Fear of Missing Out

by Kate McGovern

  “Nice!” Mo says.

  “Sure, thanks,” I mutter.

  He fills the silver coin slots with another dollar’s worth of quarters, and the balls roll out the chute. “Go for it. One more round, champ.”

  My right arm throbs along with my head now, and my vision is all Christmas lights and blurred edges like I’m viewing the world through an Instagram filter. Still, Mohit looks so hopeful. I wrap my fingers around one of the balls and lob it up the ramp.

  It’s too much. The ball bounces off the wall of the Skee-Ball machine and back down the ramp toward us with a fair amount of force.

  “Whoa, careful.” Mo tugs me out of the way just before I take a wooden ball to the skull, and the jarring movement causes me to drop to one knee.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” I say.

  Mohit kneels next to me. “Hey, you okay?”

  I pull myself up and perch on the edge of the ramp, rubbing my temples. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just got … off-kilter.”

  “Want some water?” He unscrews his bottle and offers it to me.

  I take a few breaths and swallow some water while I wait for things to stop spinning quite so much. Mohit is quiet, watching me, waiting for a sign.

  After a moment, I force a smile in his direction. “I just didn’t want you to beat me quite so badly.”

  “Figured as much,” he says. “You all right?”

  I nod.

  His face brightens. “Cool. So what next? Overinflated basketballs? I know you never met a rigged arcade game you didn’t love.”

  I hesitate, and Mo seems to sense it.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I mean, if you want to go.”

  My throat is so dry. I take another sip of his water, but it seems like it absorbs immediately without any moistening effect. Everything aches.

  “Can we? I think I’m just overexerted. Or I broke my brain on the Cannonball.”

  Mohit slings his backpack over one shoulder. “Of course. It’s fine. Let’s go. Don’t want you to be overexerted.” Then he starts off, leaving me resting there on the Skee-Ball ramp.

  I stand up gingerly, assess my balance—the world has mostly righted itself—and follow after him, but he’s practically out of sight. When I finally catch up, he’s hanging out by the arcade exit.

  “Uh, thanks for waiting.”

  He looks at me kind of dully. “Of course.” Then he heads off again, toward the parking lot, with me trailing behind him.

  * * *

  “What was that?” I ask when we’re both settled in the car. As we drive through the parking lot, Mohit turns the radio on, a Top 40 station. He hates Top 40.

  “What was what?”

  “That. You stalking off, leaving me behind. What’s the matter?” I turn the volume down.

  “I was listening to that,” he says, turning it back up again.

  “Parikh, come on. You hate this crap. Why are you acting like a weirdo?”

  “I’m not. I’m just—”

  “I mean, objectively, you are.”

  “I planned the day, Astrid. For you.”

  His words settle in the air around me. I feel something seething in the pit of my stomach, anxiety, anger, a mix of both, and I swallow, trying to calm it. On the radio, some pop star is whining about how some guy never called her back. I flick it off.

  “You mean you planned the day for you.”

  He grips the wheel. Fighting with Mo while he’s driving, given his vehicular deficiencies to begin with, is probably unwise. But he started it.

  “What are you talking about? I’m not the one who cares about roller coasters and arcade games. I was trying to do something nice for my girlfriend. And you couldn’t even muster the energy to—”

  “To what, exactly? To help you fulfill your dreams of being World’s Number One Boyfriend? Sorry my terminal diagnosis got in the way, Mohit.”

  He laughs. “Yup, there it is.”

  “There’s what?”

  “The cancer card. I was waiting for it.”

  “The cancer card? Are you freaking kidding me?”

  “You seemed fine this morning. You were fine on the roller coaster three times in a row. Then suddenly you’re like, ‘We have to go home right this minute. I can’t possibly stand up for another moment.’ Come on. You’re just so…” He trails off, shaking his head as he glances over his left shoulder to pull us onto the interstate.

  “Yes? Please, by all means, tell me what I am so much of.”

  “I get it, okay? I get that you have cancer, believe me. I was there the last time, as you may recall. But does everything have to be so … melodramatic?”

  I let that sit with us. The haziness in my head, the blurring in my vision, the aching radiating from my skull and pulsing up and down my spine—but sure, that’s melodrama. I want to open the car door and get out, right now. I don’t. Instead I stew.

  “Astrid,” he says when the silence has apparently become too much for even him to bear.

  “What.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Yes you did. You did mean it. I’m sorry I’m such a burden on you, believe me, Mohit.”

  “You’re not a burden. I just—”

  “No, Mo, I am. I am a burden. And I am going to continue to be a burden.” He starts to try to interrupt, but I put my hand up, shake my head, and he stops. I go on. “The thing is, I can’t really do anything about being a burden. I can’t, like, magic myself back to normal. So you make a choice, okay? Because I have enough to deal with, and I can’t also deal with having to pretend I feel awesome all the time for the sake of protecting my boyfriend’s feelings. Anyway, I thought we were past all that. So make a choice.”

  He waits to respond, maybe giving it a minute to see if I’m really done. I am. I am really, really done.

  “What choice,” he says finally, almost under his breath.

  I don’t respond.

  “Astrid, what choice?”

  “You know what choice, Mo.”

  “I just thought we could, you know, do something fun. And normal. Like regular teenage people.”

  “I know you did, but I’m not a regular teenage person. I am, and I’m not. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  We drive most of the rest of the way in quiet.

  14.

  Sometimes in the school cafeteria, I have this sort of out-of-body experience like I’m watching a movie of my teenage life, in which someone who looks just like me plays the protagonist and my classmates fill the roles Hollywood and history have made for them: the jocks wearing their varsity jackets, the theater geeks quoting the latest Broadway hit, the bilingual kids telling secrets in languages I don’t speak, all around their preordained tables, over limp iceberg lettuce and oven-baked french fries.

  On Monday, in the movie of our lives, Chloe slides onto the seat across from me and looks me up and down. “You look kind of like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just keeping it real, friend. You okay?”

  I feel considerably better than I did yesterday afternoon, physically, anyway, but I don’t respond.

  “Hello.” Chloe is frowning at me, holding a flaccid fry near her mouth. Ketchup drips off onto her tray. I can’t tell Chloe about arguments with Mohit, ever. Their relationship is too delicate as is for me to give her any ammunition to use against him later, when things are good between us again.

  “I’m fine.” I shovel a mouthful of sloppy joe into my face and glance toward the door one more time. Mo has this lunch period today. I don’t know why he hasn’t shown up yet. I sent him a text a few minutes ago—Are you dining today?—but I haven’t heard back.

  “So I told the moms I was boycotting all holidays, like indefinitely, if they continued to act like children,” Chloe says.

  “And?”

  “They basically relented. I mean, they said I could have a say in the matter but that there had to be some equity.” She puts air quotes around the word “equity,” like the whole
concept is a farce. “Are you listening to me?”

  I guess I look distracted. I can’t help it. “Sorry.” I look up from my phone, which I keep checking for signs of Mohit, even though there are none. “I am listening.”

  “I realize my problems are boring compared to yours.”

  “I’m sorry, Clo. Seriously. That’s great, then. You can go wherever you want for Christmas.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah. And have one of my mothers inevitably be irritated with me. I guess I have to accept a certain amount of irritation now, right?”

  “Or they have to accept that they put you in this position and just deal with it.”

  “Or that.” She hunts around in her bag for something. “So I got you a present.” She unearths a book from the depths of the bag and passes it across the table to me. It’s a used travel guide, but not for a specific country or city. This one has a stretch of U.S. interstate on the cover. It’s called The Top 50 Roadside Attractions in the United States. I flip through the listings of all the best kitsch within striking distance of American highways.

  “Cool, right?” Chloe says. “I found it on the curb yesterday.”

  I put it down momentarily and wipe my hands with a paper napkin.

  “Oh, Astrid. I already doused it in hand sanitizer.”

  “Phew. Thank you.” I open to a random page. “The world’s largest Pez dispenser is in Burlingame, California. Did you know that?”

  “Now I do.”

  “Seven feet, ten inches tall, in the shape of a snowman.” I skip around to a few more chapters, pausing to read briefly about some supernatural crop circle or giant ball of twine. “Thanks, Clo. This is kind of cool.”

  “Well, so, I had a thought.”

  “Just the one?”

  “What if you could actually see some of these places you’re so obsessed with reading about? Like, what if we could make it happen?”

  “Right. Between the chemo sessions and the hospitalizations for the clinical trial, my winter and spring are looking pretty open. Let’s just book a couple international flights.”

  “I’m serious, Astrid. We don’t have to go to the Himalayas. The Pez dispenser, for example, is on our present landmass. Or…” She takes the book out of my hands. “Lucy the Elephant, in Margate, New Jersey. Even closer. We can stop there on our way to Arizona.”

  “Arizona?”

  “Sedona, to be precise. Isn’t that where your cryopreservation facility is located? Hear me out. What if we use the vlog idea, as a start, to get you to there? Just for a visit, so you can make an informed choice. You wouldn’t have to commit. You wouldn’t even have to raise that much money yet—just enough to get us to and from Arizona.”

  “Us?” I raise an eyebrow at her.

  “Think I’m letting you go alone? Consider it a once-in-a-lifetime road trip.”

  “Literally.”

  “Literally.”

  The idea of something to do—a trip to plan, an adventure to embark on that has nothing to do with being sick—does sound enticing. And I do like the idea of seeing where I might end up if I go the frozen-body route. But the vlog part makes me squirmy.

  “I just don’t know about this whole crowdfunding thing. Putting my personal life on the internet? Like, on video?”

  “You get to pick your boundaries, though. You craft the narrative. That’s what all the internet personalities do. You give people just enough to make them feel like they know you. That’s why they pay attention. And if they’re paying attention, they’re donating. Trust me.”

  I let out a sigh.

  “Is that a yes?” she asks, her eyes fixed on me.

  I don’t get to answer, though, because my phone starts vibrating against the table. I grab it, assuming it’s Mo, but it isn’t. It’s my mother. Which is weird, because she never calls me at school. She actually believes we don’t even look at our phones at all during school hours. Or I thought she did, anyway, but there she is, calling.

  “Uh, hello, Mother. Everything okay?”

  “Astrid?”

  “Yes, this is she. Clearly.”

  “Dr. Klein just called.” Mom sounds frantic. “They’ll take you in the trial.”

  * * *

  I pick the restaurant—Greek—because Mom insists on going out and I don’t want to kill her buzz. We’re already dipping triangles of pita in creamy tzatziki when Mohit finally shows up. I texted him again after Mom delivered the news, but I didn’t actually expect him to show up to dinner; he’s been MIA since our fight yesterday. He seems flustered when he arrives, his sax case in one hand and sheet music in the other in a haphazard pile, instead of neatly tucked into a manila folder like usual.

  “Hi.” He gives me a quick kiss. “So! Great news!”

  “Isn’t it? What are you having?” Mom passes a menu across the table to Mo, who takes the seat Chloe left open next to me. “It’s time to celebrate.”

  I tell myself, for the umpteenth time since we left home an hour ago, that this “celebration” is for my mother, because she needs every little victory. I force a smile around the table, playing the dutiful, grateful daughter/patient.

  Mohit orders the eggplant wrap and a Coke. “Where’ve you been?” I ask him quietly when he hands the menu back to the waitress.

  “Nowhere. Just had some stuff to take care of.” Then he gives me a stern look that reads, Please don’t get into this now. Turning back to the rest of the table, he raises his voice to cover any awkwardness. “Hey, this is great! You’re in the trial.”

  Mom insists on making a toast to my “future health.” Several neighboring diners glance curiously in our direction, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sick person, I guess. I shrink a little bit into my seat and try to tamp down my embarrassment.

  I know Mom’s excited. I know she’s hopeful. But it all feels like a joke. This recognition crystallized in my head the moment Mom announced the “good news” and I realized my heart was sinking instead of soaring. The trial is just one more step on the long march toward my premature demise. It’s days or weeks in the hospital, hours and hours of treatments and tests, of being poked and observed and watching Mom wait anxiously for results. And it won’t work. They never do. I wish I didn’t even have the option.

  * * *

  After dinner, Mom drives Chloe and Mohit home. I let Liam sit in the front so I can squeeze next to Mohit in the middle seat and slip my fingers between his. He reciprocates but doesn’t look at me, just stares out the window while I search the back of his head for clues. The dark hair curling against the collar of his jacket gives nothing away.

  When we pull up in front of the Parikhs’ house, I walk to the front door with Mo. He pulls his keys out and then turns to me. “Look, I’m sorry about yesterday. I was kind of a jerk, huh?”

  “Little bit?”

  “Yeah. About your question, though. You know my choice, right?”

  I don’t say anything. I’m not going to do the work for him.

  “Astrid, I choose you. I’ll always choose you. In sickness and in health.”

  “We’re not married, Mo. You don’t have to say that.” Still, my heart feels like it’s expanding with the words.

  “I know I don’t have to. But I want to. I choose you. Okay?”

  Mom beeps. I’d forgotten she was waiting for me. I kiss him on the cheek and say good night.

  15.

  Chemo. Hello again, old friend.

  Dr. Klein promises it won’t be as bad as the first time, partly because the drugs have improved even in the last year and a half, and partly because my body will adjust more quickly the second time around. As with anything else, you get better at it with time. I’m so glad to be improving at ingesting toxic chemicals in an attempt to stop my body from attacking itself.

  So on Thursday afternoon, after school, I settle back into one of the familiar blue loungers in the familiar stale chemo lounge. Mohit would’ve come with me, but he had another mysterious “thing” to take care of, and Mom cou
ldn’t change her shift, so I’m here alone, much to my mother’s distress. I told her it was fine. To be honest, it’s more than fine. I don’t really need anyone else to bear witness to my official return to Cancer Patientdom.

  Today’s nurse, Colette, hooks my line in and gives me an encouraging pat on the arm. She’s new here. Or, at least, new since I was here last.

  “You want a magazine, sweetness?”

  “No thanks.” I have actual homework in my bag, but I probably won’t bother with it.

  “All righty. Let me know if you need anything.”

  I respond to a text from Mom, checking in, then pull The Trekker’s Guide to Nepal out of my bag. It’s become comfort reading at this point, like Harry Potter used to be when I was a kid. I flip through the well-worn pages, rereading the section about flying into Lukla, the closest airport to Everest, widely regarded as the scariest landing strip on the planet.

  I lose myself in the Khumbu region for a while, and when my eyes are starting to strain from reading the cramped print, I browse the channels on the flat-screen mounted to the opposite wall. On the Discovery Channel, there’s a program about free soloing—rock climbers who scale insane-looking rock walls with no ropes or harnesses whatsoever. In other words, they’re one tiny mistake from plummeting to their deaths. Perfect. I really don’t know what it is about the idea of climbing sheer rock faces or huge Himalayan ice-encrusted peaks that is so fascinating to me, dedicated indoorswoman that I am, but they get me every time.

  I sit back and follow the exploits of a young guy named Aidan Wallace—mid-twenties; unshaven with big, goofy ears; no attachments in his life except a van he lives in and a girlfriend who’s a climber, too—as he free solos some of the toughest rock walls in North America. He looks earnestly at the camera, a stunning southwestern landscape of red rock and desert sunset behind him.

  “Sometimes, when you’re up there alone, with no ropes, it feels like you’re just stepping into the void.”

  Cut to him inching up Half Dome at Yosemite, nothing but a centimeter or two of bare fingertips between him and the empty, open air. As I watch, I momentarily forget where I am, who I am, the toxins pumping into my blood. I inhale a breath and hold it there; my heart pauses; the room seems to pitch sideways. Then he’s up, over the lip of the cliff, onto the summit, his arms lifted toward the bright sky in triumph. Still alive.