What's Left of Me (30 page)

When we’re all at the table, Parker takes a seat next to me with his hand resting on my thigh.

“So, Parker, Aundrea tells us you two have been hanging out a lot.”

“Yes, sir.”

Parker addresses my dad so formally that I have to choke back a laugh.

Setting her pizza down, my mom speaks. “It’s good to know Aundrea is meeting new people.
 
Her dad and I were so concerned she wouldn’t leave the house.”

Parker looks over at me. “Why wouldn’t you leave the house?”

Laughing, I say the first thing that comes to mind.
 
“She’s only joking.
 
You know … online classes, a house, bed, food.
 
I have everything I need.
 
Why leave?” I joke, looking at my parents.
 
My eyes plead with them to drop it.
 
My mom looks at me with confusion, then recognition.
 
My dad looks at me with sadness.
 
They both now know that I haven’t told Parker.

We finish our lunch laughing and talking about embarrassing family vacation stories.
 
Parker watches me with interest the entire time, never taking his hands off me.
 
Mom keeps gushing over how cute we are while Dad continues to stare Parker down.

Before saying our goodbyes, my mom tells Parker he should join us for dinner soon, which he happily accepts.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks me.

“No, sorry.
 
I took some time off to spend with my parents.
 
I’ll call you later?”

“Of course.”
 
He pulls me into a hug.
 
Releasing me, he hesitates, looking over at my parents.
 
Running his finger gently along my lips, he whispers, “Goodbye, Aundrea.”

Chapter Sixteen

I’m sick.
 
Not your normal, not-feeling-well sick.
 
This is put-a-bullet-in-my-head-and-put-me-out-of-my-misery sick.
 
I’ve never been so ill in my life.
 
Nothing can or will ever compare to what I have been feeling.
 
If this is dying, I want no part.

My dad has to carry me from my bed to the couch, or from the couch to the bathroom.
 
I need my mom and Genna to assist me in going to the bathroom, which crushes me.
 
I hate that I can’t even stand up from the toilet on my own.

I’ve been eating pain pills like candy, drinking water like it’s my last drop, and lying in bed or on the couch as if I were in a coma.

Everything hurts.
 
My head, arms, legs, back, chest, throat—even my eyes.
 
I can’t keep them open long enough to get a clear view of anything.

My mom and Genna baby me, which makes me snap at them.
 
Even talking hurts.
 
I shoo them away anytime they come near me, which makes my mom cry.
 
I don’t mean to hurt her feelings, but I just need peace and quiet.
 
Every noise, creak, or whisper hurts my ears.

It hurts physically and emotionally to have anyone touching, moving, or talking to me.

Parker calls three times.
 
When I don’t answer, he starts texting.

Mr. Handsome:
Is everything ok? You’re not answering.

Mr. Handsome:
Aundrea?

Mr. Handsome:
I’m not trying to sound like a stalker but you’re freaking me out. Call me.

Mr. Handsome:
That’s it. I’m coming over.

It’s the last text that makes me call him.

“Aundrea?”
 
He answers on the first ring.

“Hi.”

He sighs with relief into the phone.
 
“What is going on?
 
I’ve called and texted.
 
Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.
 
I haven’t been by my phone much with my parents here.”

“I understand.
 
It’s just unusual that I haven’t heard from you.
 
You sure you’re okay?
 
You sound sad.”

I blink tears away.
 
My chest hurts.
 
I want to talk to him.
 
To tell him.
 
I hate that I’m withholding this from him.
 
“I’m okay.
 
I promise.
 
As soon as my parents leave I’ll call you, okay?
 
We can go out, or I can come over?”

“Yeah.
 
Sure.
 
Of course.
 
Just … please text me.
 
I don’t like worrying.”

“I will.
 
I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.
 
I’ll talk to you soon?”

“Of course.”

After hanging up, I drop the phone next to me.

My dad calls Dr. Olson to get a refill on my pain medication and to ask if what I’m experiencing is normal.
 
Just moving my arms feels as if my bones are breaking.
 
She confirms that it’s the drugs.
 
If need be, the next round in two weeks can get adjusted, but in the meantime I’m given a stronger pain medication, Dilaudid, along with more muscle relaxers.

By the third night, I lie awake in my bed from the tingling that has come back to my hands and feet.
 
The pain has gotten a little better thanks to the medication, though now I’m considering taking something to help me sleep.

Reaching into my nightstand, I get a pain pill and swallow it down with water.

I picking up my phone and see that it’s 2:00 am.
 
Still, I know Jean will answer.
 
She always does.

“Dre?
 
You okay?”
 
She picks up on the second ring.

I haven’t cried from the pain yet, even though I’ve come close many times.
 
I let a sniffle out into the phone, and I hear the rustling of sheets as she makes herself more comfortable in bed.
 
“Talk to me.
 
I’m here.”

“I …”
 
I try to speak, but the lump in my throat stops all words from coming out.

“Shh.”
 
Her voice is calming on the other end.
 
She’s the only person I don’t get upset at for trying to calm me down.
 
I think it’s because she’s the only one who really understands what I’m going through.
 
I don’t want to be comforted.
 
I want to let out my frustrations without someone taking it personally and running off to cry.

She won’t baby me.

She won’t tell me everything will be okay.

She listens.
 
She never judges and I love her for that.

I try to get the words out, but tears fall instead.
 
I gulp down air as the pain in my chest releases.
 
The sobs form, becoming stronger, and I don’t hold them back.
 
I let the tears soak my pillow as I cry hard into the phone.

“I just want it to stop.
 
All of it.
 
The pain.
 
The suffering.
 
The fucking cancer.
 
I want it gone.
 
I
need
it gone, Jean.
 
It’s tearing me apart inside.
 
God, I hate this.
 
Even all the lying I’m doing to Parker.
 
It’s breaking my heart.”

I can hear the muffled cries on the other end of the line, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I can’t keep doing this.
 
I can’t.
 
If this next round doesn’t take … if the transplant doesn’t work … I’m done, Jean.
 
I’m so fucking done with it.
 
I can’t do it.
 
My damn body can’t do it!
 
I can’t even take a shower alone, the pain is so bad.”
 
I pause, bringing my voice to a very low whisper. “When is it enough?”

I cry hard into the phone along with her.
 
I let the tears fall and I’m not ashamed.
 
I need them out.

Tomorrow is a different day.

Tomorrow will be better.

It can only get better.

My alarm is set to go off at eight, but my body disagrees.
 
The sun is barely up, and my mind is already running a marathon.
 
I stayed up with Jean until three crying into the phone.
 
When I was done, I said goodbye and tried to get some sleep.
 
I know that when I talk to her next, last night won’t get brought up, and I love her for that.

Parker sends me a message telling me he misses me and wants to come over and see me and spend time with my parents before they leave.
 
I’m horrified at the thought of him spending time with my family.
 
I love them, but sometimes I become the topic of discussion, or at least my cancer does.
 
I need to tell Parker first.
 
I just don’t know how.

Me:
Hey, sorry I didn’t reply last night. Late night. I think this weekend should work. I’ll let you know. Miss you too. Xo

He replies almost immediately.

Mr. Handsome:
It’s ok. Hope you slept well. Coming in today? I want to see you.

Me:
Not today. :( Sorry. Maybe next week …

Mr. Handsome:
 
Everything okay?

Me:
Yeah. :) I’ll call you later. Ok?

Mr. Handsome:
Sure.

I give my shoulders a quick rub, trying to get rid of the knots that have formed.
 
I feel better than I did last night, or yesterday—well enough, finally, to take a shower without my mom or Genna near.

After I get out of bed, I head straight for the bathroom.
 
Shower first, then coffee.

As I make my way into the bathroom, I hear Genna talking with my parents and Jason about breakfast.
 
I’m surprised they’re all up.
I don’t bother brushing my teeth first or grabbing fresh clothes.
 
I just want to feel the steam and warmth around me.

In the shower, I let the hot water run over me, letting my shoulders relax under the stream.
 
The water hits hard on just the right trigger points, lessening all the stress that has been building up for the last three days.
 
I keep eyes closed, feeling the warmth consume me, while I scrub every part of me clean.

I’m surprised how good a shower can make me feel after the days I’ve had.

Rubbing my hands over my face, I scrub away any makeup that may still be lingering.
 
I somehow allowed Genna to talk me into doing my makeup yesterday afternoon because she wouldn’t shut up about how it would make me feel better.
 
I think it was to make her feel better, like we were spending quality time together or something.

I give my eyes more attention, hoping to get all the mascara off.
 
There is nothing worse than the feeling of a washcloth scraping over my sensitive skin, but since I ran out of makeup remover wipes, this is my only hope of getting it off.

With a final scrub, I turn into the water to wash away any last bits of soap.
 
I take a step back from the running water and wipe my face with the dry towel I have hanging on the wall just outside the shower curtain.
Letting the towel fall back against the wall, I glance down at my hands where there are a few tiny black hairs on the outer tips of my fingers.
 
I turn my hands over to get a better look, separating my fingers slightly as I do.

“What the heck?” I whisper to myself, holding my now shaking hands up in the air.
 
The little hairs look like lashes, but they’re mixed with slightly longer hairs of golden copper and brown.

“Oh my God.”
 
These cannot be what I think they are.
 
Can they?

“Oh my God.
 
Oh my God!” I start to say louder into the running water.

Quickly pulling the curtain back, I step out of the shower, not bothering to grab the towel.
 
Heading straight to the vanity mirror, I grab a hand towel to wipe away the steam that has formed on the mirror and try to see my reflection through the foggy glass.

“Oh my God!” I yell at my reflection.
 
My eyes are still hazel, but they’re no longer surrounded by full, dark lashes.
 
They’re empty.
 
Every single eyelash is gone.

Every.
 
Single.
 
One.

I don’t have time to panic about my eyelashes because my eyes make a fast glance over the rest of my face where I notice the thinned out space that once held my freshly-tweezed golden eyebrows.
 
I gasp at the sight.
 
My hands fly up to my mouth.
 
My eyebrows are almost gone.
 
There are chunks missing.
 
There is almost nothing left.
 
I won’t be able to fix it.
 
I’ll have to pluck them all.