We both leap out of the car and head up the walk to the house. I stop her with my hand on her arm. “Do you want me to wait out here?”
She takes my hand in hers and squeezes, giving me the answer.
When we walk through the door of her house, she calls out for her mother.
“Mom? Ross? What’s going on?”
“We’re in the kitchen,” I hear Ross say.
We round the corner from the living room and both stop in our tracks. Miss Lorraine and her brother are sitting at the kitchen table, very somber and quiet. Are they dealing with financial difficulties, too? Certainly not; Ross has money coming out of his ears.
I hang back as Lora crosses the room and takes the chair opposite her mom. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”
Miss Lorraine looks at Ross. His head is down and his hands rest on the tabletop. The vein in his neck bulges. He’s very upset—angry, in fact.
“You know how Ross wasn’t feeling well the other night?” Miss Lorraine says. “He went to the doctor yesterday, and we got some very bad news today.”
I swallow hard, knowing I shouldn’t be hearing this.
“What is it?” Lora asks as tears of fear begin to cover her eyes.
“Stop trying to candy-coat it, for God’s sake, Lorraine.” Ross glares forward, seething. “I’ve been diagnosed with a very advanced stage of fucking leukemia.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
I know God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish that He didn’t trust me so much.
—Mother Teresa
I stand frozen as the words leave Ross’s mouth.
It’s the last thing I expect him to say.
Leukemia?
The simple definition is cancer of the blood, although there’s nothing simple about the disease. I remember from physiology class that it can get into the bone marrow and can also make you anemic. People have been known to lose liver function because of it, too, not to mention their life. How I remember these scholastic details at a time like this is beyond me, but I know the road ahead for Ross is not going to be an easy one.
“How? When?” Lora manages to ask.
Ross’s eyes are unmoving as he stares ahead at the coffee mug Miss Lorraine set in front of him. A low growl resonates from his chest. “I don’t have time for this shit. We’ve just taken Game On public, and the investors expect a certain level of dedication, time, and travel on my part. To be out there upholding the image of the company and to expand into other markets in the south.”
Lora stammers again. “But—but—but how did you get this? You’re, like, in better physical shape than anyone I’ve ever known. You don’t smoke or drink or do drugs or eat fast food or anything like that. You never get the flu or anything. You’ve got super immunity.”
He snorts. “Lotta good all that does me now.”
Lora won’t let up. “You’re not supposed to get sick.”
I wasn’t supposed to get sick, either. Cancer doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care. It doesn’t give a shit who it attacks and when. It targets young and old alike. It preys on politicians, movie stars, sports figures, housewives, grandmothers, garbage men, accountants, high school cheerleaders, and even CEOs of companies.
He puts his head in his hands. “My life is over.”
“No, it’s not!” Miss Lorraine fusses at him.
“It might as well be,” Ross says with a resigned sigh. Bitterness cascades off him like a tidal wave battering the shore to smithereens. “The signs were there and I didn’t pay attention to them. I’ve been so busy and on the go. I didn’t know... fatigue, pain in my ribs, bruises on my arms and legs for no reason, loss of appetite.”
I remember the story Gabriel told me about the cheerleader at his old school who killed herself over the thought of being sick. And now, Ross Scott, someone I really admire and look up to, is copping the same attitude. Only, he’s a grown man and should know better. Right? Aren’t adults supposed to handle this kind of stuff better than a kid? Maybe no one knows how to handle this. But I feel I need to speak up. To help.
I don’t know, though. I don’t know if it’s my place.
“I haven’t been feeling... right,” Ross continues.
Miss Lorraine speaks up. “I made him go to the doctor and get some blood work done.”
I watch as Ross lifts his head toward his sister. “I’d rather have not ever known.”
“That’s ludicrous,” Lora shouts out. “And what? Not gotten treated? You’ve found it now and the doctors can take care of it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ross snaps. “It’s acute leukemia. My white blood cells don’t work anymore. Every breath I take, the leukemia cells are rapidly taking over. I’m completely fucked!”
Miss Lorraine is horrified. “Ross! Stop that. You don’t know what this means yet.”
The usually confident and calm Ross Scott pivots his head in her direction. “I most certainly do. It means I don’t have very long. Everything I planned for is over. Everything I dreamed about doing . . .” He trails off.
Lora bursts into tears, and her mother moves to comfort her.
“You can’t have that attitude, Ross,” I finally say firmly, knowing I’m overstepping my boundaries.
His normally soft eyes slant. “Can’t I? My entire career is based on sports, adventure, and convincing others to take risks and accept challenges. I can’t do that from a hospital room hooked up to machines. I can’t be the spokesperson of Game On when I’m getting chemo and radiation.” His eyes stare off for a moment. “It’s not only about my career and taking a hike—it’s the inevitability of this outcome. Only five fucking percent actually beat this disease. Five!”
Miss Lorraine reaches out. “Yes, dear, but you can be among that five percent.”
“Yeah, Uncle Ross. No one fights like you.”
“Statistics are just that,” I say. “Numbers on a piece of paper. You’re a real human being who can beat the odds.”
“You have to try, Uncle Ross,” Lora begs.
“You do, Ross,” his sister adds.
“I thought I couldn’t be a cheerleader. But I’m doing it.”
He’s on his feet, and I’m afraid he’s going to take his frustration out on me. “This is the real world! This isn’t some high school pastime, Hayley. This is my life!”
I recoil as his anger smacks me down.
“Ross, do sit down, dear,” Miss Lorraine says, trying to rein him in. “Hayley, he doesn’t mean anything against you. We all know what you’ve been through.”
“Right,” I say quietly, knowing I have to get this out. “But you can’t have a negative attitude and be all ‘woe is me’ and stuff. That’s the worst way to be. It means you’re going to let the cancer win. You have to fight this, Ross.”
He shoves his hands through his hair and lets out another sigh. “It’s hard to fight something I didn’t even know I had. It’s acute leukemia, which means it could already have spread to my organs. What’s the point in getting chemo and radiation, only to go into remission and then hope that the doctors can figure something out?”
“You have to fight it,” I repeat. “Like I did.”
Ross’s smile is one of frustration. “You’re just a kid, Hayley. You’ve got the rest of your life ahead of you. Me, I’ve got an investor’s meeting next Thursday in Chicago. I’ve got a board of directors to report to. I’ve got a mortgage and car payment. You’ve got homework and football games and school dances. It’s not the same thing. I have to take a leave of absence from the company I created so I can go lie in a hospital and have chemicals pumped into my body.”
I flatten my lips together, not buying his argument at all. “Just like what I went through this summer.”
“Listen to her, Uncle Ross. She knows what she’s talking about,” Lora begs. “You can’t get all pissed about this. You have to fight it. People do beat leukemia.”
He sneers. “Do you know that in the year 2000, two hundre
d and fifty-six thousand people—children and adults—came down with leukemia? Do you also know that two hundred and nine thousand of them died? That’s eighty percent. Eighty percent!”
“That’s not today, Ross. Statistics change,” Miss Lorraine says. “Your own doctor said they can get you into treatment and get you on the road to remission.”
I look at my partner’s uncle, my friend. This is the man who so unselfishly arranged for my cheerleading squad to drive three hours to Birmingham to visit me in the hospital and cheer me up. This is the man who gave me protein bars and shakes from his store to help me with my own recovery and rehabilitation. He’s only in his midthirties, yet looking at him now, he suddenly seems so much older—aged from his diagnosis and weary over what to do next.
Tears seem to be lurking at the base of his eyes. I certainly can’t blame him. Crying is a release; a way of shouting out your frustration and anger at the universe. I cross the room and take the chair next to him, feeling very much like the adult in this situation. I lift my hand and place it softly over his. He turns his head and looks at me, more than likely taking in my weak smile and my fuzzy-haired head from my own loss. He has rich, thick blond hair that I fear will come out, too, once he gets into treatment. When he looks at me, does he see himself in the future? Or do I somehow represent hope to him? I pray it’s the latter.
“You’ve got to try,” I whisper. “For yourself, for your family, for your company, and for everyone else who’s had cancer.”
His hand flips over and he grips mine tightly. His eyes squeeze shut, and the tears gush out and down his cheeks in a release he so needs. His voice trembles when he speaks. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough... as strong as you.”
“You’re strong enough to climb mountains. You’re bold enough to trek through rainforests and jump out of airplanes,” I say, smiling with my eyes.
“Those are adrenaline rushes,” he says.
“You’re only as strong as you want to be.” I point my index finger to my head. “It’s all up here. Mind over matter. I could have easily crawled into a hole after they found my tumor. If I had, I might not be here now—in the least, I wouldn’t have a left leg to walk on. I never let the cancer get into my head. I never let it tell me I couldn’t beat it. I never listened as it mocked me.” I don’t know where the words are coming from, but they sound good, and I hope he believes me. “Your doctors know what they’re doing and they can help.” I squeeze his hand. “Don’t give up, Ross. Don’t give in. Even if you have to battle it for years. Fight it.”
His tears become racking sobs to the point where it’s breaking my heart. Miss Lorraine comforts him on one side and Lora comes up from behind and wraps her arms around his neck. The four of us stay that way for a moment—or an eternity, who knows?
“Fight it, Ross,” I whisper.
Then he nods. Small at first. “I will.”
“What?” I ask, making sure I heard him correctly.
“If you can do it, Hayley, I can, too.”
I don’t know how long we sit like that—a supportive knot of hugging—but we finally breathe a sigh of relief and separate. Miss Lorraine hands him a napkin, and he wipes his face.
“When does the treatment start?” Lora asks.
“Immediately,” Ross responds. “The doctor said he can get me into Maxwell Memorial Hospital on Monday.”
“Shouldn’t you go somewhere that specializes in leukemia?” I ask.
“I have to stay near the business. Maxwell Memorial has a good rep.”
“It’s going to be a long road, dear,” Miss Lorraine says. “We’re all here for you.” She smiles up at me and winks her thanks.
“I’m going to need it,” Ross says.
I get up and walk over to the counter for my purse. Digging inside, I locate the item I’m searching for and grab it in my fist. I present Ross with what has been so helpful in my own recovery.
It brings a small laugh from him. “A Snickers bar?”
“Trust me, it’s going to become your best friend.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.
—Ingrid Bergman
I stopped at the hospital this afternoon,” I tell Lora as we drive up the hill to school Halloween night. The annual PHS Halloween carnival starts in about fifteen minutes.
“Oh yeah? Was Ross still telling all of the nurses what to do?”
I giggle. “Nah... he was good. I took him a big box of Snickers and some sudoku books. I think I’ve got him hooked on them.”
Lora nods. “Something fun for him to dwell on instead of financial spreadsheets and stuff from Game On.”
“Who’s running things?” I ask.
“Uncle Ross... remotely. He’s got his computer and his cell phone. His head of sales, Franklin Dean, will do the more out-there appearances over the next few weeks.”
Poor Ross. I know how frustrating this must be for him. “He seems in good spirits.”
“All because of you, Hayley,” Lora says. “You really helped him get over the negative attitude. He’s going to do just fine.”
“I pray for him every night,” I say.
Lora steers her car into one of the few remaining parking slots in front of the gym. “That’s all any of us can do.”
We walk into the school that is teeming with students, teachers, and families crowding around for the annual festivities. PHS really goes all out and no space goes to waste. Tons of prizes have been either donated by local merchants or made by students and their families. There are darts, pick-up ducks, go fish, face painting, henna tattoos, a best costume contest, a haunted house, hayride, a cider station, pumpkin carving contest, a monster mash dance-a-thon, bingo, fake roulette, and a country store full of homemade jams, candies, bread, and cookies made by teachers and staff. I’m carrying in a red velvet cake that my grandmother made for the cake walk in the library, where Lora and I are assigned to work for an hour.
I love the cake walk and have ever since I came to my first Halloween carnival here at PHS when Cliff was in school. They clear out the tables in the library and then put large pieces of masking tape on the floor. Each piece of tape has a number written on it in a random order. Whoever’s working the event plays a CD of music for a few minutes. When the music stops, a number is drawn. Whoever is standing on that number wins the cake of his or her choice. And boy howdy, are there a ton of them. Angel food, devil’s food, ones iced with vanilla, chocolate, coconut, strawberry, a couple from the local bakery, and a few fancy ones where people tried their hands at fondant decorating. There must be more than fifty cakes sitting here on the tables.
Lora and I have the shift for the first hour. We herd people into the library so they can grab a spot on a number before the music starts. We’re dressed as zombie cheerleaders, wearing one of our uniforms, but sporting fishnet stockings that are torn at the knee, pale white makeup with dark circled eyes, and a ratty cape to keep us warm in the October chill. All of the cheerleaders decided to do this, but when I see Chloe Bradenton walking by outside the library, I see she didn’t go for the zombie makeup part. Whatever. Like she can’t be seen in any kind of ugly way.
She really needs to get over herself.
Lora gets ready to cue the music up, and people flood the library to take their turn at winning a homemade confection. I walk around the circle, taking tickets from everyone standing on a number.
A little girl points up at me and says, “Mommy! Look! She has no hair.”
The mother pulls the child to her and apologizes. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t get upset with her.”
Even though I’m still self-conscious about my appearance, I smile. “It’s okay. I’m used to people staring.”
“What happened to you?” the little girl asks.
“I was sick and I lost my hair.” I rub the top of my head for good measure. “It’s growing back, though.”
“You don�
�t look sick.”
“I’m not anymore,” I say.
The mom turns six shades of red. “Kathryn’s just a little thing. Please don’t mind her. We’re all so proud of you and how you’ve handled this.”
You are? I don’t even know who this woman is, but her compliment warms me.
“Thanks,” is all I can manage to get out before Lora cues up “The Purple People Eater” for everyone to walk around to.
When the music stops, Lora pulls a number from the basket. “Forty-two.”
“That’s us, Mommy!” little Kathryn shouts out.
I slip over to verify the number. “We have a winner.”
“What do we do?” the girl asks.
“Pick any cake up there and it’s yours.”
She smiles a wide, toothless grin at me. “Did you make one?”
I point to the one with the cream cheese frosting. “My grandmother baked that. It’s red velvet.”
“I want that one, Mommy.”
Her mom smiles, and Lora hands the cake to her.
When they walk off, Lora says to me, “You really have no idea how many lives you’ve touched, do you?”
I scoff. “What are you talking about? I did what I had to.”
“Exactly,” she says with a huge grin, and starts the music again.
And off to work I go.
***
Mrs. Quakenbush sits outside the haunted house—aka the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms—taking tickets. “Two, please.”
“We’re seniors,” Lora says.
She looks over the top of her glasses and then reaches for a clipboard with the names of the seniors. “And you are?”
I want to roll my eyes, but I just smile in my zombie makeup instead. Lora gives her our names, and she lets us pass through the black curtain.
“Honestly, it’s not a national security matter,” Lora says with a laugh.
We trudge through the entrance, which is basically black sheets hung from ceiling to floor to make it like a maze. We hear the cackles of our fellow classmates in character as they attempt to scare the patookie out of us. Strobe lights flash, leading the path through the attraction. Lora grabs my arm in pure terror, as if any of these clowns in here are going to do us any harm.
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