Did you see? Your guy died.
What guy??? I write back quickly.
Your rock climber.
I open Google and type “free solo death” into the browser. Sure enough, several recent news items pop up. I click the first one, an article from Outside online.
Aidan Wallace, 27, the young climber who made a name for himself—and history—free soloing some of the toughest big walls in the nation, died yesterday after a fall from Bell Rock in Sedona, Arizona.
Wallace, who is perhaps best known for completing the only known free solo of the Yosemite Triple Crown, was out for a casual day of climbing, according to his girlfriend, Yesenia Ortiz. “Bell Rock was an easy climb for him. It was nothing. It was like a warm-up,” Ortiz said.
But without a rope of any kind—completely free on the wall, his preferred style of climbing—even a warm-up can end in tragedy.
“I was waiting for him at the top,” Ortiz said. “I didn’t hear or see him come off the wall. I’m not sure what happened. But I do know he died doing what he loved most in this world, which was being alone on the wall, with nothing between him and the sky.”
Bell Rock. I look it up to be sure, but I already know I’m right. Bell Rock is one of the two red rock formations Mohit and I stared at from the top of Eagle’s Nest. That view, the one that burned itself into my memory. We could’ve seen Aidan Wallace climbing there.
I should be sad for him, or at least for his family. He was only twenty-seven. He’ll never climb again, never kiss his girlfriend, who seems perfectly nice. He won’t marry her or become a dad. He’ll miss everything. I should be sad. But I’m not. Because Yesenia Ortiz is right. He had the perfect kind of death. And even though I’m sure he didn’t choose it in the sense of coming off that wall on purpose, he did choose to live—and leave—on his own terms. Wherever he is, I’m sure he has no regrets.
64.
Like I know they will, the seizures come back.
First, a small one.
Then another, longer.
65.
On a Tuesday night in May, Chloe sits by my bed, not talking, just reading on her phone. It’s like any other night, except this one happens to be a Tuesday.
“What are you reading?”
“Nothing.” She sighs.
“What?”
“Nothing, I just … It’s late.”
I have no idea what time it is. “Okay.”
“I have to be up early tomorrow. I’m at Mom A’s tonight.”
“Can you just stay a little while longer?” I roll my head toward the edge of the pillow and try to give her Sad Eyes so she’ll stay. Maybe I’m being a pain in the ass, but Mom’s at work and Liam’s sleeping at Kieran’s. I like the feeling of having someone here. I remember when I used to wish for quiet. Now an empty apartment feels too big.
She sighs. “Astrid, it takes forever to get to her new place. If you’d ever come over, you would know that.”
“Clo—”
“I have a life, Astrid. I’m sorry you don’t, but I do.”
Then she’s gone.
She doesn’t come back the next day, or answer her phone.
66.
I’m not sure if it’s the day after, or the day after that, they blur together.
“I brought you soft serve.” Chloe drops her bag in the corner and installs herself next to my bed. She unpacks a Styrofoam cup of ice cream from an insulated paper bag and pops the to-go cover off the top. Chocolate with chocolate sprinkles. “Also, sorry I was a jerk the other night.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t come over to your new place yet.” Yet. As though there will be a time when I will visit Annalisa’s new apartment and help Chloe decorate her room. We both know there won’t be. But we let it go.
67.
I turn seventeen.
Liam blows out my candles.
I let him take the wish.
68.
On my right side, I lose most of the feeling in my arm and leg, like I’ve had a stroke. Like I’m old. I feel old.
My mother helps me to the bathroom.
Chloe helps me to the bathroom.
Mohit helps me to the bathroom.
“I don’t want you to,” I say to Mo. I’m whimpering—even though I want to be strong, and strong people don’t whimper.
The bathroom is too small. He turns his back while I pee to give me the illusion of privacy, but it doesn’t work. I close my eyes, try to pretend I’m alone, functional, normal.
I can still wipe myself. At least there’s that. I’ll keep eating and drinking as long as I don’t need a catheter.
Mo pulls my pants up over my knees. “Why not? I don’t care.”
“I don’t want you to remember me smelling like pee.”
“You don’t smell like pee.”
“Right.”
69.
Things I’ll miss when I’m dead (a partial list, continued):
The smell of the radiators giving off steam heat in the winter
The smell of fresh air circulating in the house in the spring
The smell of sunscreen and Liam’s sweat in the summer
The smell of leaves and end-of-the-season grilling in fall
Human touch
Netflix
Being loved
70.
Dad and Suzanne come, with the baby. Alice Turner-Ayeroff. She’s bigger now, almost three months old, much more human-like than she was in that first picture.
They bring her to my room and lay her on the bed with me. I put my palm to her cheek and she makes a gurgling noise.
71.
I have another seizure, a longer one.
Then another, longer still.
I sleep most of the time, for days.
I hear Dr. Klein’s voice. She’s in our apartment, and my parents are out in the hall, talking with her.
When she comes back in the room, Mom’s cheeks are streaked with red.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t do this to you.
72.
The air warms, just a little, and Mohit drives me to the Bunker Hill Monument. He wheels me to the base, and we stare up at it in silence. It’s familiar, the way the obelisk cuts the sky. Our view.
73.
We watch movies.
We order pizza. I can barely taste the bite I put on my tongue, but I eat it anyway.
Liam watches me tentatively, all the time. He doesn’t ask questions, just watches.
Some classmates send cards home and Chloe reads them out loud, rolling her eyes at the girls who claim to “love me so much” when we’ve barely spoken since freshman year.
74.
Mom takes Liam to the Museum of Science for a whole afternoon to “give him a break.” Mohit stays with me, tucked into the bed next to me.
“Take your clothes off,” I tell him. He does, then mine, also at my request. Our bodies are warm next to each other. He touches every inch of my scarred, pathetic flesh with the gentlest fingertips.
It sends tingles, the good kind, through my spine.
My body is still capable of pleasure.
My body is not capable of many things, but there is still pleasure.
75.
And then there isn’t.
Cancer can break your bones, did you know that? I didn’t. It can. My spine fractures under the weight of my own cells.
The days are shorter.
They’re not, really. Still twenty-four hours in each.
Shorter for me.
76.
Hospice sends nurses. Usually it’s one named Nell, except when she’s off, and then it’s someone else. I like Nell. She doesn’t try to make too much conversation. She’s not Celia, though.
The pain meds feel good, but they make me sleepy. When I need them, I can press a button that sends a fresh dose into my bloodstream.
I try to play a game with myself: Don’t Press That Button.
I always lose.
77.
>
I decide to drink my last sip of water on one of these summer Sundays. It’s July and there’s a heat wave. Everyone who comes into my room is sweating and complaining.
I’m cold.
When I dehydrate, I’ll gradually lose consciousness. I won’t feel any pain. Then I’ll just drift off, and that’ll be it.
“Why a Sunday?” Mo asks. He keeps asking if they should put the air conditioner in my window because it’s so hot in the room. Mom has to remind him, again, that it’s not necessary. I’m not hot.
And when I’m gone, it’ll be a waste of electricity.
“Why not a Sunday?” I say. “Day of rest and all that.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Hey.” I shove him. “You hate it when I do that.”
Those eyes fill.
78.
My brain is broken. But my mind?
My mind is all mine. Strong enough still to make my own choices.
79.
It’s the middle of the night, but I call Mo anyway. He sounds anxious when he answers the phone.
“I thought I was afraid of missing everything,” I tell him.
“I know.” He’s groggy.
“But I’m not anymore. I’m just afraid the things I’ll miss won’t happen.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Promise you’ll always play music? If you don’t, I won’t miss it. But I don’t want you to ever stop.”
“Okay. I’ll always play music.”
“And you’ll go bald and get married and have kids?”
“I mean, probably. Maybe not the bald part.”
“Your dad is bald, though. You’ll probably go bald.”
“Thanks, Astrid.” He sighs. “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
“So we agree on that. Can we go to sleep now and I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Remember our Venn diagram?” I ask.
“Our what?”
“Faith in your circle, science in mine. Architects in the overlapping middle. The possible Venn diagram of our belief systems.”
“Why architects?”
“I don’t know. Because you have to know physics to make buildings stand up? And you also have to have faith?”
I can hear him smiling, even through his half sleep. “Okay. Good night, Astrid.”
“Good night, Mo.”
I hang up. I press the button for more pain medication. While I wait for it to seep into my system, I close my eyes and watch bits of light dance behind my eyelids. They look like the Perseids, pieces of burning comet debris rocketing through the night sky. Or shooting stars.
My tumor made of stars.
The view from here is beautiful.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m so grateful to have had the opportunity to work with—and learn from—an editor who is not only exceptional at her craft, but also a lovely human being. Joy Peskin, you are magic.
There are many others at FSG, notably Trisha de Guzman, Elizabeth Lee, and Nicholas Henderson, whose thoughtful observations and gracious responses to my (many) emails were appreciated. Janet Renard and Nancy Elgin’s sharp eyes for detail were indispensable. Aimee Fleck designed a beautiful book.
Jessica Regel is the very best kind of agent—a generous thought partner, trusted advisor, advocate, and friend, all in one.
My family, as always, makes all things possible:
My parents, Kathryn Lewis and Jim McGovern, provide a bottomless supply of support and—critically!—child care.
My husband, Neheet Trivedi, asked questions that made the book better, helped me fill plot holes, and reassured me that “if I didn’t put a comment, it means I like that part.” I am so lucky to love and be loved by you.
Between drafts of this book, I became a mother. This both complicated and enriched the writing process (and pretty much everything else). Priya, you’ve made me a better writer, if a slower one. As you already know, I love-love-love you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kate McGovern has taught theatre and language arts to middle schoolers in Boston, New York, and London. A graduate of Yale and Oxford, she currently lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she was born and raised. Rules for 50/50 Chances is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Farrar Straus Giroux Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
Copyright © 2019 by Kate McGovern
All rights reserved
First hardcover edition, 2019
eBook edition, March 2019
fiercereads.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McGovern, Kate, author.
Title: Fear of missing out / Kate McGovern.
Description: First edition. | New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 2019. | Summary: Despite the loving intentions of her mother and boyfriend, sixteen-year-old Astrid wants to make the decisions about her life and death when her cancer returns, including exploring the possibility of cryopreservation.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018020372 | ISBN 9780374305475 (hardcover)
Subjects: | CYAC: Terminally ill—Fiction. | Cancer—Fiction. | Choice—Fiction. | Cryonics—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M43524 Fe 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018020372
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 ext. 5442 or by email at [email protected].
eISBN 9780374305499
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