'I-I wasn't going behind your back!' Peter protested, throwing out his hands. I felt immensely satisfied to be proven right, but it was short-lived. 'That's not it at all! I was just trying to help you!'
'Why? B-b-because I can't help myself?' I demanded, slamming my fist on the counter, rattling the glass. 'Why, was I just too-too pitiful to look at anymore, just sitting all alone in the back of the class, no friends, no life? Are you going to fix me, Peter?'
'No, no, I don't pity you, Mia.' Peter said, looking pained at the word. I couldn't tell if it was guilt or embarrassment. 'And I don't want to fix you! I just — I thought you might like it, but you wouldn't have listened if I just told you that.'
'You don't know that!'
'Why would I think differently?' Peter's voice rose alongside mine, speaking right over Mom's attempts to calm us down. 'You never like my ideas! And you hate it when people tell you what to do, even if they're just trying to help!'
'Th-that's not true,' I said, my voice shaking, a little intimidated by how angry he was. We had never had a fight like this before, and I rarely heard Peter yell like this. A part of me just wanted to run, hide, and pretend this never happened. I didn't have the emotional strength to deal with all of this right now. On top of it all, I knew it was a lie, and I caught the gleam in Peter's eye, that he knew it, too.
He should've taken advantage of it, rip the truth right out of me, payback for what I've already said. But he didn't. Instead, Peter took a deep breath, evened his voice, said, 'I know what I did was stupid. That I could've done it better. But why is it that you can't just try something new?'
'It's just Decathlon!'
'No, it's not. It's also Computer Club, Drama class, Chess Team,' Peter listed off, all things in the past I tried once (or maybe not at all), before deciding it wasn't for me. 'You backed out of the science fair in ninth grade after your guidance counselor said it would boost your resume. You once failed a project on purpose, because Astor was on your team and bossing you around. It's like you hate it if other people are right, or in charge. Why are you like this, Mia? It's like you're giving up on purpose.'
The disappointment was palpable in his voice, his eyes — and the fact that he stopped yelling, was willing himself to stay calm. And it just made me angrier.
'Because I'm tired!' I shouted, my shoulders shaking with the effort as tears sprung in my eyes. I hadn't been ready for that level of critique, and I hated that Peter was right — he was right about that, too, dammit!
The pounding in my head was so strong, I could feel it all the way through my body, down to my toes. It made it hard to concentrate, and I barely registered the surprise on Mom and Peter's faces. Instead, I coughed, trembled, went on. 'I'm tired of acting like I've got something to prove! Of having to make the best of things! I don't want to pretend I'm something I'm not, just because no one is happy with the way I am! Hell, I'm not happy, but I'm not going to pretend that everything's all right, anymore. Nothing's all right! It never was!'
My voice cracked at the end of my rant, and I fell back into coughing again, my throat grating like someone was sticking knives into my chest. I turned away from them, leaned into the counter as I caught my breath.
'Y-you're not happy?' Peter said after a long moment, making me look back up at him. He tried to approach, but the look Mom was giving him said we were both walking on thin ice.
'Peter, why would do you that?' came her beleaguered sigh, her fingers rubbing her temples. I wasn't sure if she even heard what I said. 'I know you meant well, but —'
'Why didn't you ever say anything?' Peter spoke right over her, frowning at me. He looked hurt, almost betrayed. Like I'd broken our promise of not telling lies or keeping secrets. Hm, maybe I had. I was being mean on purpose, we both knew it. Just minutes ago I was telling him how much I cared, how much I loved this family.
And here I was, trying to tear it down.
'Because I didn't — I didn't want to worry you,' I admitted, voice hoarse. I had lost some of my steam, mostly due to the sickness wearing me down.
And saying something like that made me feel like I was just exposing myself, being too vulnerable. I didn't exactly like talking about my feelings, but at least when I was angry I felt righteous. This just felt too sorry. I felt powerless.
'Oh, sweetie,' I heard Mom say, pained and sympathetic in that way mom's do when their children are sad. I heard her footsteps, hands on my back, a hug. 'You don't have to hide things from us. Your happiness is important —'
Almost immediately after her saying that, I recoiled, pushing away from her. 'Is that why you never said anything?'
Mom just stood there, her arms hanging, bereft. 'What do you mean?'
I think she already knew, but for the benefit of Peter, I said, 'D-do you r-remember when I got double pneumonia at nine-years-old? When I-I was at the hospital f-for almost a month?'
Peter just shrugged. 'Um, yeah. I think it was the longest you've ever been there. It was when I got you Stitch.'
Him saying that tempered me a bit, remembering the way a younger Peter had pushed the toy into my arms, said he missed me at school; but I could see Mom starting to bristle. She definitely knew where I was going with this. So I kept my gaze focused on her. 'D-did Mom t-tell you the d-doctor's diagnosis? Y-you know, aside from me being sick?'
'Mia, don't.' Her warning was low.
'Don't what?' I retorted, throwing a hand at Peter. 'Don't you think he deserves to know? I mean, we already do. A-and I bet Uncle Ben and Aunt May do, too.'
'Don't know what?' Peter frowned, looking completely at a loss. It probably didn't help I was speaking on his behalf, when only moments ago we were fighting each other. This switch around wasn't too easy on me — I was partly just doing it out of bitterness, not for Peter, but for myself, for vindication. 'Mia, what're you talking about?'
Mom scowled at me. My chest starting to rise and fall a little faster. The onset of another asthma attack? I forgot I never even told Mom what happened at the skate park. Or maybe I was going to cry. I couldn't really tell, since the pounding in my head was getting louder, and every breath seemed to burn in my lungs. I raised my eyebrows, a challenge. 'W-well? Tell him.'
She closed her eyes, almost a wince. There was a silence as we waited, and I was almost afraid Mom wouldn't do it, or maybe she'd lie — but instead, she said, 'According to those doctors, Mia doesn't have a lot of time left.'
That was her diplomatic voice, her way of keeping the situation calm. Phrasing it in a way that didn't sound scary. Peter, likewise, didn't seem too surprised, just more confused. 'H-how much time?'
Mom just closed her mouth. So I replied, voice cold. 'I'm probably going to die before I'm thirty.'
'Amelia, that's enough,' Mom said, raising a hand as though she were about to usher me away. 'You need to go to bed.'
'No!' I swiped her hand away, turned to Peter. His face was a mask of horror, pale and frozen. I wondered if he had ever thought about it, how I might die, because I certainly did. All the time. 'That's why I'm tired! Why bother, right? Why do I-I have to live through that kind of existence, a-always wondering what's going to happen to me. 'Cuz let's be honest, there's no way I'm getting b-better any time soon. W-what are the chances that my life is going to turn around before the clock runs out? Who knows, it c-could be tomorrow, next week, next month —'
I wanted to keep going, but I pushed myself too far at that point, and the next attempt to open my mouth only led to fit of coughing. I hunched against the counter, pressing my face into my arm as my body wracked, and I could hear Mom sigh through her teeth. I could hear Peter breathing, a little too rapid. They were both silent for a very long time.
It was all over now. I said what I wanted to say. I was kind of disappointed; I wanted this to last longer, I wanted my anger to really burn. But nope, that was it.
And it all came crashing down on me, finally.
I shuddered as the last cough left m
y lungs, and I slumped against the counter, taking a second to catch my breath. The numbness that so blissfully allowed me to vent all of my pent up feelings was suddenly gone, like a drug fading off. And I felt it. The regret. The sadness. The fact that I was so happy to hurt them, and they didn't deserve it, and what the hell was I thinking, I was in so much trouble, why would I say any of that…
'Peter,' Mom's voice eventually broke the silence. Her voice was even, not quite firm, but a solid force in my head. 'I think you should go home.'
I didn't even realize I had started to cry until I heard her, and immediately I wanted to run to her and hug her, but it felt wrong after what I said. Why would she want to hug me, anyways?
'No,' I almost couldn't believe it when I heard him disagree, and I dared glance up from the cover of my arms. He stood there, as he had minutes ago, unmoving. But instead of looking hunched, afraid, cowed, Peter looked determined, with shoulders back and chin high. 'No, I want to stay.'
'I'm not going to argue on this, I need you to —' Mom was interrupted when I started coughing again, and this time I felt a hand on my back, arms bringing me up to a slightly less limp position. I was having a hard time standing. My head continued to pound, so loud it was almost hard to hear Mom's next words as she propped me up. 'Mia needs sleep. She's tired, she's sick…and she needs time to think. We all do.'
'No,' I shifted away from her again, my throat protesting at every word I said. I knew I should stop talking. I knew she was right. I was just being contrary now. 'N-no, I don't want your help. W-what does it matter, a-anyways? I-I-I'm just going t-to die, anyways.'
'Oh, for chrissakes!' Mom snapped, making me flinch a little. Apparently her patience had finally run out. 'Mia, for the love of god, I'm not going to let you die before me if I can help it. Dr. Kane knows what she's doing, and I swear, if I hear another word out of your mouth, I swear you're not going anywhere for a very long —'
I didn't hear the rest of it because I started to choke.
My immediate instinct was to spit out the clogging substance, which I did. Warm, wet, into my hand, more past my lips. I tried to swipe it back, but my tongue recoiled at the taste.
'Mia?' Peter was the first one to notice that I seemed to be having trouble. I felt a hand on my arm, glanced up. There was worry in his eyes, in that face I've known since I was four, a face I trusted more than almost anyone else. 'Are you okay?'
'I'm…' I drew my hand away from my mouth, head spinning. The pounding, the world swaying. I couldn't focus on Peter's face, or why Mom suddenly gasped, came towards me. I stumbled back, almost losing my balance.
I caught myself against the counter, my hand still held up, warm. I didn't understand the panic on their faces. Not until Peter said, 'Oh my god, Mia, your mouth —'
I looked down at my hand.
Blood. Dazzling, beautiful red painting my hand, my sleeve, down my shirt.
I opened my mouth. Maybe a scream? No. Awe. Fear. Curiosity. It filled my throat, I coughed, gagged, couldn't get rid of it. My heart skipped a beat, panic suddenly gripping me. This was bad. This was so bad. I should've known something was wrong when I got the nosebleed. I should've said something. I should've told Mom about the asthma attack. Was this related? Had I made it worse, not telling Mom?
It was deep, welling up from inside. I could feel it. A pain in my chest. In my lungs. Like with pneumonia, a heavy wetness that didn't belong in the same place I breathed. Only it didn't go away like pneumonia did. It got worse. Each breath I took brought up more and more.
Until I couldn't breathe anymore.
And that was when I knew I should say something.
The world moved too slow around me. I tried to call out for Mom, but my voice was trapped underneath the blood, and it just kept coming. I tried to cover my mouth, to stop it, but Mom grabbed my hand, pulled it away. I didn't know why. Her voice was a ringing bell in my head, too loud and completely unintelligible.
And there was Peter. Just standing there, shaking his head, saying words, his lips moving, but I couldn't hear anything. Nothing but my erratic heartbeat, my racing thoughts, the shuddering breath in my lungs, trying to get out. I coughed, and the blood bubbled on my lips.
I reached out, helpless. I didn't know for who, but someone took my hand. It should've been reassuring. Only now I felt fear. Only now, I didn't know what to do.
This was it. I knew I needed no other confirmation when I saw their faces over mine, shouting at me. A strange calmness washed over me, a certainty that made me forget why I should be scared. I wanted to tell them it was going to be okay. I wanted to say that I'd get over this, like everything else.Mom's face, stricken. Peter, clinging to me. Pushed away, hands I didn't recognize.
A fight. Peter struggling against two men in blue coats. He was strong, he shoved one off. I reached out for him, but could barely move my arm. Come on, Peter, please. Don't leave me.
He was getting too far. Running. Not fast enough. Screeching tires, doors slamming, dark night sky blinded out.
'— Low blood pressure, in and out of consciousness. Brain hemorrhage? No, we've also got bleeding in the lungs. Something collapsed. I have no goddamn clue—'
In and out. Images. Sometimes sound. Crying. Me? Mom? Peter? I tried to sit up, to understand what was wrong. But I couldn't. Something was holding me down. Straps. I blinked, and the inside of the apartment was replaced by bright lights, white metal walls, cabinets of medicine, tools.
Ambulance. Rumbling, screeching, rocking.
Mom's face, over mine again. Another man, pressing something to my face. I tried to push it away, but Mom had my hands. Her grip bruised. I tried to tell her it hurt.
I couldn't. My throat closed.
'I'm going to relieve some of the pressure in her lungs.' The man said, his voice echoing, strangly clear. Yet I didn't understand a word of it. Was he talking about me? What pressure?
I didn't feel anything, at least not until I saw a flash of metal, the sound of what could be called a balloon being punctured. Then I felt it, a hot poker in my side, burning and sharp and bleeding. I screamed. Or tried to.
Instead, the world went dark.
It came back. Still the ambulance, still Mom. I wanted to ask her where Peter was. He should be here. I was scared. This was too much. I didn't want this. I wanted to go home.
'We're going to be okay, Mia,' Mom said, pressing my hand to her lips. I felt her words more than heard them. Her fingers intertwined with mine, but I couldn't flex my fingers. They refused to move. 'You're going to be okay.'
I wanted to agree, but that seemed naïve. It was very clear something was wrong. This appraisal was almost clinical in aspect, just the truth. It wasn't even scary. I just knew it, felt good that I was right. I wanted to tell Mom that whatever happens, I love you. I love you I love you I love you
I could only choke, and Mom started to cry.
Then there was a phone by my ear. Peter's voice.
'Mia, are you listening?' he asked, voice crackling. I couldn't answer, only marveled that I could hear him, that he had thought to call. How nice of him. 'Mia, I just wanted to say sorry, okay? I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, I didn't know, I didn't know I didn't know —'
His voice became a jumble in my ears. I wanted to say it was okay, that I wasn't angry at him anymore. Why should I? It was all just so stupid. I had overreacted.
But I didn't have the time. I had to choose my words carefully.
I had to tell him.
I love you.
At least, that's what I wanted to say. I might've said something else. I wasn't entirely sure what my mouth was doing. The sharp, stabbing pain in my chest was distracting, I couldn't find the right words. The man was pulling out a tube, sticking it in somewhere I couldn't see, raised it over his head. It filled with blood, rising up and away. I wondered where it would go. I needed that blood.
Peter was still talking, rambling. Words that had meaning. 'Do you
remember ohana? We used to say it all the time. It's our movie. I'm not going to forget you, okay? You're going to be okay. I'm here for you. Always here. You just gotta hang on.'
'You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…'
Mom was singing. I didn't notice it at first, but the tune was familiar. I heard it before bed at night. A lullaby, the one she sang when I was little. The one that reminded me to keep going. That I would always wake up, that she would always be there.
'You make me happy, when times are gray —'
I wasn't going to wake up from this. A nightmare.
'—You'll never know, dear, how much I love you…'
I listened to the lullaby, tried to ground myself in it. Did she want me to sleep? Would it be easier, if I just slipped away, let this all happen when I was dreaming? It sounded so nice.
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