“Wait, what’s happening?” I’m nearly speechless. “What are you doing? You’re posting this?”
“If you’re okay with it, it’s the best way.” His arm goes around my shoulders, and he kisses the top of my head. “There are hundreds of thousands of people out there who are going to hear about this. And they are going to help us reach Steffi.”
“Two minutes ago, you were going to get off-line. You can’t possibly think this will work. God, Esben, it’s one thing to get help for a kid’s party. Or to adopt a dog. But there’s no way even you can do this.”
“Yes, there is.” He squeezes me tightly. “Watch me.”
“What about . . . you two are supposed to go home tomorrow.”
“Our parents will understand,” Kerry says. “They know us. They know Esben.”
“Thank you. Thank you both, so much.” I look between these amazing people. “I don’t know what else to say. You guys are—”
“We love you,” Kerry says firmly. “And we’re going to get you to Steffi.”
“We will,” Esben agrees. “Send me that picture; then we’re leaving.”
My emotions are trying to take over. “What if . . .” Dammit, this hurts. “What if we don’t make it in time? What if—”
“Don’t talk like that,” he insists. “We will get there. Listen to me. We will.”
I hope he’s right about that. He has to be.
CHAPTER 27
#ALLISONANDSTEFFI
Esben’s post has exploded. He had to break it into a ton of tweets to get it all up on Twitter, but that’s probably good for exposure anyway.
My friends, I need to ask for your help. #girlfriendallison has a best friend, Steffi. A best friend who has been Allison’s support through hell and back, especially while growing up in the rocky and often scary and unstable foster-care system. Many of us understand what it means to be lucky enough to have a true, hard-core friend, and Steffi has been Allison’s saving grace over and over.
With a heavy heart, I am asking for your help.
Steffi is in the final stages of a brutal cancer, AML. It’s imperative that we get Allison to her as soon as possible so that these friends can be together when Steffi leaves this world. We need to make it to Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles as quickly as possible. Between the airline strikes and spring break, we need your help. Starting this journey now from Landon, Maine. Please use the hashtag #allisonandsteffi if you can help. Thank you in advance, and love you all.
He’s attached a beautiful picture of Steffi and me, and I’m torn between looking at it constantly and never wanting to see it again. She is healthy and vibrant in the photo, and I know she won’t look anything like this when I get to her. If I get to her.
An hour into the drive, I’ve accepted that I cannot keep up with the three of them. Esben, Kerry, and Jason are alternately silent and rapid-firing back and forth as they track comments and try to make a plan. There’s talk of too many airports, too many cities, too many time slots. Mention of trains and rental cars and overnight stays that will never get us there while there is any life still running through my friend and hero. I’m terrified that I won’t be able to give Steffi what she needs in her final hours.
Final hours. I want to vomit at those words.
“Stop jumping so far ahead!” Esben shouts. “I don’t want to hear about what could happen if we randomly got to Orlando, okay? Or about that person in Phoenix who will throw us in a wheelbarrow and run us to a bus station. Subway schedules in random cities do nothing! That’s not helping! We’ve got seats on a flight from Bangor to Chicago. That’s cutting it close, but let’s assume that will work. So get us from O’Hare to a second location, preferably directly to Los Angeles. Give me two steps at a time, max.”
I take a break from staring out the window and set my hand on his shoulder. “Esben, they’re trying their best.”
“I know, I know.” He looks into the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, guys.”
“Chicago is a huge start,” I remind him. Steffi sent me ten heart icons when I messaged her this news.
Two generous, incredible sisters from Colby College, on their way home for break, are meeting us at the Maine airport to give us their seats. They’ve already arranged this with an airline agent, and I have tweeted them five times already to thank them.
I call Simon, and he picks up immediately. “I’m up to speed. What can I do? You have the credit card I gave you for emergencies. Use it for whatever you need.”
“Okay. Thank you so much.” Something about hearing his voice weakens my resolve not to cry. “But I’m not sure that will help.”
“I know,” he says sympathetically. “But it’s there. Don’t worry about the expense. This is Steffi we’re talking about.”
“Thank you. I had to call you . . . I just . . .”
“It’s all okay. I love you, and I love Steffi. I know you’re going to be rushed and crazed, but don’t forget that I’m here. You tell me if you need anything at all.”
“I will.” I’m back to looking out the window.
“I’m texting her, and she’s writing back,” he tells me. “Just so you know.”
“Simon? I love you.”
I have to hang up before I crack.
The flurry of talk in the car is more than I can absorb, and I check out Twitter and Facebook to see if I can help out at all. It only takes a few minutes of scrolling to understand how difficult this will be. There are tons and tons of replies and hashtag comments, including a substantial portion that send love out to Steffi and me. Ones from people who have been in similar situations, on the brink of losing a best friend. The outpouring of support in such a short time is mind-boggling and incredibly touching. Excruciating, but touching, still. The problem, though, is that right now what we need is practical help.
“Do a new post,” I say, but they’re so busy talking and trying to plan that they don’t hear me. “Guys, we need a new post!” I say more loudly.
“Why?” Esben asks.
“Because this last one is clogged with . . . with good wishes. It’s all so sweet, but we need a post for solely practical offers of help.”
“You’re right. Dammit, I should have thought of that. Kerry, log on as me and post again. Thank everyone for their kind words, but ask that this thread be only for logistics and stuff. Tell people that we’ll do a new post for each leg of this trip. Letting people know where we are, and if we have a next step planned.”
“Gotcha.”
Jason’s hand rests on my shoulder. “You holding up okay?”
I nod. “For now, yes.”
“Atta girl.”
There is some quiet while the new posts go up, and I flip off the radio, because every song sounds like a funeral to me right now.
“Oh hell,” Esben suddenly says.
“What?”
But the sputtering noise from the car answers, and Esben pulls off to the side of the road. We’re out of gas. He hits the steering wheel hard three times. “I cannot believe I did this.”