“And your grades? I spent an hour on the phone with Principal Baker this afternoon.” Dad’s voice rebounded off the wall but didn’t lose any of its anger.
This surprised me, but it shouldn’t have. Fall Ball was the deadline I’d agreed to, and I’d ceased pretending to catch up after Jinx died.
Dad stomped to my side. “Goddamn it, Mia! What have you been doing? It’s like you’ve given up.”
“I had,” I whispered.
“What?” The emotion drained from Dad’s face as he uncurled his fingers from the bed rail and sank into a chair.
“I had given up,” I explained, trying to fight off the chest tightening and continue. “I was so tired, and I didn’t think I’d make it. It didn’t seem worth it to keep trying so hard.”
“How could you do that to me? You can’t give up.” Mom sobbed and held her arms out to Dad, but he stayed frozen on the other side of my bed.
“How could you expect me to handle all of this? Mom, you put so much pressure on me. My life was hard before—it was impossible once I got sick. It got so bad; giving up seemed like my only option.”
“You should have told us,” she countered. “How are we supposed to help if we don’t know what’s wrong?”
“It’s always been so hard to make you proud and so easy to let you down; I don’t know how to flat-out fail at something. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
I watched the tissue flutter from Mom’s hand as she reached out to squeeze my fingers. Tears flowed down her cheeks undabbed.
Dad looked lost, his mouth gaped.
“I was just so scared.” I let the tears salt my cheeks; I shook with months of fear, coughing convulsively.
Dad reacted first, coming to rub my back and offer me water as I choked. Mom stayed still: confusion, then something else, passing over her face. She picked up the box of tissues and murmured, “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay! I can’t do it all.” I continued crying, alternating sobs with coughing fits that hurt enough to make me cry more and left me woozy. “I … I can’t worry about being your perfect daughter with the 4.0 and pretty friends and popular boyfriend and fight cancer at the same time.”
I wiped my cheek on my sleeve and took a few deep breaths. “I don’t want to do it all.” Paused to cough. “And I need it to be okay if I don’t always do what you want.” Paused again to catch my breath. “Or live your dream for my life.”
Mom handed me tissue after tissue. She wasn’t saying anything, but she was listening. That was a start.
Between gasps, I managed to convey the conclusions I’d reached. “I was focused on the wrong things. Everything I gave up and couldn’t have. I stopped realizing how lucky I am. I mean, treatment is going well, right, Dad?”
“Very well. Your latest platelet count—” Mom held up a hand and he nodded and let me continue.
“If I can’t go to college far away, or can’t go full time, or even can’t go right after graduation—it’s not the end of the world. Neither is not cheering or not having hair.”
“I can make a list of colleges near hospitals with good oncology programs,” mused Dad.
I nodded; list making was his form of comfort. It was the Dad version of superstition, but I needed more than that. “I want to have conversations where you hear me, not just compile facts and make mental graphs. Do you get the difference?”
Mom shot him an I-told-you-so look, but I took one last shaky breath and finished. “What I’m saying is, I’m sorry I lied to you. I get it now.” I wiped my face.
“Feel better?” Mom asked, her voice hopeful.
I would have nodded and smiled yesterday. Today I shook my head. “No. But can I see Gyver?”
“Now?” Dad asked.
I lost my battle with a yawn. “I need to talk to him. I’ve been waiting all morning.”
“All morning? It’s four thirty. You need some sleep, kitten.”
“After I see Gyver, I promise.”
Dad spoke up, “No. No more promises or bargains. I listened, I heard you, but you’ve got to earn back our trust. Right now, your top priority has to be your health. You need to sleep, not socialize.”
“But …” My voice rose in pitch as my eyes filled again.
“But nothing. Sleep and eat breakfast; then you can see him.” Dad’s voice was firm.
Mom looked between Dad and me. She nodded. “Get some sleep and then he can visit. It’s just Gyver; he’ll wait.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” I whined like a toddler protesting bedtime, my argument undermined by a second traitorous yawn.
“Then I guess you don’t want to see your friends,” Dad countered.
“Fine.” If it’s possible to slam your eyes shut, that’s what I did. Of course, all it did was jar tears loose and send them disloyally down my cheeks.
Mom wiped them. “He can visit after ten. I’ll send him home to get some sleep too.”
Chapter 50