Tear Me Apart

by J. T. Ellison

  “At the very least, Lauren, you have to let her try. I’m here for you guys. And for Mindy. Anything you need.”

  “We appreciate that.”

  Lauren’s gone wooden again, formal. She stands, briskly rubbing her hands down her pant legs. “Now, let’s go talk to my willful daughter.”

  “Seriously, Lauren, anything I can do.”

  “I know. Thank you.” And she bustles out the door, completely composed, together again.

  Juliet follows, shaking her head. Her sister is not fine. And neither is her niece.

  5

  THE WRIGHTS’ HOUSE

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  Mindy watches the FIS coverage of the World Cup event in Lake Louise with professional detachment. Shiffrin looks sharp as ever and takes the downhill by over a second, and Mindy bites back the jealousy. Mindy should be in that spot. She can taste the Canadian snow, feel the bone-deep cold, the chattering of her skis on the ice. Except she’s stuck in Vail, cozy warm in her bedroom, not out there with her teammates. It sucks.

  At least they let her out of the hospital. She was going mad in there. The constant noise and the bright lights and the needles at all hours... Home is better.

  Mindy switches off the television, sends a text of congratulations, ignoring the knot in her stomach. It’s bad enough she’s out for the season, that her chances to be included on Team USA are questionable. She is sick of it all. The coddling. The lack of movement. The pain that sits deep in her bones, like the worst workout hangover she’s ever had, but the pain isn’t the good kind, when you’re sore from overexertion. This is wrong. Alien. She’s felt it for a while, for at least a couple of months before the trials, but having a name on it makes it so much worse.

  Cancer.

  She is pissed. She is pissed at the world. Pissed at her parents, and the doctor, and the damn rod in her leg, and the therapists who won’t let her do anything more than gently ride the bike with her good leg only and stretch her arms over her head. Pissed at the idea of an unseen creature eating her from the inside out, at the underlying nausea that persists no matter what antiemetics they give her, at the strange hollowness she feels when she wakes every morning, like she’s slowly emptying inside.

  Thank God for Aunt Juliet. At least someone treats her normally.

  Her parents are acting stupidly protective. Something has shifted between them, subtle but insidious. Every look her mother gives is couched in the throes of it might be the last. Her dad has always been the cautious one, but even he hasn’t ever held her back.

  Until now. They are both stifling her with their well-meaning love and attention.

  Which is strange, because Mindy has faced much more dangerous situations and her mom has never had anything but fire in her eyes. She’s sent her off to fly down the hill without a moment’s admonition of be careful, don’t go too fast. Mindy has a better chance of dying in the ninety seconds she spends hurtling upwards of eighty-five miles per hour down a mountain of ice.

  She understands their worry, of course she does, but she wants to see the fire in her mother’s eyes again, not this mealy, moony crap. She wants her dad to argue with her, not acquiesce to her every wish.

  Maybe now is the time to ask for that little BMW convertible she saw pull into the parking lot of the hospital while she was having her first chemo treatment.

  God, was she ever sick. She’d never felt anything like it. It took a couple of days for them to find the right combination of anti-nausea meds so she didn’t hurl all over the place. Even now, the memory of the past two treatments, knowing she has to go back tomorrow and do it again, and again the following week, and the next, makes her want to scream.

  No, Mindy must accept this new reality. There will be no World Cup celebrations for her. She is Ill, capital I, and she has no choice but to hold their hands and let them all doctor and parent and aunt her to death.

  She wishes her mom would leave her alone for a day. Just a day. Just so she could have a chance to catch her breath. She hasn’t been properly alone since she took off down the mountain three weeks ago, has been under constant, vigilant supervision by her parents, her aunt, the nurses and doctors, and she is slowly going mad for lack of privacy and silence.

  She could ask her parents to leave, ask them to go to dinner and a movie, but she can’t handle the idea of her mother’s hurt eyes, welling with tears at the thought of being parted.

  She shifts uncomfortably, folding her right leg underneath her like a flamingo. The cast is heavy, ungainly, banging into her ankle and shin at night. The stabilization halo is gone but her skin smells oily and rank under the cast, and the incision, though healing, itches like fire. She needs to wash her hair, stand in the hot water, let it run over her aching bones, but she can’t even do that properly; the cast isn’t meant to get wet.

  God, she has to get out. She has to live, too, but she needs to get out of this bed, her room, her house. She has to move.

  She can do some modified yoga. She hasn’t been given permission, but Mindy isn’t the type of girl to ask permission. At least yoga will be movement. She searches her drawers, but her favorite top isn’t there. Her mom probably washed it and it’s in the laundry.

  She swings down the hall on her crutches, into her parents’ room.

  She loves it in here. The whole house, really, but this room is sheer perfection. Mindy shares her mother’s minimalist taste. It’s done in creams and pale sage greens, the cedar ceiling vaulted, the view off the side of the mountain panoramic, the green of the trees, now covered in white, postcard perfect. The view is lovely in the summer, too, and the fall, when the aspens turn, but the winterscape is Mindy’s second heart. Their house is built to take advantage of the views, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, and Mindy has spent the week cuddled in front of the fire, watching the snow billow to the ground, missing its taste, its texture, the way her skis slide through it like a lover’s embrace.

  Mindy is surprised to see her mother standing in front of her dresser, holding something in her hands that looks like spiral notebook paper, crying.

  “Mom? What’s wrong?”

  Lauren wipes her eyes and shoves the paper into the open dresser drawer, whips around to face Mindy, all in one motion. The smile is painted on. Her mother looks so tired.

  “Honey! What are you doing up? I thought you were napping. You need your rest.”

  “I’m bored out of my skull and thought I’d do some yoga. Don’t worry, just stretching. Where’s my yellow top?”

  “Oh, it’s on the line. Why don’t I pop it in the dryer and warm it up for you?”

  Lauren bustles into the adjoining laundry room and sets about the task, then starts folding towels as the dryer runs. Mindy, perched on the edge of her mother’s bed, glances at the dresser out of the corner of her eye. What was she reading? Did it have something to do with her diagnosis?

  Her mother’s back is turned. She could look. But the dryer buzzer goes off, and her mom is suddenly there. “Here you go, sweetheart.” She holds out the top, then yanks it back. “Do not do anything that could hurt, okay? No pushing.”

  Mindy takes the top and threads it through her left crutch. “I won’t.”

  She clumps away. Her mother moves in the opposite direction, toward the living room. Mindy doesn’t think twice. As quietly as she can, she goes back to the bedroom and straight to the dresser. She deserves to know the truth, the whole truth, about her diagnosis.

  But that isn’t what she finds.

  The notepaper is old, the edges ripped and soft, like a hand has stroked them over and over as the words were read. The handwriting is juvenile, girlish and round, completely unfamiliar.

  December 14, 1993

  My dearest Liesel,

  I was so happy to get your letter. We didn’t really have a proper goodbye. Man, do I miss you. It’s dreadfully dull he
re. Ratchet et al. are especially surly without your sunny disposition. They miss you, too, I think. I hope they didn’t let you out too soon. I’ve been so worried about you. Are you well? Still no cuts?

  We had crafts today—guess what day it is? Yes, it’s Tuesday, give that girl a prize!—and I swear if I see one more stupid painted doormat I am going to jump off the roof. I told them that, then fainted spectacularly, in a dead heap, right at their feet, which is why I’m writing you instead of sitting in group. They locked me away again, five hours in the box, and only let me out if I promised to stop being so dramatic.

  Isn’t that why we’re stuck in here in the first place? Because we’re overly dramatic? Except for you. I mean, you had cause.

  I’m supposed to be sans roommate for a while. We’ll see how long that lasts.

  What are you doing out there in the big wide world? Is the sky bluer when you’re free? Does the sun shine brighter? God knows they’ve pumped you full of every imaginable drug, so maybe you’re just asleep. Which I’m going to do. Maybe I’ll dream of my mom again. That was cool. Write me!

  Love and stitches,

  V

  Mindy is confused. Who is Liesel? And who is the writer of this strange letter, this anonymous “V”? 1993? That was way before Mindy was born. She does the math—her mom is forty-one now, she would have been sixteen in 1993.

  Just a year younger than Mindy is now.

  Her mom calls, “Mindy, hon? Where are you?” which sends her heart into frantic mode. She scrabbles the letter back into the drawer, plops some underwear on top of it, and makes a break for it. She gets to the laundry room just as her mom appears in the doorway.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Forgot a towel,” Mindy says nonchalantly, grabbing one off the top of the fluffy pile.

  Her mother’s face stretches into a grin. “You should have called me, silly, I would have brought you one. Want some company while you stretch? Maybe I can spot you if you need help.”

  Mindy stifles a groan. “Sure, Mom. That’d be nice.”

  Love and stitches. What in the world does that mean?

  6

  VAIL HEALTH HOSPITAL

  They arrive at the hospital at 7:00 a.m., complete with a blanket, headphones, fuzzy slippers, and a soft pillow, and Mindy hasn’t said much. She is being stoic, but Lauren can tell she’s not feeling well. What will she be like after weeks of this? Will she continue to be sick?

  Lauren feels so useless, so incapable of doing anything to help. She can feed, clean, and love her daughter, but she can’t kill the thing growing inside of her. It’s making her bitchy; she knows she’s riding the edge. Old urges sweep through her, and she fights them down like dogs growling at a fence. Never again.

  Soon enough, they are settled. The bag of evil medicine is attached to the pole, a tube snaking into Mindy’s arm. Lauren straightens the sheet and thin blanket, pats Mindy’s forehead with a cool cloth.

  Jasper spends the first hour with them, then has to go back to work. Thankfully, Lauren’s art means she can stay and no one will be upset or mad. For the past few weeks she’s canceled all her appointments and showings. She hasn’t painted. She hasn’t contacted her clients. She’s refused visitors. She has been there nonstop for Mindy. It’s what a mother does. The idea of deserting her daughter even for a moment is too much to bear. As if death will slip in and take Mindy from her the moment Lauren turns her cheek.

  Irrational, yes, but she can’t help herself. Every drumbeat of her heart screams live, live, live. She’s lost weight, along with Mindy. They’ve grown matching black circles under their eyes. But they are fighting. Together, they are fighting.

  Mindy shifts, and lets out a tiny gasp. She looks at Lauren with pain in her eyes, apologetic. Lauren has to force herself not to run into the hall, screaming for painkillers. They weaned Mindy off the morphine quickly, but the chemo causes her pain too, just like the surgery. Every eight hours, she is allowed one Lortab. Just one. Just in case they need to ramp things up again. It takes most of the edge off, but sometimes, she has breakthrough pain, and they have to gut it out.

  Pain makes Mindy looks like a five-year-old child instead of an accomplished young woman. The effect is startling. As if the chemo is leaching years from her baby.

  “Oh, sweetie. Do you want your headphones? Or shall I tell you a story, take your mind off things?”

  “Yeah. A story would be okay.”

  “Once there was a young girl who lived in a forest.”

  Mindy rolls her eyes dramatically. “Mom. Seriously? Fairy tales?”

  Lauren adjusts herself on the thin mattress. “Fairy tales are good for the soul.”

  “Can we just watch The Sound of Music again?”

  Still in love with the movie, as she has been since she saw it the first time when she was six. It is the one childish thing about this girl, her obsession with Julie Andrews spinning in circles high atop a mountain, singing about hills.

  “You need a healthy dose of fantasy right now.”

  “I’m seventeen, not seven. What about Sarah J. Maas? You could read some of that.”

  “You are seventeen, going on eighteen,” Lauren sings. She has a lovely soprano, and Mindy laughs, but it is strained, weak. She is so diminished. The chemo has already stripped her of muscle, of energy, of vitality. It is slowly killing her, and they both know it. The poison runs through her veins like a raging river down a hill—unyielding, unending, without thought or remorse for its consequence.

  “Maas has too much raunchy sex. Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me, little girl. What, you think I’m going to read you an adult story? How embarrassing would that be, for both of us? That’s what television is for. Your choice—Days of Our Lives or Mom tells you Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Ugh. I’m sick of soap operas. Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Gotcha. Now, as I was saying—”

  A knock at the door interrupts them. Dr. Oliver enters, and it is clear by the grave look on his face the news isn’t good.

  “Do I need to get Jasper on the phone?” Lauren asks immediately, and Dr. Oliver nods.

  She is grateful for his honesty, at least. Mindy made them all agree at the beginning there would be no holds barred, no sneaking off into corners to share news and updates. Everyone gets the information at the same time. It is the only control Mindy has over the process. She doesn’t want parents and doctors talking about her in the hallways, then sugarcoating the truth.

  Lauren dials and Jasper answers right away.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Dr. Oliver has news, I’m putting you on Speaker.” She presses the button, then holds out the phone to the doctor and takes Mindy’s hand.

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the tests are back, and the cancer is more aggressive than we realized. We want to move ahead to a stem cell transplant, and we need to do it quickly.”

  “At least it won’t hurt,” Mindy says with a watery grin.

  They’ve already discussed all the science about this possibility. She is right, it won’t hurt her. But it could kill her.

  “Take mine,” Lauren says. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Dr. Oliver smiles. “We’ll test you both right away. Jasper, how quickly can you get here?”

  “I’m on my way. Be there in fifteen.”

  He clicks off, and Dr. Oliver hands the phone back to Lauren. He goes to the other side of the bed and addresses Mindy directly.

  “We talked about this possibility. Happens a lot in these cases. AML is a bitch, and she doesn’t like to give up her hold of the body. I’ve already talked to a colleague of mine from Boston. He’s going to oversee the transplant, make sure we have exactly the right stem cells to work with. We are going to lick this, missy. You just keep fighting your tail off.”

  He passes a hand over her baldi
ng head. Mindy’s eyes are huge in her thinned-out face, but they are clear, no tears, nothing but fire.

  “Yes, sir. Go get me some decent blood cells and let’s kick this bitch’s ass.”

  “Mindy,” Lauren scolds, but Dr. Oliver nods, clearly pleased.

  “That’s my girl. You’re going to win this battle, Mindy. You’re a winner. I know it in my heart. Now, I’m going to get things moving on our end. You rest. Big days ahead!”

  He nods at Lauren, who, despite a nasty look from Mindy, follows him out into the hall.

  He shakes his head immediately, speaks loudly so Mindy can hear. “There’s nothing more to say, Lauren. We’re on it. But you’ll want to assemble as many close family relations as you can so we can test everyone for a match. Aunts, uncles, cousins, the works.”

  “We don’t have many. Jasper’s an only child, and I just have my sister. We have no other family to speak of.”

  “Well then, with any luck, between the three of you, we’ll find a good match. I just want the closest possible familial connection. Gives us a better chance of avoiding rejection.”

  Lauren drops her voice. “Dr. Oliver? I need you to be honest with me. What are her chances?”

  He smiles and rubs her shoulder. “They’re really good. My colleague from Boston is the best in the business. He’s created the most advanced protocols, and his success rate for ameliorating AML with stem cell regeneration is off the charts. She’s in the best hands.”

  Lauren nods, unconvinced.

  “Better get back in there. That’s a heavy burden for her to carry alone, even if she is our superstar. Page me when Jasper arrives. And you’ll want to get your sister here, too.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  His clogs squeak as he walks away, and Lauren feels like every eye is on her, all the children, the nurses, the other doctors strolling around. Another storm is brewing; the winter has been hard this year, as if in mourning for its lost playmate, and the sun disappears, leaving her in shadow.

  Her worst fears have come to pass. Oh, God.