“I feel … lousy.” My throat clenched in coughs to punctuate my statement.
The doctor cleared his throat. “I’d imagine you do. You have pneumonia. In fact, now you’ve all seen she’s okay, the best thing we can do for Mia is to let her get some rest. Then no more than three visitors at a time.”
Mom kissed my forehead. “I’m going to go call Dr. Kevin. Say good-bye to your friends, then get some sleep. We’ll be back.” Dad squeezed my hand and followed.
“Five minutes, then go,” the doctor ordered. “I’ll be back to check on you.”
Ryan, Hil, and Gyver hesitated. They each had an agenda; I owed each an explanation. Ryan stepped forward first. He touched my cheek. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.” The words grated against my throat and I coughed to clear them.
If possible, he paled further. “Don’t apologize; just get better.”
Hil stepped forward and pushed Ryan out of the way. He looked like he might argue, then didn’t. Simply drifted back to lean against the wall. She opened and shut her mouth three times before she could get the words out. “I thought it’d be easier to be mad at you than scared. It wasn’t.” Her eyes were anguished; they flitted between my bare head and the needle in my arm. “Don’t ever lie to me like that again.”
“I won’t. I’m sorry,” I rasped.
“I’m sorry too.” She hugged me, wary of my tubes. “I thought you didn’t need me anymore.” She was tearing up and I was too.
“Not possible, Hil. I was stupid.”
That was the limit of Gyver’s patience. He pressed past Hil and sat on the side of the bed—claiming his spot and my attention. “Not stupid. Scared.”
Over his shoulder, Hil gave me an amused smile. “I’ll visit soon—I’ve got some questions and want answers.” She rolled her eyes in the direction of Gyver’s back, then propelled Ryan out the door.
I leaned close to Gyver, inhaled a painful breath, and began. “You were right. I was selfish. And really, really hurtful. I’m so sorry. I need you to forgive me. I need you.” Tears again.
Gyver waited until I was done coughing. “As much as I’m convinced you’re perfect, the doctors keep telling me you’re only human … Though there’s nothing only about you. You were scared. Sorry I was so judgmental.”
“I didn’t get your CD before, but I do now.”
“Do you?”
“I think so. I hope so. I listened to more of it. ‘Fix You,’ by Coldplay. That’s a ‘surrender’ song. Isn’t it?”
“That’s why I picked it. What do you think?”
“I think—” There was so much I needed to say, but my head was clouded with fever and fatigue. I reached for his hand. “I think you’ve given me another reason to prove the psychic wrong.”
“Time’s up,” the doctor said from the door. “Let her rest. You can come back tomorrow.”
Why couldn’t it be Dr. Kevin, who knew it was Gyver’s right to be by my side now and whenever?
“I didn’t get to listen to all of it yet. And my car’s at the school.” Alarm tightened my grip on his hand.
Gyver removed his iPod from the pocket of his jacket and scrolled through its screens. “It’s on here too. I’d tell you to sleep now and listen later, but you’ve got a history of falling asleep to my music.” He gently tucked the earbuds in my ears.
I blinked at the small screen. “You spelled my name wrong.”
“No, I didn’t.”
I gave him a dubious look. “I know how to spell my name.”
“I didn’t. Your name has never been awesome because it’s alliterative. Remember, Mi, I’m Italian.”
“What does that mean?” I yawned.
“You’re a smart girl; you’ll figure it out.” Gyver squeezed my hand, then released it to cup my face. Slowly, making intense eye contact the whole time, he leaned in and brushed his lips down my cheek. “You sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Doctor?” I called as he held the door open for Gyver. “Can I talk to you?”
“Sure.” The doctor looked young and driven. Four pens spaced evenly in his pocket, short hair gelled into perfection. His face was focused determination versus Dr. Kevin’s endless cheer.
“How sick am I? Did you say pneumonia?”
“You’re sick. You’ll be in here for about a week while we get your fever down and lungs clear. Maybe longer.”
“No, I mean, other than that: the cancer?”
He frowned. “That hasn’t changed—you’re doing well. Responding to treatment. I checked your records and your last counts were excellent. I know you’re supposed to begin your next round of consolidation chemo next week—we’ll have to push that back until you’re better. But it won’t be a problem.”
“But I’ve been getting these pains. My heart races and it feels like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. It feels like I’m dying.”
The doctor appraised me. “Rapid pulse? Shallow breathing? It sounds like anxiety.”
“Aren’t I sick?”