A Messy, Beautiful Life

by Sara Jade Alan

You were a stranger, now you’re my home

  I want to heal you, down to your bones

  I want to heal you, down to your bones

  I can’t fix you, but if love could

  You are my beacon, you know I would

  Travel safely, swiftly along

  I will hold you, in my heart and song

  They held the last note, making the sound crescendo until it reverberated through my body. Craig stopped playing the guitar and together they sang-spoke again, quietly, taking a beat between every few words, their harmonies filling up the cracks of heartbreak.

  I can’t fix you, but if love could

  You are my beacon, you know I would

  Tears of love and gratitude bubbled and hiccupped out of me, as Craig and Jason bowed their heads. The entire audience was silent. Quinn slipped into the empty chair on the other side of me, and the three of us hugged in our seats, Hana and Quinn’s arms wrapped across me, holding on to each other, too. There were sniffles from the people around us, and Quinn’s tears ran down my temple. Then someone let out a loud “Woooooo!” and in a wave, the audience was on their feet, clapping and cheering for Craig and Jason, whose faces lit up.

  I didn’t care that this was a Comedy Hub sponsored show, or whether it was appropriate or not. I rushed to the front of the stage. Craig and Jason kneeled and reached down to hug me. I kissed Craig’s cheek and murmured thank-yous into his ear.

  Jason jumped off the stage and pulled me to him, one hand around my waist, the other gently on my neck. He leaned in and kissed me in front of the entire audience, our parents, and the Comedy Hub cameras. I kissed him back like it was the only thing that mattered, everything in me combusting and dissolving into the moment, into him, my body capable of this one sort of magic.

  Then the audience started chanting, “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

  I laughed, but this time I wasn’t embarrassed.

  If it had been a music contest, Craig would have won. But it wasn’t, so Tricia Wilson, her long hair flowing, her white teeth flashing, held the microphone to let us know the winners in each category. “Before I announce the sketch contest winner tonight, I regret to announce that one of the sketch groups was disqualified.”

  I had a bad feeling about this.

  “Unfortunately, since they broke the rule of having no one outside the listed members of the group assist, the sketch ‘Las Palomas del Disco’ has been disqualified.”

  There were boos from the audience. The six of us shared a look of shock.

  “I’m so sorry, guys. I never would have asked my dads for help with the costumes if I’d known,” Quinn said. We all waved off her apology in a flurry of more apologies and questions between us about who read the rules. When we realized none of us had, we tried to smother our laughs.

  “I don’t actually care that we didn’t win,” Owen said. “I suspected we might be disqualified for copyright infringement, anyway.”

  We quietly laughed more as Tricia announced the winning sketch and the members ran up to accept their checks.

  “It was never about winning, anyway,” Quinn said as she kissed Owen.

  Tricia continued. “However, our producer was so entertained by ‘Las Palomas del Disco,’ that we’ll still post it on our site. Congratulations to both groups!”

  “Yes.” Owen jumped up and punched the air. We all high-fived and hugged, unable to contain our excitement that our sketch would be on one of the most popular sites for funny videos.

  At this point, I didn’t care who won the standup contest.

  Tricia opened up the judges’ envelope and said, “And the grand-prize winner in the standup category, who will take home five-hundred dollars and have the recording of tonight’s performance aired on ComedyHub.com is…Ellie Hartwood!”

  Hana and Quinn jumped up and down by my side, squealing. I stood frozen in disbelief until Jason picked me up and swung me around in the space between the front row and the stage. Someone must have replaced my blood with fancy soda, because my heart was about to bust out of my chest. I guess I did care.

  “Hey, get up here, girl! You’re our winner.” Tricia cheered.

  I headed for the stage, my leg aching a bit from all the quick movements I’d forced on it tonight. Tricia handed me the oversize check, and I held it in front of me, thanking her. My face was one big trembling smile as I looked out at the audience cheering for me, and at the row of all the friends I loved most.

  I was the luckiest of the unlucky mutants in the world.

  Everyone was hugging me and congratulating me when Dad and Barb cut through the crowd toward us, Barb waving her hand. Dad and Barb made it to the show?

  Dad gave me a huge hug. “I’m so proud of you, Ellie. You took what you’re going through and transformed it into something relatable and humorous.” Such a Dad way to say well done, but it was good to hear.

  Barb gave me a kiss on the cheek, her perfume practically knocking me out on the spot. “You sure are one funny lady, Miss Ellie.” Ugh. She was trying, but it still hurt not to roll my eyes. Then she said in a quieter, more sincere voice, “I have to say thank you, too.” She gulped, and her eyes got watery. “You have been a good influence on my Craigy. That song he sang for you was too beautiful…for…for words. There he is.” She wiped her eyes and practically pushed people aside to get to Craigy, who was walking down from the sound booth.

  Maybe she seemed lame and crazy to me, and maybe I’d never understand her, but the fact she said I was a good influence on Craig had come from a real place. If she hadn’t run away so fast, I would have told her it was the other way around.

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “You leave for New York in the morning?”

  “Yep.”

  “Will you call after your appointment so I know how it went?”

  “I will.”

  “Do. And let me know when you schedule your surgery. I’m going to be there even if you tell me you don’t want me there.” He smiled and gave me another hug. “Now, I probably need to rescue Craig before Barb squishes him to death.”

  I laughed. “Go, Dad—quick.”

  Mom was next, and she swooped me up, hugging me so tight. When she let go, her face glistened with tears. “How did you do that? You amaze me. I’m so lucky to be your mama.”

  That got me, and the corners of my mouth quivered. She kissed me on the forehead, and I said, “I’m lucky you are my mama.”

  Mom took my hand and was about to say something when Tricia walked up to us. “Ellie, I’m so happy you won. I’ve only known you for about five minutes, but it feels like longer, and I already love you. Is that too much?” She smiled her golden, camera smile and gave me a huge hug. “I can’t wait to see your performance go viral on our site.” She winked.

  What does that wink mean? I couldn’t decide which thing in my life was harder to believe. That I had cancer, that I had Jason, that I’d won the comedy contest, or that this celebrity was saying she couldn’t wait to see me successful. For her, I was probably like a Make-a-Wish kid, and she wanted to make me feel good. It worked.

  As Tricia flitted off to talk with the winning sketch group, Jason made a beeline for us.

  Mom said to him, “That song made me cry. You have an incredible voice.”

  His cheeks flushed, and his head dipped. “Thanks, Mrs. Hartwood. I…she…”

  Mom saved him by giving him a hug and saying, “You should be very proud of yourself.” Then she kissed me on the cheek. “Have fun with your friends, sweetie. I’ll see you later tonight. Not too late, okay? We have to leave early in the morning.”

  When it was just the two of us, he said, “You were amazing up there.” He was practically bouncing, giving off this totally amped-up energy.

  “That song.” I let out a puff of air, having difficulty finding words. “That song, your voice…thank you.”

  He grinned wide. “Hey, have I ever shown you this grove of trees we have outside the school?”

  “A grove of trees? Huh
. I’d be very interested in seeing this grove of trees.”

  He took my hand, and we found our spot in the grass. The leaves that were solid green a month ago were starting to show off their reds and oranges.

  Sitting facing each other, we held hands, the energy from the show thrumming between us. I took a deep breath, and the fresh air helped bring me back to earth just a little. Tomorrow, I left for New York.

  The words ‘carpe diem the crap out of everything’ popped into my head. Not romantic words, for sure, but good advice. Jason said he wanted to be with me, and his song made me believe more than ever that his words were true. But no one knew what was next. There was no way I’d expect Jason to stick by me in that kind of unknown. And, if things ended up like a horror movie, there was no way to know if I could handle having him see me like that, or whether I’d be capable of giving anything back.

  This was it. Our last time in the grove together. Our last time to be like this with each other for at least a week, maybe for a month or months…possibly forever.

  We kissed like we didn’t know when we’d kiss again.

  I will miss you Jason.

  It was a last chance, a prayer, a good-bye…

  Good-bye to this boy, good-bye to this body.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As the taxi drove us through Manhattan on Saturday morning, Mom held my hand tight. My heart and gut were speeding and lurching along with the car. Apparently, New York City taxi drivers take the lines on the streets as mere suggestions. What if we came all this way and we didn’t like this doctor or his option for surgery? It had already been four weeks since my diagnosis—we couldn’t keep pushing out a decision. Despite all that, I was still floating from my good-bye with Jason, and from the fact I’d won the contest and was going to be featured on one of the biggest online comedy sites.

  Because that happens all the time.

  Staring out the window, I understood all the people who insisted New York City had a different kind of energy. Tall buildings, short buildings, old and new, mashing up against each other yet still regal and impressive. I peered into windows when traffic slowed, and imagined all the dreams and worries and goings-on behind the glass. Dancers, bankers, bakers, writers, people on the corner selling purses from a cart…

  Why would anyone buy a purse from a cart? So weird.

  The taxi dropped us off where we’d be staying during our visit—in a condo belonging to the Synnestvedt family, friends of the Coopers who were out of the country on business for the year.

  It was a majestic building on the Upper East Side, directly across from Central Park. Mom and I got out and—jaw drop—right across the street was the Guggenheim, the modern art museum with the funky, circular exterior.

  When we walked up to the condo, a doorman took our bags and said, “You must be the Hartwoods? Welcome.” He ushered Mom and me inside, telling us more about the building and the Synnestvedts’ wishes for us to make ourselves at home. Neither Mom nor I could speak. The doorman passed us off to the elevator operator, who was also friendly.

  The hit-the-jackpot feeling blossomed when we opened the door to what would be our home for the next two nights: a three-bedroom penthouse with a sprawling brick patio with a view of the park.

  “Ooh, French doors. I love French doors.” I unlocked them. Nothing like our flimsy, sticky, sliding-glass door at home. The air was a touch cooler up here than it was on street level. Mom and I walked out onto the patio. Beyond the rail, the Central Park treetops were tipped with bright red, orange, and yellow.

  “This is nuts. You really met the right people this year, honey.” Mom goaded me with a little elbow jab to my side.

  “I mean, when Mr. Cooper said he had friends with a place near the hospital, I never thought he meant a freaking palace on the Park. This is out of control.” I pressed a switch on the side of the wall, and fairy lights came sparkling on along the rail and in the flowerpots. Magical.

  “I don’t know how we’ll ever thank the Coopers and the Synnestvedts for their generosity,” Mom said.

  “It’s pretty much impossible. But I know they like helping us, too, so at least it’s not a total loss on their part, right?”

  “That’s right, sweetie.” She kissed my forehead. “And you don’t need to worry about it, because this was meant to be. When truly bad things happen, the fates conspire to help those in need, don’t they?” Considering homelessness, famine, and war, Mom’s theory didn’t hold, but I wasn’t going to question the beauty of all the support I was receiving.

  We went back inside talking in our best snooty accents and flitting around deciding who would sleep in which room and requesting things of our imaginary butler.

  I dreamed I was on a hospital table. A smiling doctor put his hands over my leg. There were bright orbs of light all around me, filling the room, overwhelming me with a sense of peace. Where the doctor held my leg, I saw my femur bone inside me glow a radiant white. Clean.

  With a gasp I awoke, my eyes widening to the darkness of my bedroom, a light buzz surging through my body, like my physical form might float away and dissipate from the bed any second. A smile came over me. I didn’t dare move, not wanting to disturb the peaceful image from the dream, or shake the sensation. I was brimming with this abstract knowingness. Closing my eyes again, I took a mental snapshot of the dream image and the feeling of seeing my femur glow, clean and cured.

  I lay there in that state for what could have been minutes or hours before I fell back asleep. Whatever the time was, I made a wish that the transformation would stay with me.

  On Monday morning, Mom and I sat in Dr. Ray’s waiting room for six hours. Seriously. Six. Mom paced the room back and forth in the same line, while flipping through a magazine, never pausing long enough to see the pages. I reread the article “Top Ten Miracle Surgeons” that featured Dr. Ray, praying he could work a miracle for my case.

  When we finally got into the exam room, I put on the familiar gown—they were all the same—and we proceeded to wait for another hour. Mom was huffing and puffing, saying things like, “Well, no matter what his opinion is, no patient deserves to be treated like this.” I tried to keep her focused on her magazines. I weighed myself. Played with the buttons on the examining table/chair thingy. Tried to imagine myself as Chief of Oncology. It didn’t seem very fun.

  Dr. Ray finally entered. He was rosy cheeked and wore a red bow-tie and said a warm, “Hello.” Despite him making us wait for hours, I had a good feeling about him. He put my scans up and stated all the options, and when I asked his opinion, he explained it in detail.

  “Your case is unique. You don’t really see a tumor of this length and magnitude.”

  I’m so special.

  “We have to consider your age, and the size of your tumor. We are going to have to improvise a little here.” He won major points for saying “improvise.” “Since it is so long, it would be difficult to get a donor bone that would be the right size and match for your leg. The problem with going with a total titanium replacement is that it eventually wears out. Not exactly desirable for a seventeen-year-old, eh?”

  Mom and I shook our heads. Mom said, “Dr. Nichols recommended amputation. She said it would give Ellie more mobility and a better chance of”—Mom shifted in her seat—“survival and keeping the cancer from coming back.”

  His mouth became a firm line as he considered this. “With my idea, we can avoid the numerous complications of amputation and achieve the same low probabilities of risk.”

  Mom gripped my hand, and tears pricked with the relief that I might be able to keep my beautiful leg.

  “I want to save your bone. What I’m suggesting is unorthodox. I want to treat it with cryosurgery, where we freeze the bone to such a degree that all the cancer cells are killed off. Then we would put the bone back into your body, using a titanium plate to secure it as it revascularizes. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes, where the marrow of the bone comes back.” I was glad I�
�d studied.

  “Right. Basically, it becomes alive again instead of sitting there in your leg, a dead thing. I like this option for you because, like I said, finding an acceptable donor bone for you would be difficult. However, another tricky thing with your case is that your bone is so bowed.” With his index finger, he followed the swooping curve of my bone on the scan. “I’d have a titanium plate created that would run along the outside of your femur to support it while the bone gets a chance at revascularization. The downsides are there are a lot of variables to this surgery, and it would require keeping weight off your leg for a full year.”

  “You mean, Ellie would be on crutches for a year?” Mom asked.

  “Assisted walking, yes. Mostly crutches.”

  This was crazy.

  A year.

  Would my shoulders survive?

  “What about being able to fully bend and straighten my leg again?” I asked.

  He sighed. “I’m going to be honest with you. It’s not likely with any of these surgeries. There is a high probability you will have long-term challenges with your gait—a limp. You won’t be able to run or jump for many years, maybe ever. There are state-of-the-art prosthetics, and if you were a competitive athlete we might reevaluate that option, but I get the sense from what I’ve learned about you and your interests, that keeping your leg is best for you.”

  My insides buckled. This was supposed to be my miracle surgeon. I’d hoped for something better, more reassuring. But he agreed that even with the best outcome I’d never have a fully functioning leg again.

  Mom put her arms around me as I covered my face in my hands and took deep breaths. The pressure against my forehead and cheekbones steadied me, and my dark, mini cavern of air gave me a moment to process this. I have cancer, it’s in me, and I need it out so I can fight for my life.

  I slid my hands back down and focused my eyes on Dr. Ray’s, like I could see into him, into his abilities, into the future. He didn’t rush me. He simply smiled and held my gaze until my heartbeat calmed and I knew. Despite the fact I was signing up for an unorthodox surgery with no guarantee other than that I’d be on crutches for a year, I was certain—absolutely, 100 percent in-my-gut-and-heart certain—that he was the doctor for me.