“So what you are saying is she’s not fine,” my mom says.
“No, she is fine,” my dad says.
“Let me try this again,” Dr. McCuskey says, but breathes out in that God, give me the strength kind of way. I get it. My family can have that effect on people. “Abbi is now tumor free. The tumor that we did remove was benign. We need to treat her health with excessive caution and be aware of the risks she faces. Things like this could pop up from time to time and could potentially be serious. We got lucky this time, but we don’t know what will happen. Hence the monitoring. And she’s entitled to health care. Got it?”
“So what you are saying is I can sleep at night, but no, not really?” my mother asks, her voice thick with hysteria.
“You can sleep. We can all sleep. We just need to be careful,” my dad says. “We can manage that. Can’t we?”
“So to be clear, I’m not dying?” I ask again, and Dr. McCuskey nods, I don’t know if in frustration or confirmation or possibly a blanket yes to all of our questions, and leaves the room.
And that’s when I catch up to my parents, and the good news hits me so hard and so fast I feel light-headed. Giddiness gives way to pure happiness, clear and profound and overwhelming. I laugh and cry at the same time, a loud eruption of water and guffaws and even an animal-like moan.
I’m not dying. Not yet.
The refrain repeats in my head. I’m unzipped, and the world and its infinite possibility seep in, life rushing to fill in all my empty spaces.
“That doctor needs to work on her bedside manner,” my dad says, and then scoots into bed on one side of me, and my mother comes in on the other, and they close their arms around me.
We hug and cry and scream with joy until our voices are hoarse and our throats go dry, and even then we only stop when an unhappy nurse comes in the room and shushes us quiet.
It’s ten o’clock at night and Jack and I are at the twenty-four-hour diner drinking milkshakes and toasting Abbi even though she’s not here to see us. My face hurts from smiling.
“I feel like we should switch the word wart with the word tumor. The stuff that can kill you should be called warts because those sound gross and dangerous and the things that look funny and grow on your toe because of bad gym hygiene should be called tumors. We have it all wrong,” Jack says.
“Not laughing. New subject.”
“So Brendan came over the other day and my mom freaked,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“She was all, Oh my God, where’s Noah?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m so glad Abbi’s going to be okay. I mean, I knew it all along, but it feels so good to know for sure,” Jack says. “You know, things are looking up for us. Perhaps this summer will involve more than just you, me, and YouTube.”
“That would be quite the plot twist,” I say.
“Nah. We’re both going to blow it,” Jack says. “No pun intended.”
Three days later, I’m back at home, in my own bed, again contemplating the ceiling, though this time Noah is lying down next to me. The door remains wide open, a surprising last-minute rule imposed by my mother. I guess the possibility of my having sex was only okay when it was a distant hypothetical.
“I still can’t quite believe it,” I say, and I trace my fingers lightly over my incision. “I mean, the doctor actually cut something out of my body. I’m not delusional.”
“No one thought you were delusional,” he says, and turns so he’s looking at me. Now we are side by side, perched on our elbows. Mirror images of each other.
“I kinda did. I was convinced I was going to die. For real. And now it looks like I should be okay—”
“You will be okay,” he interjects, and for a minute, he sounds disturbingly like my dad.
“It was all real, though. This actually happened. Baby Hope lives another day,” I say, not sure if I’m kidding. Because there is bizarre relief too, in knowing that I won’t be torn off people’s walls in disappointment. I realize the irony of my re-surviving.
I think about the tumor, its taste of blood and fear and mortality, day in and day out, metallic and bilious and rancid, and how I was wrong. It will not invade and conquer and grate me into dust. At least, not yet. It was only a warning shot: Pay closer attention, it said. You don’t have the luxury of not.
My future has come back to me, a gift returned to sender. My heart has unclenched itself from a fist to an open hand. But something happens when the story you tell yourself turns out not to be your story at all. You have to figure out what to replace it with. Something needs to grow in the space left behind.
Courage, I tell myself. That can fill me up.
“Those are my favorite kinds of punchlines. The curveballs that make total sense. Like you think the joke can only end with A or B, and somehow the comedian finds a C. Not that I think this was a joke. But you get me,” he says, and I do. I get him. It’s nice to apply some overarching rules to all this. I like to think in terms of story or even poetry. He frames it with comedy. But in the end, it’s all the same thing.
Noah traces his finger up and down my arm, a lazy, tender stroke that thrums under my skin.
“How are you doing?” I ask, since I realize this week has not only been about me. Those damn towers play on a forever loop. He’s not unscathed.
“I had a long talk with my mom. I feel weirdly okay. It turns out my dad didn’t just die. He went out with like this amazing mother-effing ninja kick-ass hi-yah. He saved a freakin’ pregnant lady. These are some epically good genes I have,” he explains, and his smile is equal parts proud and shy and sad.
“I could have told you that you have some epically good genes,” I say in a mock-flirty voice, and reach out to touch his hair, because I’m totally allowed to do that. He rewards me with a small kiss on the nose.
“I looked up the technical definition of benign growth last night. It literally means something harmless that has grown or is growing,” Noah says.
“What?” I ask.
“Right? Like when you think about it that way, it almost sounds like normal life. Like what’s supposed to be happening to us,” he says. Our eyes catch, and a warmth spreads through my body. Like he’s holding me closer just by looking at me. “Anyhow, the other day at that party, I had it all backward. I said that I thought when we left Oakdale our life was suddenly going to get exponentially bigger. But I think that can happen without going anywhere. We don’t have to wait.”
“We can rock our capes now,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. And then he kisses me.
Jack and I play video games in his basement, and as usual, his blue-haired anarchy girl is kicking my ass. I give up mid–space dino attack and pick up my phone.
Me: I know I was just at your house, but I miss you already. Can I say things like that yet?
Jack pauses the game and sits next to me so he can read over my shoulder.
“No, you cannot say things like that yet. Try to play it cool for at least a minute,” he says.
Me: Also remember when you were dying? That was funny
“Too soon, idiot,” Jack says, and smacks me on the head with a throw pillow. I ignore him and continue to type:
Me: Too soon?
Me: Sorry. Of course it’s too soon.
Me: Abs?
While I wait for a response, my hands go clammy. Did I blow this already? All for a not-particularly-funny joke? I should have asked how she was feeling, like a normal person.
“You should have asked how she was feeling, like a normal person,” Jack says, reading my mind, and if I didn’t know he could kill me in one move, both on-screen and in real life, I’d punch him. My phone dings with a new text.
Abbi: Ha! I’m totally here! Never too soon. Miss you too. Was fun hoping you were sweating it out there for a minute
“Shut up and go away,” I say.
Me: You’re evil
Abbi: I’m evil? Was I the one who just made jokes about someone potentially dying from cancer?
Me: I thought…humor helps
Abbi: I’m kidding! I totally get it
Me: Have I ever mentioned that I’m obsessed with finding the perfect 9/11 joke?
“Sharing one of your idiosyncrasies. Brave. I like it,” Jack interjects. “Being occasionally vulnerable is key. I told Brendan my coming-out story yesterday, though of course I had to ratchet up the drama a bit.”
“I think your mom is calling you,” I lie, and motion upstairs. Of course he stays put.
Abbi: Seriously? A 9/11 joke? That is so weird and so you and makes complete and total sense to me, you comedy nerd
Me: Haven’t gotten very far. Think the problem is I’m swinging too big. A joke is not going to save the world
Abbi: Maybe not. But it could save someone in the world
Me: You think?
Abbi: Maybe even the person telling it
Me: Look at you having theories too
Abbi: By the way, tell Jack I can’t wait to meet Brendan
“Let me take this one,” Jack says, and successfully wrestles my phone out of my hands.
Me: Abs! This is Jack. Listen, when you meet Brendan under no circumstances are you allowed to ask about the boobtastic mermaid tattoo
Abbi: Did you save my life, Jack? Did I say you can call me Abs?
Me: PLEASE LET ME CALL YOU ABS. I’ll be your best friend. You can ask Noah if you need to see my references. I come preapproved
Abbi: Okay. Fine. But only because I happen to be in the market for a new best friend. So what happens if the tattoo comes up naturally in conversation?
Me: It will not come up in conversation
Abbi: What if I happen to mention to Brendan, “Oh man, I love tattoos. You know what I’ve always wanted? A woman naked on the top, finned on the bottom. What’s your position on why I totally have this weird need to permanently ink my body with that mer-image?”
Me: I hate you
Me: That was Jack. This is Noah again. I don’t hate you. Not even a little
Abbi: I don’t hate you either. Not even a little
I feel myself smiling like an idiot, and I’m powerless against it. Before Jack can say anything, I pick up the controller and restart the game. I set fire to an alien overlord and shoot off a rocket. I keep my eyes on the screen and my thumbs busy as I wait for him to make fun of me for my shameless lovesickness. Which is fine and inevitable and fully deserved.
But for once, Jack holds back. Instead, to my surprise, on-screen anarchy girl takes a break from her ass-kicking to lean over and give me a celebratory high five.
“Here are the rumors about you in order of most repeated: one, drug overdose; two, you were hit by a bus; three, you tried to kill yourself; and number four, my personal favorite, you had a bad reaction to shots of human growth hormone,” Julia reports on my first day back at camp while we distribute the cupcakes I brought in for the girls. I can only hope that my collapsing and being taken away on a stretcher will not feature in their future therapy sessions. I’ve been out of a camp a week, like a month in camp time, the entirety of which I have spent watching TV and texting Noah and Jack. As much fun as both of those things are, I’m thrilled to be back at work. “You should have seen this place the day after. Swarming with news trucks.”
“Basically my worst nightmare,” I say, relieved that the media interest, after an initial flurry of activity, has died down. Dr. McCuskey, at the request of my parents, issued a statement that I had been released from the hospital and was expected to make a full recovery. Other than the outrageous rumors and a few random Baby Hope memes on Twitter and Facebook, and yes, I was a punchline on the Daily Show (Noah loved that one), most people seem to have forgotten about me. Which is just the way I like it. “By the way, it was none of the above.”
“I know. I’m happy you’re okay,” Julia says, and throws her arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “It wasn’t the same here without you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Totally. I had to clean up, like, three floaters.”
“Funny.”
“What’s it like being Baby Hope? I’ve been wanting to ask you that since the second day of camp,” Julia says as she loops around the table handing out napkins. She gives two to Livi, pauses, hands over a third.
“Wait, you knew?”
“Of course I knew. We all did.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but there’s this really cool thing called the Internet? Some people even have it on their phones now,” Julia says. “You’re kind of a big deal in my family. My dad’s a history professor at Princeton, and he does this whole lecture about that picture and how its popularity is connected to our love of the myth of American resiliency. Also, my little sister and your frenemy Cat work together at Pizza Pizza Pizza over in Mapleview.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You obviously didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t buy my dad’s argument, by the way. I think you were a cute little white baby with a balloon. Everyone loves balloons.” Julia shrugs, takes a bite out of her cupcake, like being Baby Hope is no big deal. Like who I am doesn’t change anything and it never did. “I was dropped by my girls junior year too. It’s a thing that happens sometimes. It sucked. No real reason. They got like sucked into field hockey and I wasn’t on the team and whatever. But want to know how I got revenge?”
“How?”
“I made better friends. Real friends. Ride-or-die friends.”
“To answer your question, I have no idea what it’s like to be Baby Hope. I mean, I’ve only ever been me. That’s sort of like me asking what it’s like to be you,” I say.
“Fabulous. That’s what it’s like to be me.”
“I never doubted it for a minute,” I say. And when she offers to show me pictures of Lifeguard Charles without his shirt on and oiled up at the shore last weekend, I do not say no.
* * *
—
“Are you okay now?” Livi asks me as I help her into her swimsuit and slather her with sunscreen.
“I am. I got the card you made me. I put it on my desk at home,” I say, and offer her a tissue to clean her always-running nose. She opts for my shirt instead. Just leans right in, all casual, for the nuzzle-wipe. I admire her shamelessness.
“You scared me. Please don’t do that again.” Livi pouts and puts her hand on her hip, in that exaggerated, practiced way of little kids. No subtlety.
“I’ll try not to,” I say, and she envelops me in such a big hug, she knocks me back.
“Did you know I have a picture of you as a baby in the bathroom at my house?” Livi asks.
“You do?”
“Yup. Every time I poo in the potty, I look at you. Isn’t that the craziest?”
“The craziest,” I say, and happily take her wet, snotty hand as I lead the group to the plake.
* * *
—
When I walk to my car after camp, Noah is already waiting in the passenger seat. I climb in next to him, and he grins.
“Open your hand,” he says, and when I do, he drops three gummy bears into my palm.
“Since we’re done with the Baby Hope stuff, what do you think about starting a new project?” I ask. Last night, when I should have been sleeping, I stared up at my ceiling and kept rereading the Mary Oliver poem I taped there. The meaning kept morphing, not unlike how a chair can turn into a monster in the dark and then right back into a chair. While I read and reread, an idea began to
form.
“What did you have in mind?” he asks.
“It’s a little strange.”
“You’re a little strange. That’s why I like you,” he says.
“Full disclosure: It will not help you get into Harvard. It does not in any way involve comedy. And you cannot write about it for the Oakdale High Free Press.”
“You are really selling this thing,” Noah says. “I have one question: Will it involve spending more time with you?”
“Absolutely. It will definitely involve spending more time with me,” I say.
“Sold,” he says, and leans in for a kiss. I’m struck by how natural it all feels, Noah sitting in the seat next to me, his lips pressing against mine, how he has turned from stranger to lifeline in mere weeks. My arms wrapped around him like they know exactly how they should be.
“And Go!” I add. “It will involve spending more time with Go!”
“You know how I feel about Go! and her entirely superfluous exclamation point,” he says, now planting tiny, delicious kisses on my neck.
“And also…my grandma.”
Noah abruptly stops the kissing. “Oh. We were so not on the same page just then about the word project,” he says, laughing, and though his lips are no longer on mine, his fingers draw devastating circles on my thigh.
Hope and Other Punch Lines Page 21