Where We Fell

by Amber L. Johnson

  OF THE TWO EVILS, chemo is the lesser than radiation. Radiation makes me nuclear and Hannah’s not allowed near me for days. With chemo, I get pumped and go.

  Time is an odd thing now. It creeps by so slowly that sometimes I feel like maybe I’ve died and I’m caught in the void, unable to move beyond the next minute. On the other hand, the days are going by at an undesirable rate because Hannah is going to head back to school soon. Without me.

  And I don’t know what that means for the future of us.

  Today she enters my house through the garage door without knocking. My mom has become used to this and hugs her when she enters the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Stella. What’s the skinny on The Skinny?”

  “I’m sitting right here,” I call as loud as I can from my new home on the couch.

  Hannah regards me with a roll of the eyes. “I was talking to your mother. She won’t lie and say you’re doing fine when you’re not. Unlike some people I know . . .”

  My mom holds a plate of pancakes out to her while giving me a playful glare.

  “Would you prefer I call you Mrs. Bishop? I never asked.”

  “Whatever you’d like.” My mom chuckles because she loves Hannah. What the girl calls her is such a moot point, it’s comical.

  “Stella is a beautiful name. I’d demand that everyone say my name if I was named Stella.” She grabs the plate and balances it on one hand while she holds a cup that she’s brought with her above her head. It’s filled with green liquid and I can’t stop staring at her as she drinks it through a straw. Noticing the look of abject horror on my face, she waves it in my direction. “Want a sip?”

  “No.”

  Hannah Hartwell is the queen of dirty looks and I am afforded one of her best. “It’s delicious.”

  “Highly doubtful.”

  “You can’t even taste the spinach. And it’s . . .”

  I cut her off. “Healthy. I know.”

  It’s amazing how fast she makes herself at home. Her plate is balanced on her knees and she’s already searching Netflix for something to watch.

  “I swear to God, if you turn on another vegetarian documentary, I will throw myself out the window.”

  “You’d have to get off of the couch first.”

  I stare at her with narrowed eyes for a good length of time, making sure she’s taken at least three bites of pancakes before I speak again. “My mom cooked those in bacon grease.”

  She’s gotten really good at throwing pillows at me one-handed.

  ***

  Our backyard has always been one of my favorite places in the world. Filled with trees, and surrounded by a wooden fence, it was like my very own fantasy land when I was younger. Now, it still holds some kind of magic when the sun begins to set and the fireflies make their twilight debut. There’s another storm rolling in, and I can’t stop staring up at the gray-drenched sky.

  Hannah’s sitting next to me, her feet tapping against the porch. “You know how some people think that colors are their prettiest in the brightest sun?”

  “Sure.”

  “I like this a whole lot better. Greens are greener. Everything just stands out more when there’s a tinge of darkness behind it. All that light can wash colors out.”

  Even though the temperatures during the daylight hours haven’t fallen in the least, the impending storm adds heaviness to the humidity that makes you feel like you’re breathing through a wet sponge. Still, I don’t want to move. I want to hold onto this until I can’t anymore. While I’ve been feeling better for the past few days it doesn’t mean anything, really. I can’t hold out hope for something so unknowable.

  “Can you take a picture of this?” I ask because I’ve forgotten my camera.

  “Sure.”

  When she returns, she turns the camera on me and I shake my head, holding up a shaking arm to shield my face. “Just the sky. That’s all. I want to remember what we were both looking at.”

  She grins, bringing the camera down to her chest. Wind has begun to pick up around us, and her hair is blowing across her face, her hazel eyes searching mine. I mentally note her David Bowie t-shirt, and shorts that are cut just an inch longer than I would prefer, given how incredibly nice her legs are. This is a mental picture just for me. I don’t need a camera.

  Bending over my chair, she places the camera on the table next to me and balances her hands on the wrought iron armrests at my sides. “I was looking at you, not the sky.”

  Something stirs in my chest, a fluttering of anticipation when her face is so close to mine. With great effort, I tuck back the thoughts that have begun to run so rampant in my mind lately. Thoughts of my appearance next to hers. I’ve become much thinner. My eyebrow and leg hair is completely gone. I’m constantly cold, even when I’m warm. But Hannah looks at me like I could be the centerfold in some celebrity teen magazine.

  “And now I’m staring at you,” I say quietly.

  She lifts a timid hand to my face and runs her fingertips across my cheek, causing my eyes to drift closed beneath her touch. “Have you put any more pictures in your book?” It comes out so quietly, like the warm summer breeze.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “Nope.” Opening my eyes, I watch as she drops to her knees and folds her arms across my legs to look up at me questioningly.

  “Why not?”

  I offer her the most hopeful of smiles. It’s all that I can muster. “Because, when I get better and visit you at school, I’ll bring it to show you.”

  Her reaction is to look away and press her cheek to her arm. I pull one arm free to run my palm across her head, slipping my fingers through her hair. It’s the first time she’s cried. Because it’s the first time I’ve openly said that I think I might survive.

  9.

  AS FATE WOULD HAVE IT, the day before everyone leaves for college is the same day my ass lands in the hospital. I’d been feeling marginally better than the week before. I felt much better than two weeks prior. And maybe I’d lulled myself into some strange sort of complacency about the entire thing, focusing on my ever-shortening time with Terrence, Kayleigh and Hannah.

  But mostly Hannah, I won’t lie.

  So, it didn’t occur to me that while she was in my room that day, telling me about what a nightmare it was to pack up her stuff, and how she still had a few things left, because, ‘who packs their shampoo the day before?’ all the while listening to a torrent of her favorite band, Pandora’s Bachs (some weird mash-up of EDM and classical music mixed by a couple of DJ’s wearing cat masks) – that this could possibly be the last day I was able to see her on my own.

  Something had felt off since I’d woken up, but I pushed it aside, wanting to enjoy the last day I’d have with my friends. Looking forward to having everyone over for dinner because my parents knew I was bitter about having to extend my admission date until ‘we had a clearer view of things health-wise.’ I chalked up the off-feeling to the anxiety and nervousness of watching people leave. Excitement for one last night. Perhaps the plethora of drugs I was on was finally making their voices heard in my system.

  “You feeling okay?” Hannah’s facial expressions can vary from amused to cynical in two seconds flat, but she doesn’t usually let concern show on her face like this.

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  “Fine. There’s that word again. For the record, you don’t look fine. You’re so white you’re almost invisible. Or green. Are you . . . yellow? I don’t know; you don’t look so good.”

  By the time she brings my mom upstairs, I’m vomiting uncontrollably.

  I’m gifted a ride in an ambulance, with my mom by my side and Hannah following in her environmentally-sound blue Nissan Leaf. Even hooked up to monitors and with an oxygen mask on my face, I can’t help but worry about her speeding behind us. I wonder if she’s terrified or if she’ll pretend things are okay, like she usually does.

  After tests, and multiple visits from nurses and the on-call doc
tor, my parents and Hannah are allowed to enter the room. My mom’s wringing her hands again and my dad’s palm rests on his hip where his gun would usually reside. And Hannah, well, Hannah is holding what appear to be half a dozen Mylar balloons.

  The doctor speaks and I avert my attention to Hannah as she climbs into the bed with me. She’s careful to avoid the port attached below my right collarbone as it pumps in much needed fluids. One of her hands is pressed to my heart and the other slips a knitted cap into my open palm as she whispers, “I didn’t knit it.”

  My mom repeats the diagnosis, between nodding her head at the doctor. “Jaundice.” Nod. “Obstruction of the bile duct.” Double, definitive nod.

  I know what jaundice means in this case. It means I will get a beautiful catheter tube and begin peeing into bags.

  Terrence and Kayleigh arrive, along with Terrence’s dad. Bishop Short gives each of my parents a hug before approaching my hospital bed, his face an emotionless mask. He has this look in his eyes like he can see the future or something, and mine is very, very bleak. When he asks to pray over me, I allow him to. I crack an eye open to look for Terrence because I’m sure he’s rolling his eyes or something. But he’s not. His eyes are closed.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever seen my friend pray for something and mean it.

  ***

  “I don’t want to leave you,” Hannah says quietly, her face turned towards mine as I stare at the ceiling above the hospital bed.

  I give a halfhearted grin. “Then don’t.”

  My mom looks up from her phone for a second and then away. The sound of the air conditioner and the incessant beeping of machinery all around me are drowning out our words, but I suspect my mom is growing antsy about the time. She’ll be able to stay with me but Hannah will have to go. And my dad, well, my dad already had to go back to work.

  “Don’t tempt me.” Hannah chuckles and leans forward to press her nose to my cheek. “I’ll write you every day. You call me when you feel up to it. We’ll Skype or Facetime or whatever you want. Whenever you want.”

  She’s handed me a loaded grenade and pulled the pin. I’m a teenage boy, after all. “Whatever I want? Do I finally get to see your boobs?”

  If she could punch me in the arm, she would. Or she would throw something at my head and call me a pig. She’d do something other than laugh and cover her mouth . . . if I wasn’t in a hospital bed. But I am.

  “Oliver Bishop?”

  “Yeah?” I’m staring into her eyes as she inches closer, her lips just out of reach of mine.

  “I’ll make you a deal.” Her eyelids flutter and her gaze drops to my mouth and then back up to my eyes. “You get better, and the first weekend you can drive up to see me, I’ll show you my boobs. Rock your entire world. I will wreck you.”

  “Deal.” I close my eyes and give her one final kiss before my mother clears her throat and arranges her features into something that resembles ‘apologetic.’

  “Visiting hours . . . I’m sorry, Hannah.”

  My girl smiles at me and kisses my cheek one last time. “I’m not.” She scoots delicately off the bed and crosses the room to give my mom a hug. There’s determination in her steps as she moves to the visitor’s chair where her purse has sat for the past few hours. She lifts a hand to her head and smoothes out her hair a couple of times before she turns to look at me one last time. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t pick up if you’re tired or sleeping or whatever.” Placing her fingers to her lips, she blows me a small kiss and then disappears beyond the curtain.

  It feels as if my heart has walked itself out of the room in a pair of bright blue flip flops.

  10.

  THEY SAY LYMPHOMA IS the cancer to have if you’re going to have it. And they say that once you start treatments, you’re a warrior. ‘They’ say a lot of things . . . but honestly? I’d rather have not been diagnosed with any kind of cancer, period. I’d rather it had been Non-Hodgkin’s. I’d rather not be considered a fighter because I don’t really feel like I’m battling anything other than myself.

  And maybe therein remains the struggle. Maybe your mind is one thing you have control over when your body is working so very hard to kill you off. When your body goes to war against itself, what is there left to fight for?

  I choose to believe that, if I keep my focus on the future, I could very well be fighting for a chance at something great. A second go at life. There could be the smallest possibility of going to college and starting something with Hannah. Of letting my parents see me grow into an adult. These are the things I focus on as the hours become days. As the days become weeks. During my treatments and in between the little bits of exercise my doctor has allowed.

  She keeps her promise and writes me emails every day. Sometimes they’re long. Sometimes they’re short. But just getting them makes me feel better. They instill strength in me that I wasn’t entirely sure I had.

  Then there are the Skype conversations . . .

  She lives with a roommate named Coco who is, for all intents and purposes, completely batshit crazy. It makes Hannah laugh, but sometimes I can see that she’s legitimately worried that her roommate could go off the deep end.

  “I could possibly get straight A’s this semester. If she ends up drunkenly falling down a ravine.”

  She looks amazing, even pixilated and distracted by other things on her screen, while we talk ‘face–to–face’ over our laptops. Her hair has grown out even more, and I can see where her blonde roots are creating a colorless line down her part when she looks down at her lap or dips her head to scratch her neck every once in a while. I haven’t admitted it, but I think I like her better with dark hair. Maybe because that’s how she looked when I began to fall for her.

  I’d gone and retrieved my old yearbook out of the back of my closet for the sole purpose of looking at her senior picture. Her hair was parted directly down the middle, corn silk blonde, and curled down to her waist. It was such an odd thing to see her like that. When I’d visited her house, most of the pictures of her there were from when she was very little. No large prints of her in later years. Looking at this blonde girl with wide hazel eyes made me feel like I didn’t know her at all.

  Still, I keep the page earmarked so her image is readily available.

  “I should dye it again,” Hannah says one night as we’re talking about absolutely nothing at all.

  “I like it dark.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.”

  Coco is knocking around in the living room and it makes Hannah roll her eyes in frustration. She looks back to me through the screen with a glint in her eye. “Tell me something.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Anything.”

  I consider telling her that my doctors have a very good feeling about my next appointment. I think about letting her know that the last time I had an appointment, they said my tumors had gotten smaller. That they’re incredibly optimistic that the word ‘remission’ is in my future and that they said I could start preparing to run again, as much as I could handle. Which I have by slowly jogging for the past week or so. But I don’t want to get her hopes up. Or mine. Yet, if they do give me the news that I’m in remission, I’ve planned to drive to see her that very day to tell her myself.

  She’ll also be excited to know that I’ve given up bacon.

  But only because my doctor kinda suggested a more vegetarian diet for my recovery.

  I don’t want her getting a big head about it.

  “Huh. Let’s see.” I wrack my brain for something to talk about that we haven’t said before. Being apart from her and relying solely on technology to bridge the gap between us has been harder than I thought it would be.

  I want to touch her.

  A laugh escapes my mouth before I can stop myself, and immediately I have her unwavering attention.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing.” My room suddenly feels small. And warm. The blue t-shirt I have on is clinging to my chest in a suffocating manne
r.

  Hannah, in pajama pants and a tank top, with her hair piled up high on her head, glares at me through the screen. “It’s not ‘nothing’ if you’re turning the color of my least favorite pepper. What?”

  Reaching around to the back of my neck, I feel my skin flush hot and I laugh again. “Did I ever tell you that, before my first chemo, they suggested that I . . . Uh . . .”

  She quirks a brow and leans in closer. “They suggested you, what?”

  “Umm. They made me give a sample at the hospital. For safekeeping. Like. For the future.” I can’t meet her eyes, so I look away at my bedroom door, hoping to God that this isn’t the moment my mom decides she wants to bring in my laundry or something.

  “A sample.” Hannah’s voice is controlled and tight. I know she’s going to burst out laughing at any second.

  “Yeah.”

  “You have frozen baby batter somewhere? For future use?”

  I finally face her again and can’t help but smile because she is, too. “Maybe. I guess they want to make sure I can have kids in the future if something happens because of all of the chemicals.”

  “Did you watch porn?”

  “No! No, they didn’t . . . It’s a hospital. They just, ya know, gave me a cup and said, ‘There’s the bathroom’ and I was expected to just hand it over in a few minutes.”

  “Oh my god. Was your mom there?”

  “Not IN the bathroom. No. Jesus.”

  She’s in full laughter mode now, hand to her face, and cackling. “Oh. Oliver. That’s awesome.”

  “Shut up. It wasn’t the best experience. But at least I have a back-up plan.”

  That’s when she catches her breath and leans forward until I have a pretty good view of the valley between her breasts. She licks her lower lip and tilts her head to the side. “Well, if you couldn’t watch porn, what did you think about?’

  I don’t answer because I know that she knows.

  “Better question: Who did you think about?”

  Swallowing thickly, I shrug my left shoulder and avoid eye contact with her until she taps her monitor to get my attention. When I finally look at her, she’s practically glowing.