My bed felt too big and soft after so many nights on that thin mattress and stiff hospital sheets. The silence felt hollow, like the air was empty without the soft padding of nurses’ shoes, the squeaky wheel on the meds cart, the giggles and shrieks of kids in the lounge, the falsely positive chatter of visitors stepping into the hallway to “get some air,” the blip of machinery, the scream of alarms, and the buzz of the crash cart. I missed the noise. I’d become accustomed to it, even the annoying rattle of my hospital room’s air conditioner. It was scary to have so much freedom and privacy.
I was alone for the first time in five weeks. I could breathe without them watching. I could sneeze without raising an alarm.
I could … cry.
I’d leaked a tear or two during excruciating moments in the hospital, but these were real tears. Real, pitiful, fear-saturated sobs that shook my bed until Jinx mewed in annoyance and moved. Until I started to feel motion sick and empty. Now-what? tears that had been forbidden during the heavy surveillance of hospital life. Can-I-do-this? tears that would shatter my mother. I’m-so-lonely tears dedicated to the Calendar Girls and the lies I’d told them. My face felt tight and raw. My nose streamed all over the pillowcase.
“Get a grip,” I told myself in the dark, squeezing my necklace until I could feel a clover-shaped imprint on my palm. With one hand tangled in the chain and the other on Jinx, I fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 8
A salon appointment was my first trip out of the house since I’d left the hospital three days ago. I’d slept most of the first two days, grateful to wake up in my own room. Grateful my parents were settling back into hobbies other than watching me: Mom to her neglected gardening and Dad to the pool-shed-turned-astronomy-hideout, which he escaped to each night after dinner.
The August sunlight reflected off the salon’s windows. My head felt lighter. I’d left more than a foot of blond hair on the salon floor—until my mom had it all gathered and bagged. “I heard about a program where they can make a wig out of your own hair. Just in case.”
Nurse Snoopy had been right; the thinning wasn’t as noticeable with shorter hair. My phone rang while Mom paid. I tucked a strand of my new bob behind my ear and ducked out the door. “Hey, Ryan.”
“I hear you’re back in town.”
“I got home this morning,” I lied.
“I heard from Chris, who heard it from Hil. How come I didn’t hear it from you?” He sounded a little petulant and a lot sexy.
“Because I just got home. Are you in East Lake?”
“At the shore. Come down, we’ll celebrate your escape from the elderly. I’ve got the day off tomorrow and Chris’s mom is totally laid back about people staying over.”
Mom walked a step away—could she hear? “You want to celebrate my return to PA in Jersey?” I tacked on a teasing laugh.
Mom heard that—and shook her head. I mouthed, “I know,” and scowled.
“Well, your return to the Mid-Atlantic. C’mon—we’ll throw a big party and have everyone down. I don’t know anyone who deserves a party more than you, Saint Mia.”
“I just spent three hours in the car, I don’t want to spend the rest of the day fighting beach traffic.” They were reluctant lies. I’d gleefully sit in traffic if it meant I could flirt, bask in sunshine and Ryan’s smiles, and feel normal again.
“C’mon. You’re overdue for a party.”
“I just got home. Jinx’ll never forgive me if I leave again.”
“Ouch! I rate below your cat?” Ryan laughed. “Fine, if you won’t come see me, I’ll come to you. What are your plans for tomorrow?”
“I’m meeting the girls at Iggy’s.”
“I’ll be there. But I want to see you afterward.” His voice dropped into a husky tone that made me blush. “Alone.”
“Okay,” I managed.
“What time?”
“One thirty.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Bye.” I opened the car door.
“Ryan’s coming to lunch tomorrow?” Mom asked as she climbed into the driver’s seat.
“He’s driving up from the shore.”
“That’s nice. He’s such a handsome boy. How are you feeling?” She placed one hand on my forehead and fumbled in her purse with the other. She pulled out a thermometer in its plastic case.
“I can’t believe you have that in your purse,” I said. “What else is in there?”
“Dr. Kevin said you had to be careful. And that I needed to watch you closely for any signs of illness or infection.”
“I’m fine.”
“Humor me.” She pressed it into my palm.
I did. Put the thermometer under my tongue and waited for it to beep. “Perfectly normal. See?” I held it out to her.
“Thank you.” She took the thermometer back, handing me one of the bottles of antibacterial gel that were sprouting like a fungus around the house, in our cars, and inside all my purses.