“That it takes away so much more than just physical function.”
“You mean like Emily’s approval?”
I pull my lip between my teeth. It’s somewhat easier that she isn’t looking at me. She’s focused on the skin under her hands.
“Yeah. Plus, my parents’ money, and time. It made Elise sick. It ruined my senior year—I’m going to have to repeat classes instead of graduating. My average has gone to shit because I’m tired all the time. And the worst part of it all is that it took away my status as a person—as a guy.”
“Will the fatigue wear off eventually?”
“It’s supposed to. It’s the transplant, and the drugs I still take for it.” She doesn’t ask what I got from Elise. Thank God. We don’t need to have that conversation right now.
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.” My joints still hurt in the mornings, and then there’s the stomach upsets that my plethora of drugs makes me sensitive to.
“And how long until it’s ‘supposed to’ stop zapping your energy? Is there a common recovery time for most patients?” Of course, she doesn’t know about cancer recovery. She knows about treatment and death. Her sister never made it to the other side of the slope.
“Up to a year. For some, much less.” Willa nods acceptingly. “It’s been almost five months.”
“I guess you’re pretty tired of being tired?”
“Don’t you dare imagine that was clever.”
Willa looks up at me and chuckles. “I’m sorry you’re tired.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
“Did I say I pitied you?”
“You were thinking it.”
“Don’t pretend you know me,” she says in a cheesy imitation of my voice. I flick the hand that’s massaging mine.
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not a clown.”
“Right, you’re a demon guru.”
Willa presses her hands together and bows like a yogi. She checks her watch and says she has to go.
“But before I do…” She goes to my desk and grabs a pad of Post-Its and a pen out of the drawer. She writes on two of the sticky notes, folds them, and puts them on opposite sides of the room, equal distance from my bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Read them when you feel well enough to get up,” she says. Willa puts the pen and Post-Its back and her eyes light on the whiteboard above my desk.
“What are you looking at?”
Willa doesn’t answer, but she picks up the dry erase marker and studies it like it’s foreign. Then she looks around my room like she’s lost.
“Willa?”
She opens my closet like she’s looking for something, and she finds it behind the door. Willa uncaps the marker and starts writing on my mirror.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“For later,” she says, and keeps writing. When she’s done she closes the closet door, picks up her purse, and tells me to feel better. “See you tomorrow.” She kisses my cheek, and then she’s gone. A few minutes later, I can hear her pull out of the gravel drive.
My cheek tingles a little bit where she kissed it.
You are such a chick sometimes.
Shut up.
Fine. Your balls and I will be over here. Join us when you’re through.
I’ll do that.
Fine.
Fine.
Eric pokes his head in and asks if I need anything. It’s tempting to ask him to pass me Willa’s notes, but he would read them before handing them over and make fun of me, I’m sure. I thank him, tell him no, and relax deeper into bed.
It’s nine o’clock by the time I feel well enough to get up. Elise is watching Harry Potter downstairs. Mom is home. She must be onto something—she’s singing while she works. She only does that when she catches a break or hits her stride. Dad’s shift ended thirty minutes ago; he’ll be home soon.
I shuffle towards the dresser and the first of Willa’s notes. I unfold it and turn on the lamp to read.
You’re amazing just the way you are. You are you.
This feels bitterly nice, knowing she left that for me. She was just trying to make me feel better, but the white lie still warms me. I re-fold it and put the paper in the bottom of my sock drawer for safekeeping.
The other note is on my bookshelf. I make my way over to it and untwist her second paper.
Ask me what I think about before I fall asleep.
Under that, in parentheses and tiny lettering, she’s written: There’s another note in the mailbox.
I consider looking at what Willa left in my closet, but the possibilities make me nervous, so I put it off. I put on my slippers instead and go downstairs to check the mailbox. It’s chilly tonight, and I don’t linger on the porch as I grab her third note and take it back upstairs. I shut the door behind me for privacy and lean back against the wood. Why didn’t she leave this one out in the open? I have to be careful not to tear the paper in my haste to unfold it.
Made you look. Sucker.
Tuesday
When I open my closet to get dressed I’m blindsided by a mirror covered in blue marker. I forgot about Willa’s note, the one that I decided to avoid when I went to bed. She covered my entire mirror in ink.
I'm not invisible. I have desires. I want to be touched and held and told that I'm worth something. I am not pitiful. I am better than you can imagine. I have talents. I have successes and failures. I love my life. I sometimes feel dissatisfied with the world. I come from a place of love, not death. I am special. I matter. I can be the most interesting person in the room. I can blend in and that’s okay. I'm a somebody. I'm a nobody. I feel deeply and I want to be allowed to show it. I don't want to be judged. I can be judgmental. When you give me platitudes you belittle my feelings. I'm brave. I'm scared. I'm wandering. I have plans. I will be the best me I can be. I am not who I think I am; I am not who you think I am; I am who I think you think I am, so think well of me, please.
I grab the first clothes my hands touch and slam the closet door. I feel completely bare in a way that has nothing to do with nudity. I hurry to dress for school, like I need to get away from the closet as fast as possible. The fact that words on a mirror have me so on edge makes me angry—what’s wrong with me that Willa can put me so off balance? How could she write that in my room and let it blindside me? A little warning would have been nice, if she’s going to poke into private things I’d rather not think about. And furthermore…how did she know?
*
The dynamic of this friendship is screwed up beyond repair. Willa casually hands me a mint as she doodles on the margins of her page. She just knows when I’m not feeling well, like Elise does. This is the girl who’s seen me puke, rage, come close to tears, and laid up in bed like the sick bastard I am, and she still hangs out with me.
“You’re staring.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Girls’ night out with Paige and Hannah.” Why is it so hard to get a bit of her time these days? I feel like I have to schedule an appointment with her three weeks in advance.
She’s popular, you idiot.
“You’re not avoiding me, are you?”
Willa looks at me sideways and quirks an eyebrow, like she’s waiting for me to realize how stupid my own question is.
“Well you didn’t wake me up yesterday,” I retort quietly.
“You were sleeping so soundly.” She saw me sleeping? Elise didn’t just tell her that I was napping? My own unwitting vulnerability irks me, but then my stupid brain catches up.
She’s seen you puke on multiple occasions.
Don’t forget the crying.
Or the shuffling around like an old man.
Shut up!
“What do girls do on a night out?”
“That’s classified information,” she says seriously.
“Can I come?” I say with a smirk. Willa rolls her eyes at me. It was worth a try.
; You take desperate to a level not worth naming.
Wednesday
I think I’m actually getting dumber by taking this class. Mrs. Hudson hands out raw eggs to each of the seated pairs and explains that these will be our ‘infants’ until Friday, when the unit on human reproduction ends. Can’t we just break it now and get it over with? Willa picks the stupid egg up and draws a face on it with her pen.
“You are such a twit.”
“I’m naming him Egbert.”
“The hell you are; he’s ours. We’re supposed to name him together.”
“It’s just an egg.”
“It’s Steve.”
“No.” The finality of Willa’s tone surprises me. She looks away, slightly pink in the cheeks, and mutters, “Whatever, just not Steve.”
I relent. “Fine, we’ll call it Egbert. But it’s still a dumb name.”
*
Willa has yogurt in her fridge. I wonder….
I put together a snack for us while Willa sets up our homework. This egg project is heavy on dead trees. We have to come up with a whole parenting plan—how we propose to discipline our egg, educate it, give it siblings, keep it healthy, etc. When I come back from the kitchen Willa is doing our homework with one hand and casually spinning Egbert with the other. I lie down on the couch and get comfy.
“Do you believe in spanking?” she asks.
“Real children or eggs?”
“Useless,” she mutters. It’s actually a careful strategy to avoid working on this dumb assignment. I turn on the TV and start channel surfing. I pause on Animal Planet for half a second too long and Willa calls me a pervert. This channel has forever been ruined by creeps who like to watch animals screw.
“So did we adopt this egg or did you lay it?”
Willa reaches out and sets Egbert on my chest. Her hand comes dangerously close to grazing my hardware. “Spend some time with your kid. And you laid him, jackass.”
I buk at her. I don’t think Willa is amused. I leave Animal Planet on just to be facetious. It’s a show about ostriches and I explain to Egbert that he will never hatch and grow up to be such a big, ugly bird.
“Are you talking to the egg?”
I mimic her voice. “Are you talking to the egg?”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.” I stick my tongue out at her and Willa turns back to her work, quietly giving me the finger. I send it right back at her and get up off the couch. It’s almost six; I need to take my meds.
“Do you want a drink?” I call to Willa.
“No, thanks.” At least she answered; I haven’t annoyed her too badly. I pour myself a glass of water and take my medication out of my back pocket. I carry around one of those plastic pill-sorters like an old man. In the ‘afternoon’ slot are five pills: one for pain, two Gravol—which are partly for show, considering their efficacy—and magnesium and famotidine. I take three at once and then wait a minute before taking the Gravol. Half the time the stuff doesn’t work at countering the nausea caused by my other drugs.
I turn to put the water pitcher back in the fridge when Willa laughs suddenly in the other room. I shut the fridge and go see what’s so funny. A young ostrich was harassing a cameraman, pecking at the Jeep door. Willa finds this absolutely hysterical.
“Okay, it’s funny, take it easy, psycho.” I sit down on the couch and change the channel. She doesn’t protest.
Willa checks her watch and mutters something about starting dinner. I keep flipping channels. She’s gone for a few minutes before I realize I left my meds—and Egbert—on the counter. Oh shit.
I very quietly make my way to the kitchen door. Maybe she didn’t notice. I left the container over by the toaster, after all.
No such luck. Willa’s back is to me. She rests her hands against the counter next to the toaster, looking down. All the compartments on my sorter are open. I didn’t leave it that way.
Willa notices my presence and jumps. She looks away hurriedly, wipes a hand across her cheeks, and awkwardly remarks, “Oxycontin is a bitch, eh?” She knows what the drug looks like by the sight of the pills alone—that’s a little messed up.
I quietly pack up the sorter and pocket it. Willa is still facing away from me. She’s unusually quiet and every few minutes she runs a hand over her face, like she’s wiping away tears.
It’s bizarrely entrancing, watching her cry. For one, I didn’t know she even had tear ducts, being made of granite and all. For another…I feel slightly compelled to do something about it.
“Do you want me to go?”
“Uh…no.”
“Do you need a minute?”
Willa turns and leans back against the counter with her arms folded. Her eyelashes are stuck together with tears and her lids are red-rimmed. She bites her lower lip and looks me up and down, studying me.
“Are you in a lot of pain?”
“Sometimes.” My answer stirs up some disturbing memory for her; I can see it in her face. “It’s just a maintenance dose. You can’t just go off opiates all at once. When I’m actually in pain I take two tablets.” Why am I telling her this?
“My sister took Percocet. But it made her sick, so they put her on Oxy.”
I smirk. Oxycontin is responsible for most of my stomach upsets, but it’s the gentlest of several options. Percocet messes me up too. I was so high I couldn’t move except to throw up—and I did a lot of that.
Willa sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and says, “I need to start dinner” on the exhalation. She steps away from the counter and opens the fridge.
“I should go.”
“You’re not staying for dinner?”
“I should be getting back, and you’d need to make a separate meal for me anyway.” She doesn’t need that trouble. I turn to go.
“Harper,” Willa tiredly calls me back. “Come here. I have another recipe I want to show you.”
Damn it, she knows my weakness.
Willa puts a pre-frozen lasagna in the oven to bake and then begins to pull ingredients for my meal. She makes me help this time and promises I won’t get burnt. “This is a cold dish.”
The end result is a tart that has the consistency of cheesecake, but without the flaky crust. It’s low in acid, sugar-free, and creamy as pudding: the brilliant combination of cream cheese, vanilla and berry yogurt, and honey.
“I might have to steal your recipe binder.”
“It doesn’t contain all my recipes.” She smirks and taps her temple smugly.
“I might have to blackmail you, then.” Willa laughs and leaves me to eat this amazing tart. “Hey,” I interrupt her as she checks the readiness of the lasagna. “I meant to ask you yesterday—what do you think about before you go to sleep?”
“Shouldn’t you first give me a hard time about the note I left in your mailbox?”
“Just tell me.”
“Or the one I left in the umbrella stand?”
“You left one in the umbrella stand?”
“And in your jacket pocket.”
I get up and go to the foyer where my jacket hangs on a peg. I rifle through the side pockets and front pockets, finding only mint wrappers.
“The inner pocket, genius,” she calls from the kitchen. The note is folded up so small it’s the size of a pencil eraser. I unfold it and take it back to the kitchen to read her scrawl under proper light.
I think about music.
And all I can think is, Well that was anticlimactic.
What were you hoping for?
Nothing.
You were hoping she thought about you, like you think about her.
No I don’t.
“I’ve been listening to Bach.”
That perks me up. “Yeah?” She plays his music horribly, but it’s one of the few weak points of connection we share.
“I think I like Wagner better.”
I hate Wagner.
*
When I get home I check the umbrella stand in the foyer. Willa’s note has fallen r
ight to the bottom with the dust bunnies and a few of Elise’s stray mittens that she’s continually losing.
It says: That’s twice now. Sucker.
Thursday
Elise’s birthday dinner is fairly low-key. It’s just family tonight. Mom and Dad are letting her throw a party with friends later this spring, when the weather is more favorable.
Mom bought a Harry Potter themed ice cream cake from the store, but it looks like the clerk thought the cake was for a seven-year-old, not a seventeen-year-old, because Mom has added the 1 with raspberry jam. Elise barely notices.
“Open mine first.” Eric lobs Elise’s present at her across the table. Elise shakes the box before opening it and there’s a clanking sound. She broke it. “Oh no!” Elise tears off the wrapping and opens up a shoebox.
It’s full of broken bottle glass.
“Just kidding,” Eric says. “Here’s your real one.” He throws a much smaller box at her. He’s given her a pair of earrings.
“You threw a box of broken glass at her?” I say quietly as Elise crumples up the used paper.
“It was wrapped. Perfectly safe.”
I suppose he’s right, but I can’t help but think of the Christmas he gave me a pet rock. The thing fell through the bottom of the box and broke my toe.
Elise receives a new skirt and blouse from Mom and Dad, and a card with cash from our grandparents. I got her a stuffed plush owl. I really shouldn’t enable her childish obsession with Harry Potter, but the way her face lights up when she sees it can’t compete with any logical reasoning.
“It’s Hedwig!” She bounces around the table to give me a hug, chanting ‘thank you’ over and over. Then I inform her that it’s actually a puppet and she practically blows a happy fuse. She shoves her hand up its butt and finds the second part of her gift.
It’s a much smaller brown owl.
“Pig!”
“No, owl, silly,” Eric says.
“No, his name is Pigwidgeon.” And it’s a finger puppet. Elise puts an owl on each hand and starts a conversation between them.
Dad chuckles and stands up to clear away the dirty ice cream plates. “We’re never going to get that off her hand,” he says of the puppets.
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