Love Always, Kate

by D. Nichole King

  Leslie grinned at me when I walked in. “How are you today, Kate?”

  “Eh,” I answered as I sat down in the blue chair. “Alone again?”

  Leslie nodded. “For now.”

  “That’s good, though, right?” I asked as Leslie hooked the tube to the line imbedded in my chest.

  “Yeah. It’s good. Lots of kids in remission.”

  I debated asking Leslie about Damian. Would she even know? I didn’t want to seem like I was overtly interested, but Leslie had been there for me for years. Holding my hair back as I puked my guts out had to count for something, right?

  “Do you know anything about Dr. Lowell’s son, Damian?” I asked, not meeting her eye, and not watching her hook the tubes together either.

  “You don’t want to get mixed up with Damian.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong with him?”

  Leslie sat down in the empty recliner beside me. “Damian is here so his father can keep an eye on him. Dr. Lowell’s wife and oldest son, Liam, died in a car accident two years ago. Damian’s been unraveling ever since.”

  The wedding photo of my doctor and his wife that sat on his desk flashed through my mind. “Oh, I didn’t know...”

  A wave of pity washed over me. How horrible it would be to lose your wife in such a tragic, unexpected way. And even worse to have to bury your son at the same time. I had appointments with Dr. Lowell during that time. His pain never showed. Dr. Lowell was a pediatric oncologist, though—his job centered around dying kids and trying to save them. It was horribly ironic that he could save others’ kids, but not his own. How devastating.

  And Damian? He had to be my age. Fifteen back when it happened, and to have suffered so much loss. My heart ached for him. Of course he would be unraveling. Who wouldn’t?

  “Um, maybe, if he’s still hurting, then—”

  “Katie,” Leslie interrupted, “it’s more than that. He’s…well, he was kicked out of Dowling High School, and now he’s been expelled from Lincoln. It’s only gotten worse. He’s been arrested twice this year.”

  Arrested? Damian’s a criminal?

  “What did he do?”

  “I’m not sure what he did to get booted out of Dowling, but his father had to leave here to bail him out of jail for stealing a car two months ago. Last week, Damian got picked up for public intoxication and destruction of private property—here at the hospital, no less.”

  “The window down the hall?” I asked, remembering workers there the day Dr. Lowell had told me my latest numbers.

  Leslie sighed. “Courtesy of Damian Lowell.”

  I nodded, taking it in. He didn’t look like a troublemaker. I thought about his smile and the way the deep dimples on his cheeks gave him an innocent look. Imagining him in a jail cell wearing an ugly orange jumpsuit entered my mind. It didn’t fit. My image of a bad boy included black leather jackets, motorcycles, tattoos up and down his arms, more earrings than me, and a cigarette poking out his mouth. But what did I know? I’d spent most of my life in a hospital on drugs. And because of that, I was invisible at school. I was the person to avoid.

  Leslie interrupted my thoughts. “Orange or apple?”

  It took me a second to realize that she spoke. “Uh, apple,” I said without looking up. After the door clicked shut behind her, I sunk into my seat. I tucked my legs underneath me and pulled out my diary, staring at it.

  When Leslie came back in with my plastic cup of juice, I thanked her, still lost in thought. If Damian was hurting, why did that mean I had to stay away from him? Maybe he needed a friend, someone to relate to.

  Granted, I didn’t know what it was like to lose a parent or sibling, but I knew about pain—and how in one single moment, your entire life could be flipped upside down. And I understood about being an outcast. How everyone felt so sorry for you, and the only way they knew how to respond was to ignore you or give you sad looks and sympathetic smiles.

  I watched the door, hoping he’d get lost again. But the only person who walked through was Leslie at the end of my two-hour treatment.

  I went to bed that night thinking about Damian and feeling guilty for ever being sorry for myself. He had lost so much more than I. At least I still had my whole family for support. Damian only had his dad left, and maybe that wasn’t enough for him.

  The sickening effects of chemo punched me in the gut over the weekend. Energy drained from me like water down a sink. I was tired and weak, barely wanting to get out of bed. My stomach began to turn early Saturday morning and didn’t stop until Sunday night. Mom helped me to the bathroom and kept the small wastebasket next to my bed empty for when I couldn’t make it to the toilet.

  She also brought me a stack of books from the library, but they remained untouched on my nightstand. A few times I reached for my diary. I jotted down some notes about not feeling well and tried to stay strong, especially in front of my mom.

  Damian crossed my mind a few times. When I pictured him in my head, he silently reminded me of how blessed I was. I barely knew him, yet that weekend he gave me strength. Maybe, somehow, I could return the favor. Even though Leslie said not to get involved with him, that didn’t mean I couldn’t talk to him if I happened to run into him. It’s not like he’d ask me out on a date.

  What does ‘involved’ even mean?

  On Monday I felt decent enough for half a day of school before my next treatment. I didn’t see Damian that day or on Thursday. Finally I was resolved to speak with him, and now I hadn’t seen him. I wandered the corridor with my IV pole traveling around with me like an unwanted companion.

  I had stopped at the nurses’ station to talk with Leslie. Part of me wanted to come out and ask about Damian, but maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Like Leslie had said, the only reason Damian volunteered was so that Dr. Lowell could keep an eye on him.

  “How are you feeling, Kate?” Dr. Lowell asked on his way to make rounds.

  “The weekend wasn’t good, but I’m feeling better today.”

  He studied me over the rim of his glasses. “Well, don’t forget I have you on a more potent dose than two years ago, so it’s very important you take it easy.”

  Yeah, I thought. It didn’t get any easier than lying in bed, throwing up all weekend. I didn’t want to strain myself with over-activity or anything.

  A small snicker escaped me. “Okay, I will.”

  Dr. Lowell made a humming noise in his throat. “I mean it, Kate. Your immune system won’t be able to handle much more than a very basic cold.”

  “I know,” I insisted. “I’m taking it easy.”

  “All right.” Dr. Lowell sighed, and then asked Leslie about someone’s test results.

  Leslie followed me back to the chemo room where she unhooked me, forced me to drink another glass of juice, and reminded me of what Dr. Lowell had said earlier. I rolled my eyes.

  I never found Damian. Maybe he avoided the cancer floor. Or his father.

  Disappointed, I walked out to my car. Surely Dr. Lowell hadn’t expelled him from the hospital. That would be counterproductive.

  I swept my fingers through my hair, knowing I had a couple more weeks with it at the most. The cold wind blew, and I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. My stomach started rolling. Just make it to the car, I thought. Almost there. Even as I said it to myself, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. And what if I did? I couldn’t puke in the backseat of my yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Instinctively, I twisted my hair back. I ran toward the small patch of grass just a few feet ahead of me. Luckily, I only had apple juice in my stomach. It didn’t take long to empty. When I straightened up, I looked around, hoping no one saw.

  That’s when I noticed him.

  Walking toward me, stepping on his cigarette, was Damian.

  I had two options: pretend I didn’t see him and beeline to my car, or wait for him to acknowledge he’d witnessed my little episode.

  Our eyes locked, and I couldn’t move. Crap. Too late for option one. Since our first meeting, I had
worked out a whole conversation in my head about mundane things, none of which centered around vomit. Now, he’d seen me throwing up in the hospital parking lot, and I had caught him smoking on a smoke-free hospital campus. Not great conversation starters.

  “Hey,” he said, stopping in front of me. “You okay?”

  I nodded, wishing my breath didn’t smell as horrible as I thought it did. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  He cocked his head to the side in recognition, dark lashes partially concealing the blue behind them. “I know you.”

  “I, uh, showed you the store room a couple weeks ago.” As I said it, I seriously turned around and pointed to the hospital as if he didn’t know it loomed behind us.

  Nope, definitely not how I had imagined this little chat. I felt awkward, but Damian looked completely at ease, standing casually in faded blue jeans and his oversized hospital scrub top.

  “Oh, yeah. Kate, right? You sure you’re all right? I can take you inside or something.”

  “No. It’s fine. Thanks.” I smiled. He was concerned. How sweet. And he remembered my name. Even sweeter.

  “You sure? It’s kinda my job.” He tugged on his uniform for emphasis.

  “No. Really. It’s okay.” I cleared my throat. He wasn’t walking away. “So, do you volunteer here every day? I haven’t seen you around.”

  “Every damn day,” he sighed, not offering more.

  “You don’t want to be here, do you?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t like hospitals.”

  “Me neither,” I said too quickly, biting my lower lip. “It’s boring, smells bad, and there’s lots of needles.”

  He grinned. “I eat supper here every night. Trust me, there are worse things in that building than needles. Hopefully you haven’t had the pleasure.”

  I chuckled, and Damian started laughing with me. Just like that, the tension disappeared.

  “You’re right. I’ve never been able to keep hospital food down,” I said, still giggling.

  “Maybe it would be more bearable if I had some company.” He brushed a wind-blown strand of hair out of my face. My breath caught at his touch. It was surprisingly gentle.

  I blushed. “Yeah. Maybe. Distract you from the taste, at least.”

  He curved up the corner of his mouth. “You here often?”

  “Every Monday and Thursday for the next ten weeks.”

  “Ouch. Well, I guess I know where to find you on Monday.”

  Chapter 3

  November 12

  Dear Diary,

  I woke up this morning to a large clump of hair on my pillow. Even though I knew it was coming, I wasn’t prepared. The first time my hair started falling out, Mom kept a little of it in a bag and put it in the FIGHTER scrapbook she’d made for me. This time, I balled it up in my hands, stared at it for a few minutes, then threw it in the trash. I keep telling myself, “It’s only hair. It will grow back.” Because sometimes, the mini pep talk actually works.

  In the shower, I took great care washing it. I used extra conditioner and brushed through it as lightly as I could. My efforts weren’t enough. More hair than usual ended up in the drain. When I got back in my room, I changed my mind and yanked some strands out of the garbage. I placed them in a plastic bag for Mom.

  It’s only hair. It will grow back.

  I cried.

  A girl at school asked me how I was feeling today. I didn’t know how to respond. No student has ever asked me that before. I told her I felt fine and thanked her for asking. She nodded politely then walked off to her next class. I wish now that I would’ve asked her for her name.

  I hope I feel good this weekend. Mom wants help getting ready for Thanksgiving, and I don’t want to sit on the sidelines. Besides, my Pinterest-inspired mother has a way with helping me keep my mind off things.

  ~*~

  Curiosity got the better of me, and Friday night I spent the evening in my room with my laptop searching the archives of the Des Moines Register. Sometimes it reported on fatal car accidents in the state. If not, it would surely have an obituary.

  I found a small article dated two years previous on April 21. The Register said that a vehicle with two passengers, Nora Lowell and her son, Liam, had lost control during a thunderstorm and hydroplaned into the interstate barrier. Both passengers were killed on impact.

  I also found their obituaries in the paper dated a few days later. Liam was eighteen when he died. A year older than me now. He had just been accepted into the pre-law program at Yale. Mother and son had a dual funeral service.

  I stared at the screen. Even in black and white, the picture of Nora showed a striking resemblance to Damian, and even more to Liam. The brothers looked so much alike that they could have been twins. I traced my fingers over Liam’s picture on the screen. Were he and Damian close, like I imagined brothers being? A lump rose in my throat, and I stifled a sob as I closed my laptop. I threw back my violet comforter and fell asleep with my jeans still on.

  On Saturday, I felt surprisingly good, health-wise, anyway. I helped my mom bake pumpkin pies from scratch to put in the freezer for Thanksgiving. For some moms, putting decorative piecrust leaves around the edges and in the middle was a bonus. For my mom, it was a necessity for the perfect pie. As the three pies baked, I helped her make a beautiful centerpiece for the table. My mom was so crafty—I could barely cut a straight line. But I think I did a smash-up job placing the glue dots in precisely the right spots on the homemade cornucopia.

  Knowing the stupidity of it, I hung onto Damian’s words of a visit on Monday all weekend—even if it was just his job. I kind of wished I’d left my gloves at the hospital so that I’d have an excuse to see him sooner.

  ~*~

  Leslie left the room for my orange juice. I settled in for the next two hours, wondering if Damian would show up. My wondering didn’t last long. Damian, wearing sky blue scrubs that brushed nicely over thick biceps, walked in holding a plastic cup of orange juice.

  Don’t stare!

  “Leslie said, ‘no peach schnapps.’ Sorry,” he said, smirking and handing me the cup.

  I smiled, half-surprised to see him. “Thanks for trying. It’s probably better for you this way. I’m not sure how well that would mix with this.” I pointed to the bag hanging from the pole.

  “So, what is that stuff, anyway?” Damian shot a glance up to where I pointed.

  “A very potent chemotherapy drug.”

  Damian sat down beside me. I could smell the smoke on his clothes. He tried to cover it up with too much cologne. I ignored the slight stir in my stomach.

  “Does it hurt? Having cancer?” His eyebrows furrowed.

  “No, it doesn’t hurt. I can’t feel that I have it. I just feel the side effects. It’s sort of like having a flu that doesn’t go away.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  “Dr. Lowell … I mean, your dad, diagnosed me with ALL—Acute Lymphatic Leukemia—when I was eleven. We did chemo for almost six months, and I went into remission, so my white cell count was back to normal. Then it came back two years ago. We did another round of chemo, and again I went into remission a year later. Now it’s back.”

  “You talk about it like you’re okay with having leukemia,” he said, confused.

  I shrugged. “I’ve tried crying, screaming, throwing things, avoiding people. It is what it is. I didn’t choose to have cancer, but it happened.”

  He let out a puff of air as his eyes drifted over me. “Damn, I couldn’t do it. Being here all the time, letting the nurses poke and prod you like you’re a cadaver.”

  “You would if you had to.” I shifted in my seat.

  “You’ve been doing this for, what, seven years? Wouldn’t it be easier just to give up, live while you can, do whatever the hell you want, and not be held back by shit like drugs and appointments?” His voice rose as he spoke.

  I fidgeted with a tube, giving myself a second to try and figure him out.

  “Sometimes I think that,” I
answered calmly. “Every time I go out of remission, getting back in gets harder. I’ve gotten sicker each time. The chemo gets stronger while I get weaker. So, yeah, it would be easier to say I don’t want to do this anymore.” I looked around the room. This wasn’t the conversation I had envisioned. Yet, somehow I didn’t mind it.

  “I could go to Disney World. See Greece. Climb Mount Everest. Swim with dolphins. Watch a volcano erupt. And not be sick for any of it. Enjoy the time I have left. Or be sick and then die, and not do any of those things. But I hang on to the hope that I can do it all, not be sick, and not have cancer.”

  “I don’t think the statistics are on your side.”

  I opened my mouth to retort then closed it. Most people, when they learned I had leukemia, grimaced and told me they were sorry, and encouraged me. Other than with the hospital staff, I’d never had a conversation like this before. I appreciated his bluntness.

  I sighed. “I know the stats, and they get scarier every time I have to come back here. But I have people counting on me. Someone fills that small percentage. Why shouldn’t it be me? Staying positive is medicine, you know.”

  Damian looked solemn. He was the son of my doctor, and I wondered how much he knew—how much Dr. Lowell talked about his work and the survival rates of patients.

  Damian’s gaze settled on me. “Your file was sitting on Dad’s desk, so I flipped through it.”

  My eyebrows shot up, surprised and actually a little thrilled that he took the initiative.

  “It says you’re on the bone marrow transplant list.”

  I cringed. During my last lapse, my best friend was Molly, a nine-year-old girl who had her chemo treatments the same days as me. When I went into remission, she wasn’t showing any signs of improvement. Dr. Lowell put her on the bone-marrow transplant list, a list with over ten-thousand names. No suitable donor was ever found. I went to the hospital during her treatment times to keep her company until one day, she wasn’t there. It rained the day of her funeral. She would have liked it—she loved the rain.