“Very nice meeting you all,” the small blonde says, a little too cheerfully. I don’t know if she’s Marissa or Lilly.
“Yes, happy to meet you,” the other one adds, her voice high-pitched.
“How’s the little one doing?’ Jesse says, looking directly at Maria, who has since fallen asleep. She looks peaceful like that, and I watch her for a beat.
“She’s doing okay. She was laughing right before you guys came in, but you know how fatigue comes out of nowhere. We’re just getting ready for her transplant,” Martha says, running her fingers through her daughter’s brown hair her lovingly. Maria is Martha’s everything. I’d recognize that look anywhere because it’s the same one my mother gives me—the look that shows they’d give anything to switch places with us.
“Good to hear,” Jesse says, and I can tell he’s going to be a good doctor. His eyes find mine, and for a moment all I can do is stare, trying to figure him out. I break the connection and turn my attention to Fiona instead.
“What brings you all here?’ Rob says.
“Lilly and Marissa are med students at Bragan; Jesse is pre-med there too,” Fiona explains. I know he’s an intern at the hospital and all, but with his build, I’d peg him for someone who’d want to play a professional sport full-time instead of subjecting himself to an extremely hard program. I knew a few students in the program who complained about the harsh load of work they had and how difficult it was to get in.
I watch him subtly, tracing the muscles visible through his scrubs. Men in uniform have always done it for me—I never thought scrubs would have the same effect though.
“So, you all want to be doctors?” Martha asks, finally tearing her eyes off Maria and engaging in the conversation. “Do you have a specific field in mind?"
“I want to go into physical therapy,” the blonde replies.
“I want to go into sports medicine,” the brunette adds, and at her response I shake my head. I don’t mean to be one of those girls who judges others without knowing them, but for some reason with these girls, I can’t help it.
“So why are you here?” I ask. “I mean, this is the oncology floor at a children’s hospital.” This isn’t the place you go to for physical therapy or sports medicine. None of us is a fancy sports player…well, maybe Jesse is, but he isn’t a patient.
“Um,” is the only sound that comes out of the blonde girl’s mouth as she’s stumped by my question. She looks to the brunette for help, but her friend doesn’t offer anything in response either. Their discomfort doesn’t make me feel bad. Instead, it confirms what I already know: they don’t want to be here, at least not long-term. For them, this is temporary. This is their way of meeting whatever academic requirement they have before moving on to the kind of work they want to do—the kind of medicine that pays them well and keeps them away from children sick with cancer.
Temporary for them. Permanent for us, I think bitterly.
“You didn’t answer the first question,” I say to Jesse when I realize the girls won’t say anything else.
“Me?” he asks, pointing at himself.
“Yeah, you.” I don’t know why I’m so invested in this topic. I guess I want to know if this is temporary for him too.
“I’m hoping to go to med school and do cancer research,” Jesse responds, not missing a beat. He scratches his hair as he waits for whatever’s coming next.
“Wonderful,” Martha says with a hopeful smile, taking back control of the conversation.
“We need more people like you, young man,” Rob tells Jesse, echoing my thoughts. “More good people who want to help those that are suffering.”
“All I want to do is help in whatever way I can, sir,” Jesse tells Rob, and they both share a nod of understanding.
“Well, we’re off to go and visit a few other patients today!” Fiona announces. “Please let us know if you need anything.”
“Will do. Thanks for everything!” Martha tells an already retreating Fi.
“Stay out of trouble, Zoe,” Fiona warns me, pulling open the door. The girls follow behind, and just as before, Jesse’s the last to leave. I see his gaze turn to Maria once more. Then it bounces to Martha, Rob, and finally to me. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else but then shuts it, shakes his head and gives a little wave goodbye before following the others out.
6
JESSE
The all too familiar sound of gravel crushing beneath my feet fills my ears. The sun is hidden, the clouds taking over and painting the sky a lifeless gray. According to my weather app, there’s also an impending rainstorm—this couldn’t be more perfect.
I take cautious steps to where I know she is, following the pebbled path to where she…where the love of my life has been for a few years now.
Arriving at the stone marked with her name, I take a deep breath and allow my fingers to trace the outline of her name, the tips following each letter. ‘Hayley Evergreen. 1996-2014 Amazing daughter, sister, friend. Gone too soon.’ Those were the words chosen to be on her epitaph. I had no input when it came to choosing them. It’s not that I wasn’t asked—more like I was in denial that she was really gone. I had been for a while, but ultimately I accepted it. If I’d chosen anything to add to her epitaph, I would’ve added girlfriend to the list of things.
I lower myself to my knees, removing the now wilted flowers I’d brought her last week. I replace them with a new bouquet of lilies—her favorite.
I take a seat next to her headstone and start to talk. “I can’t believe it’s almost been four years, Hayley.” I know she can’t hear me, but maybe she’s listening from somewhere up above.
“I started my internship this week. It was interesting being there again—and by interesting, I mean terrifying. If you’d been here, you’d have told me to suck it up, to get over my fear and move forward—to move on. Then again, if you were here, I wouldn’t need to be there. I may have chosen a different path, another career.
“So, I met this little girl, Maria. You’d love her; she’s adorable and has the prettiest smile. She’s four years old, and her laughter is contagious. Actually, she reminds me a little of you, of what I imagine you were like when you were her age. I always thought you were the kind of girl to wear your mother’s dresses and dance around the house all day.”
I clear my throat, stretching my legs out in front of me. Turning my head to the side, I trace the letters of her name with my eyes. “Remember when I asked you to the prom?” Hayley had been dropping hints for weeks, waiting to see when and if I’d be asking her. The guys had given me so much shit for waiting so long.
The thing is, I wanted to take my time. I needed to do it right because you only got to ask a girl like Hayley once. And if you were going to dare ask, it had to be perfect. Not because she demanded it, but because she deserved it. She was the girl of my dreams—she still is.
I’d met her in middle school. She’d transferred in after her parents had a divorce. I couldn’t describe how seeing her for the first time had made me feel—the eleven-year-old me didn’t have the words. I just knew there was something special about her. Her smile made me smile. Her kindness made me want to be better. I remember sitting next to her in class and listening to her go back and forth with the teacher about climate change. The teacher didn’t know what to do with her; she was so full of passion and wouldn’t back down. I knew she was the kind of girl who made those around her better.
Even though I was young, I knew she was meant to be my girl. She cared about everything. She wanted to change the world; I saw her as my world.
So yeah, if I was going to ask her to prom, I was going to make damn sure I did it right.
“Setting up the promposal was terrifying. You were going to hang out with some of your friends—a girl’s day out, you called it. I took advantage of the fact you weren’t going to be home. I talked your mom into letting me use your home for the best promposal ever. Although your mom was hesitant after I told her the plan
, she eventually got on board. I said I wanted to make it the best night you ever had.”
I chuckle as I recall the look on her face. “At first she thought I was talking about sex, and after I spent a few minutes—a few long, awkward minutes explaining myself—I convinced her otherwise.”
“I set up string lights all around your house. I placed candles from the entrance all the way to your back patio. Your mom wanted to help, but I insisted on doing it myself. She kept gushing about how sweet the gesture was, and only after she reassured me everything looked amazing did my nerves settle a little. Then she left me at your house while she went to meet a friend. She entrusted me with her little girl, and I knew I’d never do anything to ruin that.
“I still can’t believe she just let me roam your home freely without supervision. I could’ve burned the place down!”
“When your friends were on their way to drop you off at home, they sent me a warning text as planned. As soon as I saw it, I lit all the candles, unlocked the front door, and got into position. The candles guided you to find me on my knees. I told your mom I should’ve proposed to you instead, but, as expected, she shut that idea down really quickly. If I’d known your life was going to be as short as it was, I would have …” I pause and look up at the sky.
I push the thought out of my mind. “I don’t blame your mom for saying no; you were seventeen years old. I couldn’t give you everything you deserved. Not then. I just wish I could have. I wish I’d married you when I had the chance.” I grab one of the small pebbles off the ground and toss it in the air, catching it without looking.
“You gasped the moment you opened the front door, and I assumed it was because of all of the candles. I recall hearing your rushed steps, your voice getting closer and closer. You called out for your mom, and I just waited patiently—nervously.
“The look on your face when you saw me on one knee, holding a corsage in one hand and a painted canvas in the other which read ‘Dance the (Prom) Night away with me?' was priceless. I stood up, and you walked into my arms, all still without giving me an answer. When you finally said yes, I spun you around, just listening to your rich laughter filling the air. It was music to my goddamn ears.” I bring my fingers to my face and wipe away a stray tear. Even now, even after so long, they still make an appearance whenever I come to this place.
I look up to the sky again, hoping that Hayley is looking down on me, and I utter the same words I tell her every time I come to visit her grave.
“I miss you.” So damn much.
ZOE
If you asked me to define chemotherapy, I’d tell you it’s the act of pumping poison into a human body with the hopes it’ll kill the other poison before it kills the person.
It’s much like picking your poison, except I don’t feel like I had much of a choice.
I wish I had a choice, but the truth is that even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to choose.
I sit here in the same room, facing the same wall, even sitting in the same chair like I do every time. The machines continue to beep as I wait for the drugs to make their way into my body. I’m even ready for the nausea, light-headedness, dizziness, and everything else that comes with it.
I pray it works because if it doesn’t, I don’t know what else I’d be willing to do.
I shift around in the chair, desperate to find some comfort, but nothing I do can make it better.
Just another day. Just another round.
It seems as if there’s always just one more thing.
The doctors describe me as ‘lucky’ because I came to the hospital when I thought I just had a fever, which gave them the opportunity to diagnose the cancer before it was too late. Apparently, most people ignore the symptoms because they’re so common. At least my cancer is still treatable…at least that’s what the doctors tell me. They hope the chemotherapy makes a difference and I don’t have to get a bone marrow transplant. My parents hope it doesn’t get that far. I just hope it’s not false hope.
“Hey, sweetie,” my mother says, coming into the Poison Room.
“Hi, Mom,” I respond, tearing my eyes from the IV and focusing on my loving mother instead.
“Where’s your hat?” she asks, searching the immediate surroundings.
“I left it in the room.”
“Aren’t you cold?” I can hear the concern in her voice.
“I’m good.” I smile at her. I can’t help but remember the day chemo started. I can’t erase from my mind the memory of waking up and finding clumps of hair on my pillow. Red hair lying on top of the sheets. Red everywhere. It took me a few minutes to realize it was my hair. I’d forgotten that chemo does that too—causes your hair to fall out. So, when I saw it was happening to me, I cried. That was my immediate reaction. Then I did something about it.
I had my dad bring in his razor and shave my head. After it was done, I felt better.
“You’re such a strong girl,” my mother tells me, grabbing a nearby blanket and throwing it over me.
People keep saying I’m strong: the doctors; nurses; my father’s co-workers; my mother’s friends. Everyone. But I don’t feel strong, and, to be honest, I don’t want to be.
Strength comes from choosing to stand up against something. Well, if I had a choice, I’d likely succumb to the illness instead.
I close my eyes and wait for the chemo dose to finish, knowing what waits for me on the other side isn’t much better.
7
ZOE
After a long three days in the hospital, the doctors have cleared me to go home, assuring me that the chemo’s effects are done—for now. I’m free to spend the rest of the time in my house—in my room. The definition of freedom is different to everyone, I guess.
My freedom will be short-lived though; I’m due to return to the hospital tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Still, I get to sleep in my own bed.
“Ready to go?” Mom asks me, a huge smile pasted on her face. She’s smiling because after a couple of rough days, I finally feel better again. And when I feel better, she does too.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, looking in the direction of the door.
“He’s downstairs in the car,” she says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. I can’t count how many times I’ve told her to calm down, that this isn’t the end, but there’s no point. She loves celebrating the small wins.
“Okay,” I tell her as she starts clearing the room of all of my personal belongings. At this rate, the hospital should just keep this room reserved for me since I’ll be spending a couple of nights a week in this place anyway.
“What do you want to do on your first night back home?” Mom asks, stuffing a blanket into one of my old gym bags. I roll my eyes because she asks me this question every time. I was home three days ago, but to her, every night I return is something worthy of celebration.
“There’s not much I can do, Mom, remember? Doctors’ rules and all,” I remind her. But then I see her smile fall a little, and I immediately regret raining on her parade. I don’t mean to be cruel, but we need to be aware of what’s happening, of what could happen.
“Friends and pizza, then?” she asks, smiling again, and I smile back. Without her constant light, all of my days would be filled with darkness.
Someone clears their throat, and I glance at the door to find Jesse standing there. I may be sick, but I’m not blind. That boy is hot.
“Can I come in?” he asks, shifting from foot to foot.
“Seems like you already did,” I tell him, pointedly looking at his foot over the threshold.
“Oh, my bad—I’m sorry,” he mutters, taking a step back and effectively removing himself from the room.
“You should be,” I tease.
“Young lady! You need to be kind,” my mom reprimands, and I burst out laughing. She knows I’m joking, but the way Jesse looks right now makes me think he doesn’t.
“That was me being kind, Mom; you know that!” I smile, and Jesse chuckles but doesn’t close th
e distance. I stare at him expectantly, lifting my brows to indicate he should let himself in.
“You really need to get better at just entering rooms,” I tell him.
“Would it be—”
I sit up slowly, dangling my legs off the side of the bed. “Get in already.”
“Hi,” Jesse says, his eyes looking directly at me, and I tilt my head to the right, finding myself fixating on the dimple on his cheek.
“I’ll go get the release papers from the front desk,” my mom says, scurrying out of the room. She looks back from behind Jesse’s large frame and winks at me. I know that the moment we get home—and away from Dad, who still looks at me like I’m five—she’s going to be grilling me about him. I know she’ll question his ‘intentions’, ignore my answers, and come up with her own conclusions.
“Hello.”
I roll my eyes at him greeting me again. “There’s that word again,” I tell him.
He takes a few steps closer. “Sorry. Dr. Roman wanted me to stop by and ask if you have any other questions before you head out.”
“Nope. I know I’m basically not allowed to do anything. I have to wear a mask while I’m at home. I can’t have any visitors…I’ll be living in my own personal sterile bubble. Did I miss anything?”
“I think you’ve got it down pat,” he says with a blinding smile.
“I’ve done it enough times.” Too many.
“Only a few more weeks,” he says, trying to make me feel better.
I echo his words, not really believing them.
“You can have friends over. They just need to wear masks too.”
“I don’t have to worry about friends showing up. They sort of left weeks after I became the Girl with Cancer,” I say and immediately cringe. Why am I sharing this much of my life with him? I didn’t even tell my parents why my friends stopped showing up. But with this guy, I’m apparently in a soul-bearing mood.
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