“Yes, but that sounds like anxiety.” He reached out and put a calming hand on mine, which was so twisted in my necklace it was cutting trails in my fingers.
“I’m not dying?”
“Not today. But you need to take better care of yourself—you shouldn’t have let yourself get this sick before telling anyone. Have you been sleeping? Eating well?”
“No.” I plucked at the sheet, pulling my knees up toward my chin. “I can’t. It got so … It just seemed like too much.” My heart was starting to throb and something began to beep.
“Take a deep breath.”
I did, but it made me cough. I tried again with more success.
The doctor nodded encouragingly as my pulse slowed and the beeping stopped. “You are responding to treatment, but there’s a mental toll as well as a physical one. I’m going to have a counselor visit you.”
Yesterday I would’ve scoffed and rejected his advice. But yesterday I’d been ready to give up and accept death. I wasn’t anymore. “Okay.”
“Cancer’s part of your life; it isn’t your whole life. You need some long-term perspective, and we need to get that anxiety under control.”
“Thanks.”
“Now get some sleep,” he insisted.
Like I had a choice. My eyelids were already sealing out his words and the world. Anxiety? I fumbled closed-eyed until I found the Play button on Gyver’s iPod.
“Mark, do you speak Italian?” I asked drowsily. I’d been fading in and out of sleep as I tried to focus on the songs Gyver’d chosen. I’d fall asleep in one song and wake up coughing in the next. Fall asleep and wake up during the same song—did that mean I’d slept only seconds, or through a whole repetition of the playlist? The fever wasn’t helping either. Not much was making sense.
My parents—thinking I was asleep—had exited at Mark’s entrance.
“Are you worried about school? You know it’s 3:30 a.m., right? I guarantee your teacher will give you an extension.”
“I’m just trying to figure something out.” I rubbed a sleepy hand across my eyes and tried to focus. “Gyver made me this. Does this mean what I think?” I tapped the dial to illuminate the screen.
Mark chuckled. “Clever boy; great play on your name.” “Humor me. I’m not sure I believe it,” I said, wider awake now.
Mark grinned. “Yup, ‘Mi Amore’ means ‘my love.’ Like I said, pretty clever.”
“Oh. I thought so, maybe. I hoped …”
Mark laughed at the blush creeping up my neck. “Should I send him in? He’s in the waiting room. You can have a quick visit as long as you remember the infection rule …” He looked at me expectantly, but I stared blankly. “No kissing,” he reminded.
“Mark said you wanted Gyver, but I asked to see you first.” Ryan’s eyes were red and his suit was rumpled. His blue tie was crushed half in his pocket.
“Hi.” I failed my weak attempt to sit up. “You didn’t go home?”
“Chris came. He took Hil home and me to get my car, but I came right back.” His words had the flavor of confession.
“You didn’t have to. You should get some sleep.”
“Gyver stayed.” Ryan’s posture went rigid, then slumped in resignation. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. How’re you feeling?” He sat in the chair beside my bed.
“Better. Tired. Sick. It sounds like I’ll be here a while.”
“Yeah.” Ryan swallowed and fidgeted with the pockets of his suit coat. “I’d take back all the crap I said last night, but …”
I reached for the hand that had been my lifeline, and he crushed my fingers one last time. “No, you were right, I just wasn’t brave enough to say it first. We weren’t happy.”
“God, this sucks.” He extracted his fingers from mine and stared out the window. “What happens now?”
“I hope we can be friends.”
“Yeah …” He sighed. “I should let you sleep. Or see Gyver.” The second sentence was harder for him to say.
I thought about denying it, but I was done lying. “Thanks, for everything. Will you send him in?”
Ryan nodded; it was a quick, tight motion. “Mia, I’m not going to visit for a while. I need some time.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I’ll miss you.”
He smiled, but it was a small, sad, dimple-free smile. “Ditto,” he said, and backed out of the room.
Chapter 49
“I keep asking for Gyver and getting everyone else.” I held out my arms for parental hugs, expecting coos of “Kitten, how are you?” and offers to hunt down Popsicles. Instead, Mom sat in a chair and Dad frowned from the end of my bed.
“You knew,” Mom said simply. “You knew you were sick and you didn’t tell us.”
It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation.
“Yes.”
“Why?” Dad’s voice was a thunderstorm, crashing and making me tremble. My throat began to constrict. “Why would you take risks with your health? You’re smarter than this.”
My mother reached for a tissue. My father turned his back to me.