Dad walked into the room at the end of my performance, carrying the ginger ale I’d sent him to fetch. “Oh, kiddo.”
I wanted to tell him to go find Ryan so I could say I was sorry and embarrassed; I just didn’t have the strength. Was it a sign? If he couldn’t handle vomit without running, he couldn’t handle this? I looked at my horseshoe above the door and traced the shape with my eyes.
Mom left instead, handing the basin to Mary Poppins Nurse on her way and pausing to ask, “Are you done or should I send Ryan on an errand?”
“Done,” I croaked.
Dad handed me a tissue. I wiped my face and eyes and blew my nose. Then forced down a sip of ginger ale as Ryan returned—looking more flustered and terrified than when he’d left.
“Sorry,” we said at the same time. My voice a gravelly whisper, his a guilty confession.
Ryan lifted my fingers to his lips. “I shouldn’t have freaked. I’ve seen Matherson do worse after too many beers. I’ll do better next time. Promise.”
Lauren visited too, bringing “movies and manicures, just like I promised,” but her fidgeting made me nervous. I kept waiting for her to snag an IV line or trip when she flitted around the tight confines of my hospital room.
Not that it wasn’t good to see her. I was glad to hear news about school and the squad; relieved to hear Lauren had covered for me. “I told them you were too sick and contagious for visitors and implied you were puking your guts out.” She learned the irony of this statement when she uncapped the nail polish and the scent had me groping for a basin.
Lauren left the room while I vomited, but managed a tight smile when she returned. “So, no nails. Got it.”
“Sorry.”
“Movie time? I brought Logan Lerman.”
I vaguely remember watching previews before I fell into another one of my break-from-nausea naps.
Gyver called that night. “Can I visit tomorrow?”
I shifted in bed, unable to find a position that wasn’t achy. “Why would you even ask?”
“Ryan’s been there a lot. I didn’t want to intrude.” He sounded frustrated, or angry.
“Don’t be ridiculous. If you don’t come tomorrow I’ll be seriously offended.”
“Right after school?” he asked.
“I’ll be here.”
Life continued outside my room, but my world was reduced to sleeping, vomiting, and bloody noses. Mom had decided that Lauren knowing wasn’t a disaster after all, because Lauren listened to her complaints and added her own gripes.
“Ugh! I don’t know how you can sit here all day without going crazy!” said Lauren. She was currently using the only free floor space to do yoga.
“Try staying overnight,” added Mom.
I shut my eyes. Lauren’s bouncing around wasn’t helping my stomach.
“Mia, you’ve got to eat. Lauren, tell her to eat.”
“Eat,” ordered Lauren.
I kept my eyes shut and ignored them. When I wasn’t actively throwing up, I felt like throwing up.
Mom sighed and continued, “We’ll have to let Dr. Kevin know that these antinausea drugs aren’t working. Skinny’s a good look for you, but not heroin chic.”
“I should be so lucky,” grumbled Lauren, flipping upright. “Seriously, how do you not go crazy trapped in here all day?”
I was too defeated to do more than look at them.
Gyver came and held my hand. He made me a new playlist and explained the brilliance in song arrangements while I nodded like I understood.
“Do you need help with school? Calc’s gotten pretty brutal, but I can try to explain it.”
“I can’t. Reading makes me sick. Everything makes me sick.” I gave him a pity-me smile.
“You know, you were more fun as the patient when we played doctor in second grade,” Gyver teased.
I returned a weak echo of his wicked grin, too tired to smack him. “You’re awful.”
“Speaking of awful, want me to read you The Stranger?”
I fell asleep soon after. When I woke, Ryan was the one holding my hand.
His phone was ringing. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, pressing a button to silence it.
“S’okay,” I answered with a yawn.
“Can I get you anything?” He’d shifted his arm around my shoulder—cautious of the tubes dripping chemicals into my chest.
My mouth was covered with sores—another side effect of chemo that was worse this time. The idea of eating was repulsive, but the alternative was intravenous nutrients and a longer hospital stay. “Could you get me a milkshake from the cafeteria? Vanilla.”
“Kitten, I can go,” Mom stood.
Ryan stopped her. “I’ve got it.” He was always asking to go get something: a cup of ice, coffee for Dad, herbal tea for Mom. And I’d recognized that he needed these breaks. But his visits had gotten progressively longer, and he no longer kept his hands in his pockets or flinched each time a nurse approached. Still, I wondered if he was proving something to me … or to himself.