by Paul Mosier
I stand again. I look down at her, frowning at the bottom of the steps.
“That’s what you want? A piece of my misery?”
Her foot stomps, crushing the rose on the sidewalk. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
Her face falls as I glide down the front steps, until I’m on the sidewalk with her. I look down at the broken yellow rose.
“Hang on.” I walk quickly to the town house across the street, to the window box, and find the face of the decapitated flower. It’s got a half inch of stem connected to it, and a yellow center with white petals, a few of which are missing. I pick it up and return across the street to Maisy, whose eyes remain directed at the sidewalk. I hold the flower face in my palm, beneath her gaze.
“Here,” I say. “Damaged.”
Her hand takes it. Broken stem held between her fingers, she twirls it. Then she bends down and retrieves the yellow rose.
“Here,” she says. “Crushed.”
My hand takes it. I bring it to my nose. It smells like cupcake frosting at Maisy’s birthday.
Then we move closer, and our arms go around each other, her familiar hair against my cheek. I return the yellow rose to my nose. I smell it and think that I’ll never forget the fragrance of this crushed yellow rose, and how it feels to have my best friend back.
Maisy stays for dinner, so there are no texts from her to ignore while we eat. Instead we sit side by side, and I eat with my left hand so I can hold hers with my right. I answer all of her questions, I tell her how great school hasn’t been, how wonderful everything is not. I don’t tell her how scared I am about Echo and her cancer—not in this moment—because Echo sits across the table from us.
After dinner the five of us go out for gelato and hot chocolate, and I see that the gelato shop now has a jar with Echo’s face on it, and it occurs to me that of course Maisy would know about Echo, with all the jars everywhere in the neighborhood.
During dinner and gelato and the walk between, I of course hear all about my old school and my old friends, who Maisy assures me aren’t old friends, but just friends.
I promise her that I’ll return her texts, that we’ll do this all the time. Me at her house, she at ours, and things that we used to do, strictly for fun. And I mean every word I say.
It’s practically the best night ever. It gives me hope.
I hope it’s a hope I can hold on to.
10
IN SPITE OF how great the evening was with Maisy, the next day at school I am still most definitely not looking forward to seeing Octavius. During phys ed I’m so distracted I get hit in the face with the volleyball, which does not feel good, and I decide I’ll go to the bathroom and hide out through science class. But when I get there, it smells so disgusting I turn around and go to class anyway.
I come in at the last moment and avoid eye contact with Octavius as Mr. Bleeker introduces a lesson about the disappearance of bees. Bleeker especially likes talking about the science of depressing things, which is just what I need in my state of mind. He couldn’t possibly have us learn about something that doesn’t end with the extinction of mankind or some other species. Today it’s the extinction of bees and the resulting elimination of everything colorful and delicious in our diets.
At least there’s no lab today, so I won’t have to sit with Octavius.
But then as Mr. Bleeker is describing the bland beige foods that will remain in the absence of bees, something hits me in the side of the face and falls to my desk. It’s a triangle made of folded paper, with the words Open, El.
I know who it’s from, and I won’t look at him. But I glare with disdain at the triangle of folded paper, then brush it to the floor.
“Crackers will still be in play,” says Mr. Bleeker. “Any big fans of saltines here?”
Then I hear the sneaky, slow tear of paper to my left. I swear I can hear Octavius writing, and folding, and then when Mr. Bleeker turns his back to the class it flies at me, hitting the same spot on my left cheek, again falling to my desk.
I ignore it for as long as I can, but then I realize I don’t really want to ignore it. I look down, pretending to be annoyed, and see the words Please open in Octavius’s handwriting.
I sigh, then begin unfolding it.
If you want the truth, meet me at Frenchy’s Coffee after school.
I don’t answer. I’m not sure I want the truth or anything at all from Octavius.
All through art class I’m not sure whether I’ll go to meet him. I’m having a hard time weighing the pros and cons because Miss Numero Uno is so strangely cheerful it’s frightening. I’m not sure as I draw our apartment building from memory, which is today’s assignment, and I’m still not sure when the bell rings and I hurriedly finish my illustration, then pack up my book bag and wander outside into the gray day.
I’m not sure as I drift down the sidewalk, and I’m not sure even as I push through the door at Frenchy’s Coffee and spot Octavius sitting at a table in the corner behind a giant whipped drink.
He gives a little wave and I turn to the counter, where the guy in the apron is waiting for me.
“What will you have?” he asks in a French accent. I’m thinking this must be Frenchy.
I look up at the menu, but it’s just words. Ordinarily I would order a delicious, creamy drink with whipped cream like the one Octavius is hiding behind. But I need to order something that shows Octavius how mad I am at him. “Something dark,” I finally say. “I want the exact opposite of what he’s having.” I gesture toward Octavius.
Frenchy raises an eyebrow. I think he’s possibly pleased with my decision. “I think you will enjoy the Turkish coffee. It is the perfect drink to disagree with his frothy concoction.” He tilts his head toward Octavius.
“Perfect,” I reply. Frenchy rings me up and I play off my actual shock at how much this Turkish coffee costs. It must be coming all the way from Turkey.
Having ordered and paid, I’m left with little choice but to join Octavius. I walk over and drop my book bag beside his. Our book bags can sort it out while he and I do the same.
“Thanks for coming,” he says.
I fall into the chair opposite him. I don’t want to say sure, because I wasn’t and I’m still not, and you’re welcome sounds more generous than I’m feeling. So I say nothing.
He touches the straw in his drink. “I’m sorry I’ve been less than completely forthcoming. I understand why you’d think it’s creepy for me to take such an interest in Echo.”
I watch him and wait for more. He looks across the coffeehouse, then back to me.
“I didn’t want to tell you my story, or all of it, because I know how important it is to stay positive when you love someone who’s fighting cancer.”
He looks down and addresses his hands, folded on the table.
“My mother isn’t a doctor.”
I allow myself to feel this. And it doesn’t feel horrible. Maybe he’s embarrassed because his mom has some terrible job that isn’t prestigious. The Village Arts Academy can do that to kids.
But then it hits me.
“If your mom isn’t a doctor, how do you know so much about Midtown Children’s Hospital?”
“My sister,” he begins, and pauses as Frenchy sets down a giant, wide mug of black coffee with tan foam on top. There are two tiny shortbread cookies on the saucer.
“What is that?” Octavius asks, nodding at my drink.
“It’s a Turkish coffee. I’ve been drinking these my whole life.” I allow myself a lie. I owed him one. I raise the mug to my lips and take a sip. It tastes terrible, and I fight back whipping my head and grimacing.
Octavius takes a pull on his delicious-looking whipped drink and wipes his mouth. Then he takes a big breath and lets it out. “My sister had cancer.”
“Oh,” I reply, instantly feeling like an insensitive jerk. “How is she doing?”
Octavius suddenly looks very small. He takes another pull on his frozen blended drink. “This is why you sh
ouldn’t be talking to me. Because you need to hear only positive stories. Happy endings. You need to believe that everything’s going to turn out okay.” He looks to the door and back to me. “Because it is going to turn out okay.”
My eyes have gotten large, but the room is out of focus.
“But it didn’t,” I say. It falls from my mouth lifelessly. “Did it?”
He shakes his head. Then he lowers his face and puts his hand over his eyes.
All at once I feel it, like it happened to me, like it was my sister and not his. I feel what empathy feels like, and realize that I have never felt it before. I knew what it meant, and thought I had felt it, but I never had.
I feel it now.
“What was her name?”
He answers without showing his eyes. “Cassia.”
“Cassia,” I repeat. “What a pretty name.”
He takes his hand away from his face, revealing the grief. “She was eight when she died.” He stares into space, drums the table with his fingers. “But she fought so hard. And she lived like she meant it.”
I’ve never seen so much of a human before as Octavius at this moment. “I’m sure she did.”
“She loved opera. And ice cream.”
“What was her favorite kind?”
“Birthday cake.” He smiles. “And she was crazy about kites. She loved flying them at the park, and at the beach. She could build them herself! There’s one that she made hanging in her room.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“The kite? Or her room?”
“All of it.”
Octavius smiles again.
“And she loved making sandcastles at the shore. She wanted to live through to summer so she could have her toes in the sand again.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
I don’t even know what to say to this. I don’t know how the universe can be so cruel.
“But she was stage four,” he adds quickly. “She had much worse odds.” He looks intently at me. “You said Echo was stage one, right? Everything’s gonna work out for her.” He sits against the chairback, then shakes his head. “I’ve felt like I’m betraying Cassia by taking an interest in Echo. Like since Cassia lost her fight, now I’m trying to be on the side of a kid with a better chance than she had. Like I’m one of those kids who cheers for the best team so they never have to lose. But my dad taught me that you cheer for the home team, and if the home team isn’t playing you cheer for the underdog.”
“Sounds like my dad,” I say.
Octavius looks away, then takes another drink. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be dumping this on you. It’s enough for you to have to go through what you’re going through with Echo.”
I wipe my eyes on my forearm and take a sip of my Turkish coffee. It tastes richly bitter, like centuries of suffering.
“It sounds like you’re going through it too,” I say. “With Cassia. And with Echo.” I take another sip of the coffee. “My dad might say that our favorite team is Echo, and our second-favorite team is whoever is playing against cancer today.” My eyes feel shiny. “And if you believe that, if you feel the same way as my dad, then I say welcome aboard. There’s room for you in the bleachers.”
He smiles, then laughs a little.
I take another sip of the coffee.
It hits me.
“I taste this!” I practically shout. I look to Frenchy at the counter. He smiles as I give him the thumbs-up. Then I look back to Octavius. “I feel this.” It’s a strange revelation. I put my hand to my heart and feel it beating. “I feel all of this.”
Late at night I’m lying in bed, looking at the stars painted in fluorescent white on the ceiling above me. Echo is beneath me on the lower bunk. The classical station plays at low volume in the darkness, the music we sleep to. The music gets quiet, and I’m able to hear my parents talking in the living room.
“Something has to give.”
Dad says that, then the song occupies the quiet space again.
I listen, but all I can hear is a string section.
“. . . just way beyond our ability,” Mom says as the strings screech to a halt.
I sit up, then climb down the ladder to the floor. I walk the wood floors quietly in my socks and pajamas and put my ear to the door. I wait for a moment but hear nothing from the living room. I can picture them staring into space, trying to see their way through an impossible obstacle. Then I open the door to find exactly that. They look up from their distances to me standing in the short hallway.
“Back to bed, El,” Dad says.
I don’t move right away.
“Is everything okay?” Mom asks.
“I can’t sleep.” I observe that Mom is holding a can of beer. Dad has a plate of toast in front of him. “I drank Turkish coffee after school.”
Dad smiles. “Well, then you should probably stay up all night writing a tragedy.”
“I could write our story,” I say glumly.
“You could write our story if you like,” Mom says. “But it doesn’t have to be seen as a tragedy.”
I’m still standing between the bedroom door and the living room. “What were you guys talking about?”
Dad looks to Mom, which means he’s being careful not to say anything she doesn’t approve of.
Mom sighs. “Just . . . tough choices.”
Meowzers passes beneath me, rubbing against my shins. “Are we gonna have to leave Manhattan and move someplace cheaper?”
Dad uncrosses his legs and reaches for his toast. “There are worse things than—”
“Nobody said anything about moving,” Mom cuts in. Dad smiles and takes a bite of toast.
“Am I gonna have to go back to my old school?”
Dad speaks through his toast. “There are worse things than that.”
Mom gives him a look. “Nobody said anything about you having to leave your school.”
Meowzers does another pass against my legs. I look down but don’t pick him up. I’m thinking it’s weird that I’m worried I’d leave a school I thought I was miserable at. “We need some kind of miracle, don’t we?” I hear myself say.
Mom sighs again. “Waiting for miracles is not the best way to approach life’s difficulties.” She takes a sip of beer. “But a miracle would be nice.”
Dad speaks through his toast. “A miracle would be most welcome.”
11
THE NEXT MORNING I wake up and hang my head to look at the bunk below. I’ve gotten in the habit of doing this—staring at Echo’s form to see if she’s breathing. She’s not really in imminent danger, but I find myself doing it anyway. But she isn’t there.
I climb down the ladder from my bunk and walk out into the hall. Mom and Dad look up from the kitchen table. I smile, just for them, then take two steps to the bathroom door. I can hear Echo in there.
I have to pee, but the door is locked. I wait.
I hear the toilet flush, then the sink faucet running. Both these sounds make me need to pee even worse.
“Echo!”
“Give her a minute,” Mom calls from the table.
I hear Echo brushing her teeth. Then the sound of her spitting.
I keep waiting.
“What are you doing?”
“I have to do my mouth care!” she shouts through the door.
I groan. I’m ready to pee into a bucket. Or Meowzers’s litter box.
I put my ear to the door. I hear the sound of her swishing something in her mouth, then spitting, and the clink of a cup being placed on the sink. Then her little voice.
“This is hard, but I can do hard things.”
I listen carefully. I try to quiet the beating of my heart.
She almost whispers what comes next. “One, two, three, go.”
There’s quiet, then she makes a gagging noise, and I hear her set the cup down.
Then the door opens, and her expressive face is painted with sadness. Her head hangs, her arms are limp.
“Y
ou did it!” I say. “High five.”
I hold out my hand and she slaps it mechanically. She trudges past me into our bedroom and falls onto her bed.
I go into the bathroom and shut the door. As I sit peeing I see a crumpled piece of paper on the floor by the wastebasket. I reach for it, uncrumple it. I smooth it out on the sink counter beside me.
It’s a small piece of paper, with a drawing by Echo of a bald little girl with tears dripping from her eyes. The words Miss you hair are written across the top.
At this moment I realize she isn’t oblivious. She isn’t just a happy-go-lucky kid who is too silly to realize she has cancer.
She feels all of it. Every poke, every disgusting taste, every staggering ounce of poison dumped into her port, every fearful thought. She gets it all, she feels it all, she suffers it all, but she’s amazingly strong. She knows the size of the beast she’s fighting, and she’s fighting it with all her might, and every bit of good humor she can manage.
I brush my teeth. I turn on the “Echo’s Fight Song” mix made by Octavius, jump in the shower, and wash my hair, which I used to complain about for being too thick. It’s the first time I’ve played the sampler, and it shreds me. There are songs with titles of “Heroes” and “All Right” and “Lust for Life.” They all seem to be about a little girl who just wants to have fun, who wants to live, and see her friends, and be queen, and feel all right. Things every little girl should be able to hope for.
It drains my eyes. It fills my heart.
I stay in the shower until the water is no longer warm. Then I dry off and join my parents at the table. There’s toast and eggs and tea.
“I’ve got an idea I want to run by you,” Mom says.
“What?” I stir sugar into my Darjeeling.
“So, I’ve been brainstorming ideas of how to reach people who have a need for a chemo dress or other types of chemo clothes. There’re message boards and places I can advertise. But the problem is, the people who might want a dress or a shirt with a port for chemo are people with the same sort of financial stress we are feeling right now.”