all the fixings.

“Two hours, if we don’t hit Birmingham traffic,” Dad reports.

“That was nice of Gabriel to come over and see you off,” Mom says from the passenger seat. “He’s grown into such a nice-looking young man.”

“I guess.” Never really thought of him that way.

“Did you reach that other boy you were trying to get?” Mom asks.

“Daniel. His name is Daniel,” I note. “I texted him.”

“Daniel. That’s a nice name,” she says in such a motherly way.

I giggle in spite of her.

“That’s Franklin and Dora Delafield’s boy, right?” Dad asks.

“Yep. That’s him.”

“He’s the team quarterback?”

“Wide receiver. Set the PHS record for receptions last year.”

Dad smiles at me in the rearview mirror. He knows I’m a football fanatic. Especially when it comes to the PHS Patriots.

“So, what did Daniel say?” Mom asks, nosily.

I shrug. “He said he was sad we won’t get to hang out, but he’ll text me.”

Actually, it was more like this:

CAN’T GO 2 SKIPPER’S W/U ON FRIDAY

Y????

GOING 2 B’HAM

PARTY IN IRON CITY?

NO... HOSPITAL

?????

LUMP IN LEG NEEDS SURGERY

WHAT? THAT SUX

YEAH, IT DOES

HOW LONG U B GONE?

NOT SURE COULD B COUPLE OF WKS

SUX ASS WILL U STILL CHEER

YES!!!!!!

GOOD

WILL HAVE 2 FONE CALL ME

ILL MISS U

MISS U 2

PHILLIPS HERE, GOTTA GO WILL TXT U!

I lay my phone in my lap and stare out the window as the farmland and roadside billboards whiz by.

Mom clicks her tongue. “I don’t think they let you have cell phones in the hospital.”

“That’s such a 1990s rule, Mom.”

“Well, what do I know?”

We laugh together, but I’m anything but jovial. Back in Maxwell, the squad is at Madison Hutchinson’s house, practicing jumps and dance moves and formations. Daniel’s doing guy stuff with Phillip Bradenton, and everyone else is moving on with the rest of their summer.

And me? I’m stuck in a truck that’s driving me to the hospital.

Up until now, I’ve been pretty nonchalant about this whole thing, thinking it’s no biggy. But it is. A big, freaking, inconvenient biggy. Is the universe against me? Did some evil person wish this for me? What did I do to deserve this?

Anger now roiling through my veins, I jam my earbuds back in and crank up the Ultra Dance CD as loud as it will go. I close my eyes and visualize the dance moves and motions that we’ve choreographed to go with this number.
Punch, kick, groove, clap, wave hands, crunk, crunk, bop, snap .
.
.

As Dad hits a big bump in the road, I hold on to the sissy bar.

Yep. That’s all this cancer is... just a big old bump in my road.

How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The next several days are a gigamonic blur.

Dad dropped us off at Cliff’s apartment where Mom and I are sharing the fold-out couch. We’ve barely been here as we’ve been a fixture at UAB Hospital where I’ve been poked, prodded, and questioned.

I’ve had vials of blood taken, I’ve peed (and pooped... eww) in cups, I’ve had about three dozen X-rays taken of my leg, and I’ve sat in more waiting rooms watching more daytime talk shows than I care to think about.

Who are these awful people who go on these shows to find out the paternity of the baby?

I digress.

Finally, on Thursday, Dr. Dykema admits me to the hospital.

He’s a cocky sort of guy. Tall. Bald. Jet-black goatee. White coat with expensive pens in the pocket and his name stitched in cursive embroidery. I could totally see him in a tan robe playing the part of Jesus in an Easter pageant or something, which is ironic, because the man has a big God complex. I suppose that is a good quality for a doctor to have when he’s about to slice my leg open and see what’s growing inside it.

Fortunately, I’m in a private hospital room with my own TV, phone, bathroom, and shower. The nurses even brought in a cot and a recliner for Mom, who insists she’s not driving the eight miles to Cliff’s apartment every day only to leave her baby (that would be me) here all alone. Poor thing. I’m in this flexy-bendy-posable bed with the awesome bed pad, and she’s sleeping on a crappy cot.

“I’m not leaving you, Hayley. I will be with you through all of this.”

A weak smile crosses my face, then hers. “Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too. And I’m sorry about this. I know hospitals aren’t cheap, and if your insurance covers—”

Mom places her finger on my lips. “Shhh... don’t even worry about things like that. Your father and I are making sure you have the best possible care. All you need to do is focus on getting better.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Just then, a tall redheaded nurse walks in. “Hey there, I’m Ginger. You’ll be seeing a lot of me,” she says.

Mom stands and introduces herself. “I’m Nan Matthews, and this is my daughter, Hayley. Thank you for taking care of her.”

“Whatever you need, honey,” the nice nurse says. “I’m here during the week, Rochelle does the night shift usually, and Wanda and Beverly work the weekends. You’ll get tired of seeing us,” she says with a laugh.

“I’m sure we won’t,” Mom says.

Ginger hands her a menu and a pencil. “Circle here what Hayley wants to eat, and we’ll get it into the kitchen. Doctor says she can be on solids until the surgery, and then we’ll reassess her diet.”

I stretch my hand up to reach for the paper. “Let me choose, Mom.”

She relents, but then Ginger steps in. “Let your mom do that. We need to get an IV into you, hon.”

“Why?”

“To get you ready for your biopsy on Saturday.”

I sit tall in the bed. “So soon? Awesome!”

Ginger cocks her head, a bit perplexed. “I ain’t never seen anyone so excited to have surgery before,” she notes as she adjusts a blood pressure cuff to my upper left arm.

“Chicken noodle or pea soup?” Mom asks.

I make a horrid face over the green choice. “Gross! Chicken noodle, please.” Turning my attention back to Ginger, I say, “It’s not that I’m excited. I’m just ready to get all of this over and done with so I can get home.”

She pumps up the cuff until it squeezes tightly around my skin. “Cute boy waiting there?”

Oh yeah... well, him too . . .

Mom asks, “Chicken Caesar salad or roast beef with potatoes and green beans?”

“The second thing, please.” To Ginger, I say, “Yeah, but mostly it’s because I’m a cheerleader and I don’t want to miss too much practice.”

“A cheerleader, huh? That’s cool. I was one way back in the Stone Age.”

I laugh at her. She can’t be much more than Mom’s age.

“Pudding or Jell-O?”

“Pudding.”

The nurse places the stethoscope in her ears and slides the end into the crook of my elbow. After a moment, she removes the device from my arm and says, “One-seventeen over seventy-six. Very good. You must not have ‘white coat syndrome.’”

“What’s that?”

“Nerves from being around doctors and nurses and hospitals. Makes people’s blood pressure shoot through the roof.” She pats my arm. “You’re just fine.”

“I sure hope so.”

At the same time Ginger walks out, a herd of people in white coats enters. My heartbeat jumps a few notches when I see the young, eager faces. This must be the
white coat syndrome
Ginger was talking about.

A young woman with a high brunette ponytail steps forward. “Hi there, Hayley. I’m Dr. Stanislovitis. I’m one of Dr. Dykema’s residents. These are my interns who will be working along on your case. We just want to ask you some questions.”

“Okay. This is my mom, Nan.”

Mom nods and sits down as the six interns gather around my bed. Dr. Stanislovitis picks up my chart and starts talking about me like I’m not here. “We have a seventeen-year-old Caucasian female with intense pain in her left leg. Initial X-rays show a lesion attached to the left fibula, toward the surface, however, could be growing toward the tibia. Suggested course of action?”

The short Asian guy with glasses speaks out first. “Pre-and postoperative chemotherapy.”

“A bit aggressive to start, Dr. Ling, but a possibility.”

The young girl in the back nods her head. “Aggressive radiographs to determine depth of tumor. Possible biopic evacuation of sample tissue to test degree of malignancy. Definitely start with an MRI and other bone density tests.”

Dr. Stanislovitis smiles. “Very good, Dr. Perkins. The patient is scheduled for a biopsy on Saturday to remove a portion of the tumor and send it to pathology for review of cell materials.”

The medical chatter bounces around me like a Ping-Pong ball out of control. Mom sits quietly, listening to their every word so she can report it back to Uncle Roger, more than likely. He had to return to San Francisco to care for his own patients, but he told Mom to keep him posted. Again, I just want it all over and done with. This waiting is slowly driving me insane.

The one called Dr. Perkins addresses me directly. “How did you discover this?”

“I’m a cheerleader,” I say proudly. “The pain just got to be too much.”

The new doctor moves her head in approval. “You’re lucky to have caught this when you did.”

“I know.”

Once the cavalcade of interns evacuates my space, I relax into the bed and let out a pent-up sigh. There’s peace in the room for about ten seconds, and then an orderly enters.

“Miss Hayley Matthews?” the gangly guy in green scrubs asks.

“C’est moi.”

He’s pushing a wheelchair and invites me to step into it. “I have to take you down for your MRI.”

Mom stands, wringing her hands. “May I come with her?”

“No, ma’am. That’s not allowed. But she’ll be just fine.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll just lie there like a good girl while they’re zapping my insides.” I laugh for good measure, but the humor is lost on her. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

Famous last words. I sit in a hallway for almost an hour waiting for my test. I look around at other people being wheeled up and down the hallways, nurses and technicians running this way and that and I’m just sitting here.

I glance over at my IV drip of glucose and notice there’s a blood trail leading from the spot where it’s connected to my hand to about halfway up the tube. “Oh my God! What’s happening?”

A guy in blue scrubs is walking by and stops to check on me. “What’s going on here?” he asks, as if I know or something.

“There’s, like, freaking blood in this tube. That can’t be right,” I say as calmly as I can.

“So there is,” he says, and then kneels next to me. His soft brown eyes venture up and down the tube, and he examines the connection into my hand. “Hmm... seems like this is a little loose. Let me fix this for you.”