by Amy Reed
Being sick has made me salvageable. Like cancer, the flu only has victims. It is not controversial, not a matter of will or moral character. No one ever deserves it. So I get to resume my familiar role as victim and give everyone a chance to love me again. I don’t deserve their sympathy, but I’ll take it. I’m getting another second chance.
Marcus calls but I don’t know what to say to him. I hear his voice and I want to taste it. I want to run away into the night and light the sky with him. But I am still too sick. I don’t want him to see me like this. And I don’t trust myself yet to not beg him to find me more pills. I have to wait. I have to be patient. But I crave him almost as much as the pills.
I still want them. God, I still really want them.
I’m going to try to be good now. I really am. Maybe there’s an Evie I haven’t tried yet, one who can be two people at once. Maybe there’s a way to make everyone happy. There’s the girl who still wants to find a comfortable little place somewhere inside my old, clean world. Then there’s this girl I’m just starting to get to know, the one who wants to live on the edge, the one who belongs with Marcus. Maybe they can share a body. Maybe they can share a soul.
Maybe.
twenty-five.
I’VE CREATED A MONSTER. WILL IS TELLING EVERYONE WE’RE back together again. He was at my locker this morning with a dozen of his red roses, and I realized what a perfect example they are of everything that’s wrong with our relationship—raised in a hothouse to look pretty and perfect, so far removed from nature and anything that’s real.
I tried studying last night but everything I read looked like a different language and I had to give up after ten minutes. I tried to hide my fidgeting while we all watched TV, a tentative step back toward family togetherness. Then everyone went to bed, and I spent the night smoking pot and staring out the window, waiting for my pulse to slow down and trying to breathe like a normal person. Without the pills, I’m finding it impossible to sleep. My body forgot how.
It’s only a couple of hours into my first day back and already I’m questioning my plan to be normal. There’s too much in my way. I’ve gone so far in the other direction, I don’t know if I can find my way back. A life isn’t something you can just slip back into after leaving it.
My history teacher asks to see me after class. “I’m worried about you,” she says, but her old teariness is gone. I’ve worn out my Cancer Girl sympathy, even with her. Now I’m just bad. I’m not turning in homework, she says. Not participating in class. I only answered three questions on the last quiz and I didn’t even get them right. All I can say is I’m sorry. That’s all I can ever say. I walk out of the room without even waiting for a response. What can she say that will change anything? School’s over in three weeks and there’s no way I can catch up.
I catch Kasey throwing up in the bathroom. Her excuse is that she needs to fit into her prom dress. She tells me this casually as she rinses her mouth out, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for deciding to have a deadly eating disorder. I don’t say anything about how I struggled to keep food down for most of last year. I don’t remind her about my wasting away, about needing to be fed through tubes. Another thing that’s not worth it.
Then I get this text from Caleb: Hi Evie. Are you mad at me? Why haven’t you returned my texts? Ten minutes later: I really want to talk to you. Delete, delete.
It’s lunch now and Kasey’s not eating and all anyone can talk about is prom. The freshman girl who sits at our table is wearing a hat identical to Stella’s. Next she’s going to start walking around with a limp and chemo hair.
Will has his arm around me all during lunch, even though I keep trying to wiggle out of it, even though I keep making excuses to get up. But every time I sit back down, his arm is there again, like he’s my keeper, like he’s afraid of me running off. All my subtle hints are wasted, so eventually I stop trying to escape, and I shrivel under the weight of his arm.
I’m trying to be nice now, right? I’m trying not to make a scene. Is this what nice is? Letting people think things that aren’t true just to avoid hurting their feelings? Letting them get away with things you don’t want them to do? Being nice is dishonest. Being nice makes me a liar. What if, deep down, I’m just not a nice person? I’m pretty sure nice people don’t ignore the texts of friends with brain cancer.
I squirm and Will whispers in my ear, “I’m not going to let you push me away this time,” and it makes me sick, like actually physically nauseous, like I am trapped in the trunk of a car and being driven over speed bumps and potholes for miles and miles and miles, and no matter how hard I push and kick and scream, I can’t get out.
I want to push and kick and scream. I want to run out of this lunchroom and this school and this life and never look back.
I want to take back what I promised, when I was sick and half out of my mind and thought maybe this could be my world again.
“Do you have your dress yet?” someone asks me.
“No,” I hear myself say. “Do you?”
“Well, yeah. Obviously,” she says, like I’m an idiot.
“Evie,” Kasey says, her face crumpled in concern. “Prom is this weekend.” The whole table looks at me like I’ve told them I have cancer again.
I don’t give a shit about prom. I wish I’d never told Will I’d go with him. I wish I’d never let him rub my back while I was sick. I wish I wasn’t still sitting at this table with these people. Why did I ever think I could find a way to fit back into their world?
I was wrong about there being room for two Evies. The old one has to go. The new one is stronger, bigger, and she does not want to share space with that silly, pathetic girl any longer.
I text Marcus and tell him to pick me up on Telegraph when he gets out of school. I skip the rest of the day, just walk out the front door and spend the next couple of hours wandering around downtown Berkeley. I walk by People’s Park four times, each time barely talking myself out of approaching the group of seedy-looking kids to ask about getting some pills. It is scary how close I get. I feel giant magnets pulling me in their direction. I feel the hole in my heart threatening to swallow me. The kids don’t notice me, but their dogs do. The dirty pit bulls stare me down with their beady eyes, taunting me. They say, “We know what you want, girl. Just say it.”
But I don’t. It’s a miracle, but I don’t. I keep reminding myself of the promise I made Marcus. Not my parents, not Dr. Jacobs. I don’t care about getting caught or in trouble. I don’t care about being a loser or an outcast. Marcus and his trust in me, that’s what keeps me strong.
As soon as he pulls up in Bubbles, the world instantly makes more sense. I get in the car and must kiss him right away, a long, desperate, gasping kiss that only ends because the car behind us honks.
“I guess you’re happy to see me,” he says.
“You have no idea.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better. I missed you.”
“What’s that?” I say, noticing a pile of clothes at my feet.
“Oh, that’s my uniform. Feel free to step on it all you want.”
“I forgot you wear a suit to school,” I say, inspecting the black slacks and jacket, the white button-down shirt, the striped tie. “That’s hilarious.”
“Yeah, real funny.”
I relax more as we drive to César Chávez Park by the Berkeley Marina, as we set up his blanket in a secluded spot on the hill, as we smoke weed and lie in the sun. We watch people flying fancy kites. We laugh at the white boys with dreadlocks doing bad capoeira. We make up stories about the private lives of the fat squirrels climbing in and out of holes. I don’t ask about the secrets Marcus left untold last time we were together, and he doesn’t ask me about mine. I’m not in the mood for anything heavy today.
So instead, we pick dandelions. We make tiny bouquets of grass and weeds. I think of Will’s expensive roses stuffed in my locker at school, how they must be infusing everything with their sticky, sweet perfume. I
think of how much more beautiful Marcus’s and my little arrangements are.
“Who decided a dandelion is a weed and not a flower?” I say.
“Probably some old, straight white guy,” Marcus says, sticking one behind my ear.
Being stoned makes me philosophical. “The only difference between a weed and a flower is that a weed is strong and can take care of itself, and a flower is weak and fragile and needs someone’s help.”
Marcus smiles. “So which one are you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re even stronger than a dandelion. And way more beautiful than any flower.”
I laugh and we kiss, and for a moment I feel good enough to forget about the hole inside me where the pills no longer are. I forget about how good it felt when Will held me when I was sick. I forget about my pledge to be good, to stop getting in trouble, to try to fit back into my old world. It seems so long ago, so distant, like it was a different person entirely who made those empty promises.
Not even a day back and I’ve already given up.
I guess I know who I really am now.
twenty-six.
IT’S THURSDAY NIGHT, PROM IS ON SATURDAY, AND I DON’T have a dress. This is quite possibly the stupidest problem a person could have. And yet, it is mine. Of all the problems I’ve ever had, this is the one I have to deal with at this moment. I don’t know which is worse, having to scrounge at Jenica’s door for help, or having to go to prom at all.
I wish I could tell Will I’m not going. I’ve picked up the phone to call him, but it never happens. I’ve even thought of texting—the ultimate coward move—but I can’t bring myself to do that. At least I’m not that much of an asshole. Not yet, anyway,
I swallow what little pride I have left and knock on Jenica’s door.
“Yeah?” she says.
“Can I come in?”
It takes her a while to decide to answer yes.
She is sitting on her bed studying when I walk in. “What do you want?” she says, visibly tensing, getting ready for a fight.
“I was wondering if you still have your prom dress from last year.” I can’t look her in the eye as I ask this. I don’t want to see the hatred I know is there.
“Um, yeah.” Her voice is softer. I can hear her surprise.
“Do you think I could maybe borrow it? I don’t have a dress and I know money’s tight so I don’t want to ask Mom and Dad. It’s okay if you don’t want to. I’d understand. It’s just—”
“Yes. Of course,” she says. “Of course you can borrow my dress.” I look up and am surprised to not see the angry, irritated face I’m so used to. There’s an imposter in my sister’s place—someone kind, someone sympathetic. “I’ll go get it,” she says.
I sit on Jenica’s bed while she rummages around in the closet. Her room is so tidy, so sparse and clean, not at all like a normal teenager’s. She’s always been like this, even as a kid. It’s like she was meant to skip childhood and go straight to being a forty-year-old woman with a great career and a solid marriage, like her entire youth, all of its silliness and manic uncertainty, is just a nuisance until her real life starts. I’ve always secretly admired her for this, for her inexhaustible confidence. She’s always seemed to know exactly who she is and exactly what she wants. She never seems confused about anything.
“Here you go,” she says, handing me the dress in a plastic dry-cleaning bag. As I take it out, I remember the night she wore it, standing in the living room while her junior year boyfriend slipped a corsage on her wrist. She was wearing makeup, her hair was in a fancy updo, and she looked so beautiful, so glamorous compared to her usual, plain bookworm self, and I was jealous. I couldn’t wait until this year, until I could finally go to prom too. I had just received my first diagnosis at that point, and it seemed like such an extravagant wish, but one I was determined to get.
And now, that wish is coming true, but it seems like a chore. In a year, everything can change. The world can turn upside down. A wish can turn into a curse. But back then, going to prom with Will was enough of a reason to want to survive.
Jenica zips me up and I stand in front of her full-length mirror. I have gained some weight, but the dress still sags in too many places, most noticeably the bust. The spaghetti straps are hopelessly loose. The tiny blue sequins I thought so magical when Jenica wore it now seem dull and misplaced. But the dress is good enough, I guess. It has to be.
I can see Jenica standing behind me in our reflection. She tries to smooth my patchy hair with her hand. She licks her finger and tries to style the front into some sort of side bang.
“Did you really just rub your spit in my hair?”
“Shh,” she says. “I’m working.” She fusses a little more, but I don’t see much of a difference. She stands back and says, “There. Pretty good.”
“Do you think this’ll look good with tennis shoes?”
“It’s going to have to,” she says. Then, after not even a beat, “Are you and Will getting back together?” Jenica can always be counted on to be direct.
“No,” I say.
“I didn’t think so.” She fluffs the back of my hair with her fingers. I fight the urge to close my eyes and lean into her hand. “He thinks you are, though.”
“I know.”
“For some reason that guy is crazy about you.”
“I have no idea why.”
She shrugs, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. She steps out of the reflection. “The dress fits well enough,” she says.
That should be my cue to go, but strangely, I don’t want to be done here. “I’ve kind of been seeing someone,” I say, and I realize this is the first I’ve ever spoken of Marcus to anyone out loud.
“Really? Who?” Jenica sits down on the edge of her bed. I could sit next to her. We could talk about boys like real sisters. But I stay standing.
“He goes to Templeton.”
“Wow, you got yourself a Templeton man?” She looks genuinely impressed. “You may not be as hopeless as I thought.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to show how much that stings. “Maybe.”
“I was kidding,” she says. “I don’t think you’re hopeless.”
“It’s okay.”
The silence that follows is bigger than us. Bigger than this room and this house and this family and our history together.
“Evie,” Jenica says, and we lock eyes. “Are you okay? I mean, really?”
I feel so awkward standing in the middle of the room in a formal gown and bare feet. Jenica’s eyes burn holes in me. I feel naked, exposed. I am a specimen on display, being poked at, prodded. She is too close. She sees too much. I have let her in too far, and now I need to push her back out before she sees anything more.
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my clothes from the floor. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Thanks for the dress.” I move toward the door.
“We can talk, you know.” No, Jenica. No, we can’t.
“Yeah,” I say, and I walk out of the room, closing the door behind me.
I have just enough of Stella’s weed left for one joint. I will be able to smoke away this mistake, just barely. I will inhale stillness. I will inhale clouds. I will exhale this fog of sadness and regret that follows me out of Jenica’s room.
I wish my parents drank. I wish they had a liquor cabinet I could raid for reinforcements. I wish I had some sort of promise that I’ll be able to sleep until tomorrow, that I’ll be able to get through the school day, that I’ll survive until I get to see Marcus again, until the brief relief of the clock finally ticking hours I don’t want to forget.
if.
Dear Stella,
I get through the day in one-minute increments. Fifty-five of them add up to one class, during which I have to sit still and not fall asleep. Five minutes adds up to the time in between classes, when I limp through the hall quickly and pretend to be in a hurry to avoid having to stop and talk
to anyone I know.
The forty-five minutes of lunch are the worst. I am supposed to do something besides sit, walk, and be silent. I am supposed to speak and engage and act interested and not show how much I wish I were somewhere else.
My life has been reduced this—a collection of tiny fragments to endure and survive, a countdown of sorts. Everyone else is looking forward to prom tomorrow night, and the end of school two weeks from now, then summer, then senior year, then the rest of their lives unfolding in front of them like flowers, everything getting better and better and bigger and longer until they reach out into forever and become massive, infinite. My world is so small in comparison. I busy myself with seconds. I survive these series of unendurable minutes, these miniscule fragments of forgettable life, until the end of the day when I get to see Marcus. And then the world opens up and becomes infinite again.
I wonder if you would have gone to prom. Would you have taken Cole? Or would you have planned some kind of amazing anti-prom night?
Tonight is going to be special, Stella. Something’s going to happen. Something big. Marcus says he has a surprise for me.
I’m ready to ask him about DL. I’m ready to ask him about his scars and I’m ready to tell him about mine. And then maybe we won’t have to creep around in shadows. Maybe our secrets will be released and they’ll float away into the night and be replaced with light, and I won’t feel the need to lie all the time, I won’t feel the need to hide, and I won’t feel so lost, and everything will become clear. Everything.
Love,
Evie
twenty-seven.
I TRY TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE WITHOUT ANYONE NOTICING me, but Mom pounces as I’m reaching for the door.
“Evie,” she says. “Before you go. We need to talk about making your appointment with Dr. Jacobs next week.”
“We can talk tomorrow,” I say, the doorknob already in my hand. “I don’t want to be late.”
“No,” she says, unsurely, the word so foreign in her mouth. “I’ve been trying to pin you down for days. You’re due for blood tests again.”