All the Days of Her Life

by Lurlene McDaniel

  She went hot and cold all over. It was as if he’d shone a light into some secret part of her heart and something dark and ugly had crawled out. She had rejected Jeff because she didn’t want a sick boyfriend. She’d said as much to Katie at Jenny House.

  “It’s any sickness, Jeff. It’s mine too. I hate it all. I know it’s not your fault, but it’s not mine either.”

  “I’ll bet no one at your school knows you’re a diabetic.”

  She said nothing.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “You know, Lacey, you’re the person who won’t accept that you have a disease. Why is that?”

  She whirled on him. “How can you ask me that when you’ve just admitted that girls drop you once they discover you’re a bleeder? You of all people should understand why I keep my little secret.”

  ALSO AVAILABLE IN DELL LAUREL-LEAF BOOKS

  FREEDOM BEYOND THE SEA, Waldtraut Lewin

  GATHERING BLUE, Lois Lowry

  HEAVEN EYES, David Almond

  THE RANSOM OF MERCY CARTER, Caroline B. Cooney

  PLAYING FOR KEEPS, Joan Lowery Nixon

  GHOST BOY, Iain Lawrence

  THE RAG AND BONE SHOP, Robert Cormier

  SHADES OF SIMON GRAY, Joyce McDonald

  WHEN ZACHARY BEAVER CAME TO TOWN, Kimberly Willis Holt

  THE GADGET, Paul Zindel

  Published by

  Dell Laurel-Leaf

  an imprint of

  Random House Children’s Books

  a division of Random House, Inc.

  New York

  Copyright © 1994 by Lurlene McDaniel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

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  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Visit Lurlene McDaniel’s Web site! www.lurlenemcdaniel.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-77638-9

  v3.1

  For my son, Sean. Twice a day, every day, for all the days of your life.

  I would like to thank Gary Klieman and all of the staff of the Diabetes Research Institute, 1450 N.W. 10th Avenue, Miami, Florida 33136, for their invaluable help in the researching of this book. Much is being done to cure diabetes, and the DRI is one of the foremost institutions working in the area of islet cell transplantation today.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  One

  LACEY DUVAL SAT on her bed hating the filled insulin syringe she held in her hand. Another morning and she needed her shot. The needle made her feel like a prisoner, even though her doctor always said it made her life easier. She’d been a diabetic since she’d turned eleven, so she’d spent five years giving herself twice-a-day shots and of living in fear of untimely insulin reactions. She hated the whole business.

  “Lacey!” her mother called from the kitchen. “The phone’s for you. It’s your friend from Michigan. Don’t be too long, or you’ll be late for school. I’m leaving for work now. I’ll see you after six.”

  Lacey grabbed the extension on her desk. “Hi,” said her friend Katie O’Roark in Ann Arbor. “I know it’s early to call, but I wanted you to know we’re bringing Chelsea home from the hospital today.”

  “That’s great. How’s she doing?”

  “So far no problems with organ rejection. Her new heart’s working fine.”

  Lacey was relieved. She’d spent weeks worrying about Chelsea, afraid that her friend’s heart transplant would reject and she would die. She shuddered over thoughts about sickness and death. “How’s she dealing with Jillian’s death?”

  “That part’s been rougher,” Katie confessed. “She was in the pits for weeks and almost lost her will to live. You know that Jillian left Chelsea a videotape and Chelsea played it over and over. I think that helped change her attitude. I think she’s crazy about Jillian’s brother DJ too. But it looks pretty hopeless for them to get together.”

  Lacey had met Jillian only once, but the girl had had an impact on her. Lacey felt it wasn’t fair that people got sick, or needed organs and there weren’t enough to go around to make everyone well. Especially kids. She set down her insulin syringe, loathing it more than ever because it reminded her that although she felt fine, and looked “normal,” she was saddled with a disease.

  “How long will Chelsea and her mom stay with you before she can go back home?” Lacey asked.

  “Another six weeks.” Katie paused. “My parents have been great. We’ll all miss her when she leaves. She’s been living with us since September, so I’ve gotten used to having her around.”

  Lacey’s bedside clock radio warned her that she was going to be late for first period, but she didn’t cut off the conversation. “How’s track coming?”

  “The season opens in April. I’ll be ready. Right now there’s snow on the ground.”

  “I’ve read about snow. White stuff that’s cold. Here in Miami, it’s going to be seventy-five today. I may have to dab on some suntan lotion.”

  “You’re mean!” Katie said with a laugh. “We probably won’t see the ground until March.”

  “How’s your little problem with Josh and Garrison working out? It must be hard to have two guys longing for you, although I wouldn’t know.”

  Katie sighed and Lacey sensed her frustration. “Josh still sees red if Garrison so much as talks to me in the hall.”

  “That’s not who I’m asking about. How does Katie feel about Garrison?”

  “I wish I’d never mentioned him to you. You ask too many loaded questions.”

  “Remember what I told you over Thanksgiving break at Jenny House,” Lacey answered. “Some guys like to mess with a girl’s head. It makes them feel important.”

  Katie sidestepped Lacey’s question. “How about you and Jeff? Did you hear from him over Christmas?”

  “Jeff sent me a card from Colorado, but I ignored it.”

  “You are so cruel, Lacey.”

  “Don’t preach. I know what I’m doing.” Like the others in her circle of Jenny House friends, Jeff was also sick, a hemophiliac. Lacey knew she couldn’t handle having a sick boyfriend no matter how much she liked him. The clock stared accusingly at her. She was going to be very late. “Listen, much as I hate to cut this short, I’ve got to go to school.”

  “I’m sorry to make you late. I miss talking to you.”

  “Same here. I’ll call you and Chelsea on Saturday, when the rates are lower. Tell her I’m really glad she’s doing so well.”

  “Will
do.”

  Lacey hung up, grabbed her books, and headed to the door. She was turning her car into the school parking lot, when she remembered her insulin syringe lying beside the phone. If she returned home for it, she’d be worse than tardy, she’d be given a detention. All right, so you forgot, she told herself philosophically. No big deal. It wouldn’t be the first time. She’d simply cut back on her eating all day and locate near a water fountain to deal with the thirst she knew would come.

  By noon her burning thirst seemed unquenchable. Lacey pleaded sickness—in fact, she felt sick to her stomach from high blood sugar—and got out of phys ed. When the school nurse saw her, she sent her home. When Terri Gutierrez saw her in the hall on her way out, Lacey told her, “Touch of the flu.” She didn’t like fibbing, but there was no way Lacey wanted anyone from school to know she was a diabetic. She’d hidden that tidbit of information and would continue to do so.

  “You’ve got to be better by tomorrow night,” Terri insisted, her large brown eyes full of concern. “Todd’s having a blow-out at his place after the basketball game. You know what fun Todd’s parties are.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Lacey assured her.

  By the time she arrived home, Lacey felt awful. She figured her blood sugar was sky high and that ketones, poisonous wastes from lack of insulin, were building in her bloodstream.

  She realized that she should test her blood with her glucose monitoring machine, but that would mean pricking the sensitive tip of her finger to squeeze out a drop of blood onto the testing strip. “Forget it,” she told herself, deciding instead to try to rid her body of ketones and excessive sugar by drinking large quantities of water and getting insulin into herself as quickly as possible.

  She threw away the syringe filled with her morning dose of long-acting insulin and drew up a syringe of regular—short-acting—insulin. She reminded herself that too much would carry the risk of a reaction. And too little wouldn’t solve her problem.

  With a wince, Lacey inserted the short needle into the fleshy part of her abdomen. She pushed down the plunger, and as the insulin flowed into her, it burned. She withdrew the needle, pressed the site with an antiseptic-drenched cotton ball, and waited for the burning to cease. Finally, she broke off the needle and threw the debris into the garbage.

  Her forgetfulness about her morning shot would mean another shot of regular insulin later that evening. Why couldn’t medical science figure out a better way to get insulin into a diabetic’s body?

  Chelsea had once asked if she could qualify for a pancreas transplant—the organ that produced insulin in the body. She’d asked her doctor, who was also her uncle, about the possibility, and he’d shaken his head. “It’s not practical. As long as you continue to do well on standard therapy, we won’t rock the boat.” Then he’d peered over the tops of his glasses and added, “If you’d come to some of the seminars and support group meetings at the hospital, you’d learn about these things.”

  “I attended some of the meetings,” she’d said defensively.

  “You came twice.”

  “Who wants to hang around with a bunch of sickies? I’m not sick,” Lacey insisted.

  “Lacey, be reasonable. Diabetes is a manageable disease. And support groups can help work out your feelings.”

  She’d grabbed her purse and ducked out of his office, saying over her shoulder, “I come in for regular checkups with you. That’s enough.”

  The ringing phone made Lacey start. The second she heard her father’s voice her stomach constricted. “How’s my girl?” he asked. “Are we still on for this weekend? I’ve gotten us tickets for Cats Saturday afternoon at the convention center.”

  Ever since her parents had separated over the holidays and her father had taken an apartment, he’d been spending time with her by asking her to do things on the weekends. “Sure, Dad, that’ll be fine,” she heard herself say mechanically. She really didn’t want to go. Pretending that she didn’t mind about their divorce took too much effort. And both her dad and her mother kept trying to tell her they were all better off now that the marriage was over. She didn’t understand how they expected her to be happy, but then, she didn’t understand her parents anyway.

  “I’ll pick you up at eleven. We’ll have lunch first.” She heard him pause. “I—miss you, Lacey.”

  “I’ll be ready,” she told him, unwilling to tell him she missed him too, unwilling to say “I love you, Daddy.”

  Once she hung up, Lacey felt a lump rise in her throat. Late afternoon sun slanted through the curtains and lent the room an air of melancholia. Why couldn’t her parents get along? Why did she have to have diabetes? Why did she have to make friends with girls who up and died? Why? The questions swirled in her head like a dog chasing its tail.

  She forced herself to think about other things. The world of Todd Larson and his friends was normal. Those kids didn’t really know about tough decisions. Normalcy was what she wanted for herself. Suddenly, she felt light-headed and realized that her blood sugar was dropping too rapidly. She went to the refrigerator to get orange juice and stave off the reaction fast descending on her. Life’s not fair! she thought. It’s just not fair!

  Two

  LACEY SHOULDERED HER way through the crowd of kids swarming around Todd Larson’s pool deck area toward Terri, Sheila, and Monet, three other girls from school. “Glad you made it,” Terri said. “Are you feeling better today?”

  “Perfect.” Lacey flashed a smile to prove it. “I had to park two blocks down the street. What a mob scene.”

  “Todd throws good parties,” Monet said with a bored expression. She was a tall, willowy blonde who did some professional modeling. Monet wasn’t Lacey’s favorite person. Lacey considered her conceited and snobbish, totally unfriendly.

  With a sly whisper, Sheila told Lacey, “Get a soda and I’ll pour a little something special in it.”

  Lacey knew she meant something alcoholic because it was obvious that many in the crowd had been drinking. She was tempted, but for diabetics alcohol wasn’t smart. It wreaked havoc with blood sugar levels. All she needed was to have a reaction and make a fool of herself in front of her friends. Especially Monet. “Maybe later,” she hedged.

  “How about you, Terri?” Sheila asked.

  “Too many empty calories,” Terri said with a grin. “I’d rather waste them on chocolate.”

  Lacey admired Terri’s way of saying no. “So what’s happening?” Lacey asked.

  The heated pool was thick with swimmers, the lounge chairs filled with couples. Rock music blared from speakers hung in surrounding palm trees. Colored lanterns and spotlights highlighting flower beds and tropical foliage glowed in the spacious, sloping backyard. A high wooden security fence ringed the yard, affording complete privacy from neighbors.

  In one direction, Todd’s house rose, a two-story mansion of white stucco and red Spanish tile.

  “Same old, same old,” Monet said. “No new faces. What a bore.”

  “Then why’d you come?” Terri asked.

  “She hopes Todd will give her a tumble,” Sheila said cattily.

  Lacey didn’t like what she heard. She’d secretly been interested in Todd herself ever since school had started in September. Monet was formidable competition.

  Monet arched an eyebrow. “I usually get what I go after.”

  “Did you get that job modeling clothes for the catalogue that’s shooting on Miami Beach next week?” Terri asked.

  “Of course. My agent called to confirm yesterday.”

  Terri said, “I’d love to model, but I love food too much.” She patted her hips. “And every bite settles here.”

  “I eat whatever I want,” Monet said.

  “But you never seem to gain weight.”

  “There’re ways around gaining.”

  Lacey listened glumly. Her diabetes caused her to wage an endless war with weight gain. The only time she’d been truly thin was when she’d been first diagnosed. Diabetic ketoacidosis, a c
ondition brought on by a need for insulin, had left her weak, gaunt, and dehydrated. She remembered feeling rotten, but at least she’d been thin.

  “Why are the best-looking girls at my party standing with one another instead of mingling?” Todd asked, swooping into the foursome, encircling Monet’s and Lacey’s waists with broad, muscular arms.

  Lacey felt her breath catch at the sight of him. Monet said, “We were drawing straws to see who gets you for the evening.”

  Todd grinned. “Who won?”

  “Don’t you mean ‘Who lost?’ ”

  Todd nuzzled Monet’s neck. “I could make time for all of you.”

  “Sorry, I don’t do crowd scenes,” Monet told him, eyeing the others. “And three is definitely a crowd.”

  He pulled back. “If it’s privacy you want, come into the house with me.”

  Lacey felt Todd’s arm leave her waist as he turned his full attention onto Monet. “Maybe I will,” Monet said coyly. “But you’d better make it worth my time.”

  Todd took her hand and started up the sloping lawn toward the back patio and veranda of his home. “Don’t mind me,” Sheila called after Monet, her voice edged with sarcasm. “I’ll find another way home.” She whirled toward Terri and Lacey, looking miffed. “Monet never thinks of anybody but herself. Did you see how she hustled Todd off?”

  “Big deal,” Terri said.

  But Lacey thought it was a big deal. In one smooth movement, Monet had staked her claim on Todd and wrapped him up like a package. “There’s no accounting for taste,” Lacey said to the others.

  Sheila studied her. “At least you’ll be doing his makeup for the play. That’ll put you in his face every night for two weeks.”

  “It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it,” Lacey said sweetly, knowing Sheila’s observation was true. The senior play was in March. Rehearsals had already started and soon, full makeup would be required. In the meantime, Lacey painted sets and did backstage work. “I’ll mention your name when I’m ‘in his face.’ ”