“It’s more simple than you think,” Harlow says. “I know how you are. You sit around and overthink everything. Sometimes you have to just do it. Just. Do. It.”
I tilt my head. “Are you quoting Shia LaBeouf to me?” I crack a smile and she laughs.
“I mean, he is my future husband.” She winks and takes a sip of water.
“I’m pretty sure he’s like double your age.”
She stands up with her trash and grabs mine too. “Age is just a number.” She swishes her hair over her shoulder and saunters off to throw away the trash.
I stand up and grab Perry’s leash. He looks up at me with his lolling tongue, trying to act cute and innocent.
“You’re not fooling me,” I tell him. I swear he grins.
My mind drifts back to the guy Perry practically mauled and my stomach stirs once more. This giddy feeling bubbling inside me is foreign and slightly strange, but I think I like it.
Harlow returns and takes Perry’s leash from me—probably not trusting me not to lose him again—and we head back to my car.
The drive to the ice cream shop is short. It’s a small little shack right on the beach. Guilt floods me, knowing ice cream is a no-no with my diet, but it’s not like it’s something I do every day, or even once a week, therefore I tell my guilt to take a hike. I can indulge now and then.
“You stay with Perry. I’ll order this time,” I tell Harlow.
She laughs, her blonde hair stirring against her shoulders in a slight breeze coming off the ocean. “I want a banana split with extra chocolate syrup.”
I nod and head over to the stand. There’s a long line of about ten people. I don’t think I’ve ever come to get ice cream here and there’s not a line. Being right on the beach gives it access to a plethora of tourists, but this is one place locals refuse to avoid because the ice cream is that good.
The line moves slowly, and I shift my feet back and forth restlessly. I glance over my shoulder and squint, spotting Harlow and Perry in the distance. Perry licks her cheek and she laughs, ruffling the fur at his neck.
I turn back and find that the line has moved forward. I take a step and open my purse, grabbing a wad of cash that’s loose. I’m terrible about putting money back in my purse. It drives my mom crazy because she finds money in the laundry all the time since so much of it ends up stuffed in my pockets.
When I finally make it the front, I’ve been in line for fifteen minutes.
“Um, a banana split with extra chocolate syrup and a small cup of strawberry, please.”
The girl working the register gives me the total, and I pay before stepping to the side to wait.
It doesn’t take nearly as long to get my order. I grab it, getting chocolate syrup on my finger, and make my way over to where Harlow sits in the sand, all the while praying I don’t drop our ice cream.
“Here you go,” I tell her, and hold out her dessert.
She takes it, Perry making an immediate dive for it.
“Perry, no,” she scolds him, turning her back to him.
I sit down on her other side, digging my feet into the sand. The sun is beginning to show signs of setting. I didn’t even realize how much time had passed. For once, I’d been enjoying myself. I guess when I got out of my head time didn’t seem to drag so much.
“This is freaking good,” she says, digging her spoon in for another bite.
I take a small bite. “Thanks for wanting to get out.”
She smiles. “Is that your way of saying you’re having fun?”
I laugh. “Yeah, I guess it is.” I take another bite, savoring it.
Harlow bumps my shoulder with hers. “I low you.”
“I low you more.” I lay my head on her shoulder, glancing out at the ocean as it beats against the sand.
It amazes me that something so perfect can exist on Earth when there’s so much ugliness in the world.
I believe there’s more good, if you take a second to look—the problem is people are constantly going a hundred miles an hour. Everything becomes a blur and nothing seems to matter.
And that’s every human’s biggest mistake—thinking nothing matters.
But every moment is important.
After all, you never know which one will be your last.
I love and hate the moment when I first start to wake up from a deep sleep.
There’s this brief moment where for a second, only a second, I forget about my kidney failure and the dialysis, where I’m a normal girl who can do normal things.
Then reality hits me, and I realize I’m not normal.
Awareness creeps back in and I feel like I’m going to suffocate.
I lie on my back, my hands on my chest, and stare at my ceiling as the dialysis machine whirs beside me.
Almost every day I tell myself this might not be ideal right now, but one day I’m going to get a kidney, and all those years I’ll have with a kidney far outweigh this.
Except the fact I’ll have to have another transplant one day.
I try not to think about that—the inevitability of my future donor kidney failing.
You see, the first thing doctors tell you when your kidneys fail is that a transplant is not a cure, it’s simply another treatment.
How morbid is that?
It’s like they enjoy dousing that small flame of hope in your heart.
I get it, they have to tell you, and it makes sense. The kidney isn’t yours and eventually your body will do what it’s designed to do, which is reject foreign tissue. Immune suppressants can only do so much.
But I refuse to dwell on that, and I’ll deal with it when that day comes.
I slowly sit up and rub my eyes. Looking over at my dialysis machine it flashes big green letters that say END OF THERAPY. It sucks on days when I can’t sleep and I wake up early with an hour or two left and have to stay here. The lines are long enough for me to go the bathroom if I have to, but most of the time I stay in bed.
But being home and not going in-center makes me much happier. Not to mention I feel much better. I swore the hemo-dialysis was sucking the life out of me. PD isn’t really so bad, and for me it’s the best treatment option.
That’s what’s nice too; patients have options and you’re not stuck with only one treatment type. If something isn’t working for you, there are alternatives.
I’m thankful I finally switched over. It was the best decision I ever made, even if it was one of the most difficult of my life.
I close off the lines and grab a mask to put on so I can begin the disconnecting process.
In the beginning, my mom did it for me. I was a panicky fourteen-year-old and I cried every time, even though it didn’t hurt. I was terrified I’d do something wrong and pull the tube out—which is entirely unlikely—or contaminate something and it’s very important to keep everything sterile.
But I’ve been doing it myself now for probably two years. Now the whole process of setting up the machine, hooking up, and taking down is a piece of cake.
Once I’m free I pick up my dirty laundry off the floor and stuff it in the hamper. I even try to straighten my bed a bit that way my mom can’t yell at me to make it.
Looking around, I decide my room is in the best shape I can get it at the moment and crack open the door. I pause, listening. My mom’s voice trickles up the stairs along with Harlow’s laughter. Then my dad’s deeper voice joins the conversation briefly, followed by the sound of paper rustling.
I stuff my feet into a pair of slippers and head downstairs, finding my dad and Harlow sitting at the counter while my mom makes breakfast.
“Morning,” I say softly, stifling a yawn. I pull out an empty barstool and sit down.
“Good mooooorning,” Harlow beams beside me. She’s already dressed for school in a pair of ripped skinny jeans, tee, and Converse.
My dad has his nose buried in the newspaper and won’t know anyone else in the house is alive until he finishes it.
“Do you want some scra
mbled eggs?” My mom asks from the stove.
“Yes, please.”
I get up and grab a bottle of water, slightly jealous at the sight of Harlow drinking orange juice. It’s not often anymore that I find myself envious of people enjoying the things I can’t have, but sometimes the cravings get to me. I’m only human after all.
I sit back down and take the cap off the water bottle. The cap spins on the counter and I flatten my hand on it to stop it. I take a small sip of water, savoring it. Dealing with fluid restrictions makes me appreciate every little bit of water I get to enjoy.
“You’re lucky you’re done with school,” Harlow whines softly under her breath to me.
I snort. “You only have two more years—besides, adulthood is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“You sit at home and read—what’s not to love about that?”
“You have a point.” I laugh. “I really should get a job,” I grumble.
“You have time,” she assures me.
“I guess.” I shrug, spinning the bottle cap under my fingers.
“You know,” she begins, “it’d be really cool if you could come talk to the school about your situation. Most people are so dumb when it comes to this kind of thing—and the transplant part. Even the media doesn’t talk about it. It’s cancer this and cancer that, and yeah that’s bad, but at least there’s awareness, you know? People know to get tested, but you almost died, Willa. You could’ve died, and it could’ve been easily prevented if we’d known what signs to look for.”
“I don’t know,” I hedge as my mom starts handing us each a breakfast plate. She has to set my dad’s down for him since he’s still absorbed in the newspaper.
“Think about it,” she begs. “The school year is almost over, exams are done in two weeks, so we have a lot of free time. I’m sure the principal would be all for it.”
“I’ll think about it,” I lie.
I spend ninety percent of my time pretending nothing is wrong with me, and most of the time I can believe it since I don’t feel sick anymore. The idea of getting up in front of an entire school, some of them kids I went to school with until this happened, makes me feel nauseated.
It’s not that I want to completely erase this experience from my life, that’s impossible, but it’s not something I’m sure I want to advertise.
“Please,” she says quietly. “It’d mean a lot to me, and I think it’d mean a lot to you too once you did it.”
“I wish I could be more like you,” I confess.
She chokes on her egg and pieces come flying out of her mouth. “Why?”
“You’re so …” I struggle to find the right word. “Vibrant,” I settle on. “And I’m not.”
She shakes her head. “Trust me, Willa. You shine brighter than any star in the sky. The thing is, it’s a rare person who can see their own brilliance. We’re all too blinded by fear.”
I take her hand and lace our fingers together. “Regardless, I got really lucky getting you as a sister.”
She smiles, her eyes lighting up. “Ditto.”
I flop onto my bed staring up at the ceiling. Above me, pages from books are glued to the ceiling.
Yes, I murdered some books, but it was all in the name of love and art.
When I first started doing dialysis at home, I couldn’t fall asleep and I’d stare up at my plain white ceiling.
It started making me crazy.
One weekend, my mom, dad, sister, and I tore pages from all my favorite books and glued them to the ceiling.
Every time I look at it makes me smile and I can’t help but feel loved.
Words from J.K. Rowling, Sarah Dessen, Sarah J. Maas, and many, many more gaze down at me.
Their words help remind me how small I am and how big the world really is—because with each book yet another world is created.
The door to my room slips open and I turn my head as Perry strolls in. Everyone’s left for the day so I knew it had to be him.
Or the cat.
But we never see the cat.
When Harlow was six she found this kitten hiding from squirrels, yes squirrels, and he’s been with us ever since. Webber spends the majority of his time hiding under Harlow’s bed and only comes out once in a blue moon. He’s funny looking too. His hair sticks up on end like he’s permanently electrocuted.
Since I’m home all the time, occasionally I’ll see him slip out of her room. We’ll exchange a look in which I know he’s telling me with his eyes alone that if I slip the news he’s been out of the room he’ll murder me in my sleep.
I’ll never cross that cat. I’m not convinced he’s actually a cat.
Maybe a demon.
Or a gremlin.
Possibly a goblin.
I don’t know which would be worse.
“Hey, Perry.”
The dog makes his way over to me and plops on my bed, his head resting on my stomach.
I pet the top of his head.
“You’re determined to make me like you, aren’t you?”
He yawns in reply.
I take that to mean yes.
“I wonder what I should do today?” I ask Perry. “Maybe I should clean?” I hate cleaning, it’s the thing I loathe most—I’d rather do laundry—but it’s something I try to do since my mom works and I’m here. She has a maid come every two weeks, but I figure if I can pick up on the week in-between it helps.
Perry sticks his tongue out. “Yeah, I agree. No cleaning today.”
I swear he smiles at me. He’s expressive for a dog.
I stretch, reaching over to the low table beside my mattress, and pick up the book I’ve been reading. I open it to my bookmarked page and start reading.
Books have saved my life since my diagnosis. Those initial months were difficult. I was weak and tired, and my body had to adjust to dialysis. So, I spent a lot of time in bed, and honestly there’s only so much TV one person can watch. But books? I never seem to get tired of those.
After about an hour of reading time, my phone buzzes.
And buzzes again.
And again.
I place my bookmark inside and set the book aside, scrambling to find my phone lost in the tangle of my bed covers as it buzzes again.
I finally find it and the screen is lit up with several different texts.
Harlow: Willa?
Harlow: Please answer
Harlow: It’s important!
Harlow: I NEED YOU!
Willa: What?
I’m totally confused as to why my sister is blowing up my phone while she’s at school. I mean, she texts me occasionally while she’s at school but never like this.
Harlow: Oh thank God
Harlow: I need you to go into my room and get on my computer. I forgot to print off my essay for English and Mr. Slater will MURDER me if I turn it in late. Please, print it out and bring it to the school.
Willa: I can do that.
I head across the hall to her room.
The walls are a vibrant yellow, and her bed covers are a floral monstrosity. Her room is a lot neater than mine. Her violin sits in the corner along with a stand that has sheet music on it. The floor is covered in mismatched rugs—I think it looks silly, but Harlow says it’s aesthetic. I look around, but I don’t see Webber hiding anywhere. He’s probably under her bed hidden by the bed skirt.
He better not try to sneak attack my feet.
I pull out her swivel chair at her desk and sit down. Lifting the lid of her laptop it wakes up and asks for a password.
Willa: What’s your password.
Harlow: …
Harlow: You can’t laugh.
Willa: …no promises
Harlow: Ugh
Harlow: It’s…
Harlow: TomHiddleston’sWife
I snort.
Willa: Isn’t he a little old for you?
Harlow: Age is just a number. Now please print off my essay. It should pop up when you log on.
Sure enough, it do
es. I print it out and grab up the pages, stapling them together.
Willa: Got it. I’ll head to the school right now.
Harlow: Thank you!
Her relief is palpable.
I scurry back to my room and grab my book and purse before slipping my feet into a pair of flip-flops. If I’m going out for this, I might as well stay out for a while.
Perry follows me down the stairs and to the kitchen where I grab my keys from the counter.
“I’m sorry, Perry, but you have to stay home this time.”
I can imagine it now—Perry escaping my car and storming into the school. He’d have the time of his life while I’d be hating mine.
I lock the door behind me as I leave, hearing Perry whine from the inside.
Even if the dog drives me crazy, I do feel sorry for leaving him behind.
It’s blazing hot outside, and when I open my car door I’m blasted in the face by the heat rolling out. I reluctantly get inside and roll down the windows for some immediate relief.
The parking lot is full when I get to the school. I end up parking against the sidewalk with my flashers on.
My phone buzzes as I get out of the car.
Harlow: I’m in the courtyard. It’s to the left of the entrance. You can’t miss it.
Willa: I just got here. Be there in a sec.
I double check that I’ve printed off the right paper; it’d be my luck she had two up and I printed the wrong one, but it looks right. It doesn’t take me long to find the courtyard. It has several picnic tables surrounded by palm trees for shade. Several students sit eating while others appear to be working on homework.
I spot Harlow sitting on top of a table looking at her phone.
“Harlow!” I call, and her head pops up, elation taking over her face.
She hops off and runs over to me. “Thank you so freaking much. You’re the best sister ever.”
“Glad I could help.” It feels good to be useful for a change.
“You’re seriously a life saver. I can’t believe I forgot to print it off. I think I was tired when I finished it last night that it slipped my mind. I wanted to sleep. I have to go or I’ll be late, but thank you.”
The Other Side of Tomorrow Page 3