Chapter 12
Gyver was my bridge between the hospital and real life; he made it impossible to separate the two or doubt the existence of either. We sat in his basement after cheerleading tryouts. All I’d done was demonstrate a few routines, but I was exhausted. Gyver was playing guitar and I was slipping into a doze when a thought blurbled into my mind.
“You were chatty in the hospital,” I accused.
“One of us had to be.” Gyver took off the guitar and sat on my side of the couch. I rested my sleepy head on his shoulder. “Luckily, you slept all the time so I never ran out of topics.”
“What did you talk about?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Some—but not a lot.” My hospital memories were smudged a bit. Even my emotions were faded, like it had happened to someone else—a character in a book I’d read or a movie I’d seen. “It’s all hazy. Like trying to take a test after pulling an all-nighter. I’d flunk if you quizzed me on my own life.”
“Like you’d ever flunk anything.”
“I got a C on a pop quiz in bio freshman year,” I reminded him.
“And you cried for hours. You’re crazy.” He traced a lazy hand up and down my arm.
“I’m motivated,” I corrected. “You should talk—isn’t your GPA three hundredths higher than mine?”
“I don’t know. Who keeps track of that?” Gyver leaned his head against mine.
“We talked about movies, didn’t we?” I asked after a pause. “You were making a list of movies I needed to see. And music. You talked about bands I’d never heard of.”
“Maybe that’s why you kept falling asleep.” Gyver pulled me closer and I nuzzled drowsily against his chest. “I made lots of lists. Bands, movies, things to do when you got out of the hospital.”
“What’re we going to do?” I wanted to stay awake and have this conversation—it felt important—but I was so sleepy and comfortable.
His voice hushed. “Anything. Everything. I want to do everything with you, Mi.”
“Can I see these lists?” I murmured, an escapist yawn splitting the final word in two.
“Not tonight. We’ve got time.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Mrs. Russo fretted as she showed me where to stack the mail and how she’d gathered the plants on the kitchen table so I could water them while they were away for a week in Martha’s Vineyard. The routine hadn’t changed since I started plant sitting in second grade.
“I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re feeling too tired, it’s okay to miss a day.”
This was proof I shouldn’t tell people; Mrs. Russo doubted my ability to empty a mailbox and fill a watering can.
“I’ve managed to keep myself alive so far; I don’t think a dozen plants will be too tricky.” I smiled, she didn’t.
“Dearest, take a seat. Do you have a minute?” She fussed in the fridge, serving me a large dish of tiramisu. “Can you eat this?”
I reached around the island and grabbed a fork from the drawer. “I can if you don’t tell my mom.”
She smiled, poured a glass of milk, and sat across from me. “I’ve wanted to talk to you since your diagnosis, but I haven’t found a moment where you weren’t guarded by my son or your mom.”
I dragged my fork through the dessert, mixing the powdered top into the creamy layer. “About what?”
She put a hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were all sympathy with no trace of their police-chief sternness. “This hiding thing you’re doing, it isn’t good. You’re sick. You’ve got leukemia. Hiding it, lying about it, those are forms of denial.”
“I know I’m sick.” The dessert curdled in my mouth.
“And I know your parents. I know you.” She paused. “This is your time to kick your feet and make a fuss. Cry, yell, do something. You’re allowed. It’d be healthy.”
The irony of the word “healthy” snapped me out of the pity cocoon I’d started to build. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“Leukemia is not fine. Not accepting you’re sick isn’t fine. Your stoicism and the lies—Mia, you have to tell people.”
“I don’t have to do anything.” I crossed my arms. “You think I don’t know I’m sick? I couldn’t forget if I wanted to! Whether or not other people know—that’s my choice. I don’t need or want people judging me.”
“I’m not judging, but you need to focus on getting well, not waste energy pretending everything’s okay for your parents or your friends.” She pulled me close and I relented, clutching a handful of her sundress so she couldn’t let go.
This comfort felt a bit like betrayal; Mom would hate this whole conversation. She’d say Mrs. Russo was meddling; that this wasn’t sympathy, it was pity.
I let myself linger for another few seconds before I pulled away from the embrace and swallowed a sob. I couldn’t go down that pathetic, sloppy, poor-me path. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. I just needed to try little harder and do a better job of faking it until the pieces of my life fell back into place.