Send Me a Sign (20 page)

“Don’t stay up too late. You’ve got a tough week ahead of you,” Dad cautioned.

“Not long. I promise.” I upped the wattage on my obedient-daughter smile.

“Tell Ryan we say hi. Sweet dreams.”

When I came downstairs, I expected Ryan to be putting his hands all over me, like he’d always been at parties last spring, but he wasn’t. He placed an arm around my shoulders and turned on
SNL
reruns. It would’ve been vindicating to know Hil was wrong if I wasn’t panicked about why.

Was it Ryan who’d changed, or me? This seemed like the most important question in the world. Like I couldn’t breathe until I’d heard his answer. “Do you, you know, want me? Even though I’m sick?”

“What?” He muted the TV and turned to me.

I stumbled over the words. “Now that you know. Do you still want me that way?”

“Mia, I’m eighteen. You’re seriously hot. If your parents weren’t upstairs …” He rested his hand on the back of the couch and leaned in. “I’d still go for it if I thought you wanted to. Do you?”

“It’s not that simple. Leukemia’s not a pretty disease. I’m probably going to lose my hair.” I tucked my knees under my chin and played with the fringe on a throw pillow.

“If I shaved my head would you like me less?” He ran his fingers across his hair then placed his hand on my arm.

“No, but it’s different.” I leaned my cheek against his hand and wanted to believe him.

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll be faster getting ready and I won’t have to make small talk with your dad. Do we have to worry about it now?” He shrugged and moved closer on the couch.

“I guess not.”

“Do you want me to show you how sexy you are?” Ryan put a cool hand on either side of my face, leaned in, and kissed me until I relaxed out of my defensive ball. He erased my doubts with his lips and didn’t stop until every thought but him had faded from my mind.

“There’s no rush,” he breathed against my collarbone, “but believe me, I want you.”

But when he was gone—insisting this didn’t count as a date and he wanted a raincheck—Mia-the-teenager vanished with him. I was back to leukemia-Mia, complete with her chemotherapy accessories: an IV pole, portacath, and barf bucket.

Chapter 26

Ryan was more nervous about my tubes than Gyver had been. “Does that hurt?” He pointed to my port with a horrified expression.

I adjusted my pajama top self-consciously and tugged my necklace. “Not much. They have cream that numbs it before they stick needles in.”

He looked green. “What’s that?” he asked each time something was hung on my IV pole.

“Fluids.” “Platelets.” “Nutrients.”

“And in there?” He pointed to the separate pole with its gray box and dials.

“That’s the chemo.”

It didn’t take days for the nausea to catch me this time around. When they’d administered the first dose yesterday, I’d been sick within an hour.

“Can you explain it again—sorry—but they killed the cancer already, right?” It was a parody of “One of the These Things is Not Like the Other”—healthy, tan Ryan in my sterile hospital room with my stress-scruffy parents and chemo-weakened me.

I nodded; the motion made me queasy.

“Then why do you need more chemo?” He moved his chair closer and touched my cheek—a baby step that made me feel astronomically better.

Mary Poppins Nurse answered Ryan’s question. “This is called consolidation therapy. We’re giving Mia three days of chemo—this is day two—to make sure she stays in remission. We’ll do this about every six weeks for six months.”

“But she seems sicker.”

“It’s not the cancer, it’s the treatment,” the nurse explained.

“The treatment makes her sicker?”

“Chemo’s rough, but I bet Mia’s glad you’re here.” They looked to me for agreement.

“You should leave the room,” I whispered.

“Why?” He looked around, confused.

“I’m—” I fought a wave of bitter saliva. “I’m going to be sick.”

Ryan stiffened—fight or flight battling on his face.

Tears filled my eyes, the weak tears of knowing I was about to throw up, knowing I’d feel better afterward but I’d feel worse during. “Go,” I said through my teeth.

Mom sighed and reached for the curved basin on the bedside table. She was angry I’d told Lauren, and while I wasn’t
officially getting the silent treatment, her I-need-some-quiet-to-think-about-what-you’ve-done was pretty darn close.

Ryan looked at me again; his face was as pale as mine felt. “Sorry,” he whispered as he fled.

Dad walked into the room at the end of my performance, carrying the ginger ale I’d sent him to fetch. “Oh, kiddo.”

I wanted to tell him to go find Ryan so I could say I was sorry and embarrassed; I just didn’t have the strength. Was it a sign? If he couldn’t handle vomit without running, he couldn’t handle this? I looked at my horseshoe above the door and traced the shape with my eyes.

Mom left instead, handing the basin to Mary Poppins Nurse on her way and pausing to ask, “Are you done or should I send Ryan on an errand?”

“Done,” I croaked.

Dad handed me a tissue. I wiped my face and eyes and blew my nose. Then forced down a sip of ginger ale as Ryan returned—looking more flustered and terrified than when he’d left.

“Sorry,” we said at the same time. My voice a gravelly whisper, his a guilty confession.

Ryan lifted my fingers to his lips. “I shouldn’t have freaked. I’ve seen Matherson do worse after too many beers. I’ll do better next time. Promise.”

Lauren visited too, bringing “movies and manicures, just like I promised,” but her fidgeting made me nervous. I kept waiting
for her to snag an IV line or trip when she flitted around the tight confines of my hospital room.

Not that it wasn’t good to see her. I was glad to hear news about school and the squad; relieved to hear Lauren had covered for me. “I told them you were too sick and contagious for visitors and implied you were puking your guts out.” She learned the irony of this statement when she uncapped the nail polish and the scent had me groping for a basin.

Lauren left the room while I vomited, but managed a tight smile when she returned. “So, no nails. Got it.”

“Sorry.”

“Movie time? I brought Logan Lerman.”

I vaguely remember watching previews before I fell into another one of my break-from-nausea naps.

Gyver called that night. “Can I visit tomorrow?”

I shifted in bed, unable to find a position that wasn’t achy. “Why would you even ask?”

“Ryan’s been there a lot. I didn’t want to intrude.” He sounded frustrated, or angry.

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you don’t come tomorrow I’ll be seriously offended.”

“Right after school?” he asked.

“I’ll be here.”

Life continued outside my room, but my world was reduced to sleeping, vomiting, and bloody noses. Mom had decided
that Lauren knowing wasn’t a disaster after all, because Lauren listened to her complaints and added her own gripes.

“Ugh! I don’t know how you can sit here all day without going crazy!” said Lauren. She was currently using the only free floor space to do yoga.

“Try staying overnight,” added Mom.

I shut my eyes. Lauren’s bouncing around wasn’t helping my stomach.

“Mia, you’ve got to eat. Lauren, tell her to eat.”

“Eat,” ordered Lauren.

I kept my eyes shut and ignored them. When I wasn’t actively throwing up, I felt like throwing up.

Mom sighed and continued, “We’ll have to let Dr. Kevin know that these antinausea drugs aren’t working. Skinny’s a good look for you, but not heroin chic.”

“I should be so lucky,” grumbled Lauren, flipping upright. “Seriously, how do you not go crazy trapped in here all day?”

I was too defeated to do more than look at them.

Gyver came and held my hand. He made me a new playlist and explained the brilliance in song arrangements while I nodded like I understood.

“Do you need help with school? Calc’s gotten pretty brutal, but I can try to explain it.”

“I can’t. Reading makes me sick. Everything makes me sick.” I gave him a pity-me smile.

“You know, you were more fun as the patient when we played doctor in second grade,” Gyver teased.

I returned a weak echo of his wicked grin, too tired to smack him. “You’re awful.”

“Speaking of awful, want me to read you
The Stranger
?”

I fell asleep soon after. When I woke, Ryan was the one holding my hand.

His phone was ringing. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, pressing a button to silence it.

“S’okay,” I answered with a yawn.

“Can I get you anything?” He’d shifted his arm around my shoulder—cautious of the tubes dripping chemicals into my chest.

My mouth was covered with sores—another side effect of chemo that was worse this time. The idea of eating was repulsive, but the alternative was intravenous nutrients and a longer hospital stay. “Could you get me a milkshake from the cafeteria? Vanilla.”

“Kitten, I can go,” Mom stood.

Ryan stopped her. “I’ve got it.” He was always asking to go get something: a cup of ice, coffee for Dad, herbal tea for Mom. And I’d recognized that he needed these breaks. But his visits had gotten progressively longer, and he no longer kept his hands in his pockets or flinched each time a nurse approached. Still, I wondered if he was proving something to me … or to himself.

“He’s such a good boyfriend,” Mom said proudly, like it was something she’d accomplished. One of the nurses had
taught her to knit, and she churned out scarves like an adding-machine tape. Her needles clicked with anxious energy—a sound that intruded into my dreams and set my teeth on edge.

“He’s not …,” I started, then decided it wasn’t worth it to explain—again. I shut my eyes. If I pretended to sleep, she usually shut up.

There was a new nighttime nurse on the floor. His name was Mark, and I got to know him since I didn’t sleep normal hours. It was totally sexist that I learned his real name, but the only nickname I could come up with was Hot Nurse. Plus, being the only male gave him an advantage. He was in his late twenties and very honest—he was a perk of insomnia. The only perk.

“It’s good to see you do have female friends,” he commented one night.