Always and Forever (6 page)

“Hey!” He glared at her; then threw back a swallow of his coffee. “My mother always told me that if I didn't have anything nice to say, I shouldn't say anything at all. So, you know…” he trailed off with a shrug.

A brief pause, then she belted out a laugh and pitched the bag back at him. “Bitch.”

Easily plucking the bag out of the air, he grinned, reached in, and rescued a bearclaw. “Thanks. Slut.”

“Why thank you for noticing,” she preened, pretending to be complimented. “I've always wanted to be a slut.”

“Well, congratulations,” he smirked. “You did it.”

And just like that, the tension level in the room lowered. Yes, Brad was still upset. The frown lines etched into his face hadn't cleared. The sadness in his eyes was still there, but the interaction with Ricki had brought him back to himself. His shoulders had eased a little, and his eyes, while still red and puffy, had noticeably dried.

That was the great thing about Ricki. She was brash and snarky—and a little more self-centered than anyone should be allowed to be—but when she was on her game, she was the world's best friend.

“Well, now that we're all here, what are we going to do?” Ricki asked. She waited a beat, but when we just looked at her with blank expressions, she barreled right on, her sparkling eyes mischievous as an idea took form. “I know! Makeover! Brad, I have the perfect color for your toes.”

“Not pink,” he groaned. “That last color you used wouldn't come off for weeks. The guys didn't let me hear the end of it.”

“No, not pink,” she agreed. “Something better.”

Brad put the bag down and let out a burp. Ricki and I shrieked out simultaneous
“Ew!”s
which made him grin even wider.

And, in that moment, I felt whole. I felt alive. So, how was it at all possible that I might be dying? It wasn't, right? I was fine, and when we went to see Drs. Bernstein and Shreve on Monday for that all important second opinion, they'd tell me the truth. Then, I'd be able to get on with my life.

S
EVEN

I'VE ALWAYS HATED DOCTORS' OFFICES
. Some would say it's a deep-seated fear, one that harkens back to my first brush with mortality and the consistency with which I traveled through the health care system. Doctor's visits, blood draws, CAT Scans and MRI's. The host of in-patient stays when my white blood cell count had dropped too drastically to survive without medical assistance. I'm sure all those occurrences helped fuel my fear of doctors and all that they stood for; but the sum of my experiences couldn't compare to what I'd witnessed while sitting in waiting rooms just like this one countless times in the past.

People went to the doctor to get better, to be whole again. But how many actually succeeded in that endeavor? The better question would be: how many didn't? How many of the people who surrounded me in this waiting room today would actually leave with a smile on their faces?

Only a few, if any at all. That's what I'd come to realize. And, that's why I'd always loathed coming in to visit any doctor, much less an oncologist. The odds were just too damned stacked, and not in my favor.

The door to the waiting room opened, and a nurse came out. She glanced down at her chart and scanned the room. “Gordon, Amelia?”

I pulled in a deep breath and rose. My parents jumped to their feet as well. I guess we would find out my fate soon enough.

We followed the nurse down a long corridor. The walls were a sickening, institution green, the floors a bright, spotless white. The
combination simultaneously roiled my stomach and hurt my eyes to the point of blindness. If they wanted me disoriented so that I didn't question whatever the doctor told me, be it good news or bad, they succeeded in their plans.

As the hallway veered to the left, the sterile hospital setting vanished. Lush carpeting the color or rich merlot replaced the white floors. Taupe wallpaper adorned with framed photographs and paintings took over where the stomach-churning green ended. The effect was, no doubt, meant to soothe. We were now in the inner sanctuary, the doctors' actual offices. My stomach roiled even more. Patients were only brought back here for particularly gruesome news.

We were shown into a large room with a long oval table in the center surrounded by several high-backed chairs. Conference room. I breathed a little easier, and hope shot through my limbs. The weight of dread lifted from my chest. If I was going to die, they'd want to talk to us in an office. Right?

I pulled out a chair and sat, flanked by Mom and Dad, a protective wall of support. We'd only waited a few moments when the door opened again. Drs. Shreve and Bernstein entered with brisk, no-nonsense steps. Dr. Shreve was blonde and petite, a woman I could easily see tooling around the neighborhood behind the wheel of a mini-van full of kids on the way to soccer practice, not the bearer of bad news that her chosen career demanded her to be. Dr. Bernstein, on the other hand, was exactly what I'd expect from a neurologist at the top of his field. Dark hair shot through with silver threads, clean shaven but with a slight shadow, and hard, analytical eyes. Cold and calculating. Exactly what you'd want in a surgeon, but not in the man who delivered the news of your health, whether good or bad.

Introductions were exchanged. Another five minutes of my life wasted as the doctors made small talk with my parents. Didn't they know that I had things to do? Things that had been put on hold because of Dr. Lambert's mistake. Why couldn't they just get to the point and tell me the truth? Tell me that I was fine, that there was no cancer at all? Why were they dragging this out?

“Well, Mia,” Dr. Shreve said. “I'm sure you're anxious to cut to the heart of the matter.”

That would be an understatement. I smiled, nodded. Dad slid his arm around me and squeezed gently.

“Dr. Bernstein and I have studied your file at length.” She flipped open a legal-sized manila folder nearly three inches thick. My medical history. Beside her, Dr. Bernstein pressed a button on the underside of the table and the white center I'd assumed was purely decorative glowed to life. Dr. Shreve laid two large squares of whisper-thin plastic over the lighted center.

It took me a moment to figure out what I was looking at, but when I did, a small gasp tumbled off my tongue.

“This,” Dr. Shreve tapped the film on the left, “is the MRI that Dr. Lambert ordered two weeks ago. And, this,” her fingers danced over to the one beside it, “is the film from the one we did this morning.”

Mom, Dad, and I leaned forward to compare the two.

“I'm not sure what I'm looking at here, Doc,” Dad said carefully.

I wanted to jump up and shout at him, point and yell that he did know what he was looking at. We all did. It was just that none of us wanted to believe it. None of us wanted it to be true.

The two MRI's were identical. In. Every. Single. Way.

My vision blurred. The two films grew fuzzy and melded together as Dr. Shreve spoke slow and soft. She pointed out all the little dots, shadows, and terrible truths that spelled out one thing and one thing only: I was going to die, and very soon. I started to shake my head, to deny that horrible fact, but I couldn't. I couldn't hide from it any longer.

Once again, Death had found me, and there would be no eluding it this time. There would be no reprieve.

*   *   *

We arrived home shortly after six. Ben was already gone to the hockey game with Adam and his brothers, and I was glad for having just missed him. How could I tell him that I wouldn't be around for his next birthday? I'd never see him enter high school and graduate.
I wouldn't teach him how to drive, or be there to give him advice when he had girl troubles. Who would he call for a ride home from some party he sneaked out to attend? Who would he turn to when Mom and Dad were too busy with work or when he just needed a shoulder to cry on and not a judge?

What about my friends? How was I going to face them, tell them that I wouldn't be there with them for our senior year? I couldn't face their tears, their pity. Ricki would try to pretend that everything was fine at first. She'd try to go on, business as usual, but eventually she'd crack. Just like she did the last time. Adam would be alright. I mean, we were friends and all, but we'd only started hanging out in the first place because of Kal. We'd only gotten close when he'd begun dating Ricki.

But Kal…oh God, Kal. This was going to kill him. All hope was gone now. I couldn't hide behind the sliver of doubt that I'd cast with the hope of misdiagnosis. Our worst nightmare was now reality. How could I break it to him? How could I make him suffer like that? What would he do when I was gone? Who would help him through life? Who would be his best friend, pick him up, dust him off, and cheer him on when he was down?

Not me because I was already dead. I just hadn't dropped yet.

“Don't tell anyone,” I told Mom and Dad after we walked in the front door and took off our coats. At their blank stares, I tossed my coat onto a hook and shook my head. “Not yet. I don't want anyone to know.”

“Mia, honey, you're sick,” Mom started. “We have to—”

“Not yet,” I repeated. Didn't they understand? Didn't they realize what would happen next? The minute people knew, it'd be so much worse. When you're sick—really sick, as in
dying
sick—the illness is all anyone ever sees. They don't see you. They see a disease. It didn't matter that I felt fine right then. It didn't matter that I didn't look sick. The minute anyone found out, I would cease to be a real live person. I'd just become a girl with cancer.
That poor girl
who will die soon, the one who will never have a full life, the one who—

“Mia,” Dad sighed. “You heard what Dr. Shreve said. There's not much—”

“I heard her!” I yelled, suddenly very angry with him, with Dr. Shreve, with Dr. Lambert, with Mom, with everyone. “I know how
much damned time I have left.
I
have left! Not you, not Mom, and certainly not Dr. Shreve.
Me!
And, I don't want anyone to know. Can't you just respect that? Is that really too much to ask? Hell, I'm
dying
, here. Can't you just do as I ask and not for once in your miserable lives question me?”

I didn't wait for them to respond. Just turned on my heel and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. In my room, I slammed the door, and then opened it and slammed it again for good measure. Rage still boiled within me, pushing me to new and higher peaks of anger. I lashed out, kicking the bed post, smashing my toes against the hardwood, reveling in the pain. I whirled around, seeking out my next target. The desk. Within moments, all my meticulously ordered books, pens, pencils, and even the laptop were strewn around the room, the desktop devoid of even a single paperclip. Next came the dresser, and then the closet, and then the bed.

I tore through the room, a massively destructive tornado that lay waste to the village of my life. When it was over, when I'd finally spun myself to the point to exhaustion, I collapsed on my bed—stripped bare of pillows and linens—and stared up at the ceiling.

And came to a decision.

I wasn't going to just sit back and wait for Death to come claim me. Thursday afternoon after the appointment with Dr. Lambert and the ensuing conversation with Kal swung back at me with the force of a concrete wrecking ball.
I'm not going to die today, and certainly not that way
. I'd only been reassuring him that I was fine, that everything was going to be okay, but there was so much more to those words than I'd known at the time I'd spoken them aloud.

I may have been diagnosed with brain cancer, inoperable and, thus, terminal. The doctors may have given me only months to live, but that didn't mean I was going to die of brain cancer.

No. If I had to die, then by God, I was going to do it my way. I said
when
. I said
where
. And, I was most definitely going to say
how
.

PART TWO: ANGER

E
IGHT

“I AM SO GLAD YOU'RE BACK,”
Ricki said after she'd flung open my bedroom door. She stopped short; her mouth dropped open as she took in the disaster area my room had become. “What happened in here?”

I poked my head out of the closet, looked around, and shrugged as casually as I could. “I'm cleaning…er…reorganizing,” I explained and held my breath while she digested my words.

She glanced around again. Her gaze paused briefly on the overturned laptop lying on the floor next to the dresser. I didn't even know if it'd still work after being flung across the room and hitting the wall. Really, I didn't care. Apparently convinced, she picked her way through the clutter and dropped down onto my bed. At least, I'd remade it before she arrived.

“So,” she began, her voice dripping with curiosity. “How was it?”

I stiffened but didn't turn around to face her. “How was what?” I asked innocently.

She groaned loudly. “Oh, come on, Mia. Why do I always have to drag everything out of you?”

My eyes slid closed in an effort to shield me from her questions. Why did she have to ask? Why couldn't she be her normal self-absorbed self? The one time I'd prefer that she monopolized the conversation with talk of her boyfriend, her grades, her family, her life, she wanted to know about me? Why?

“Mia, I'm not stupid,” she said. “I know you didn't go visit Kal's grandmother.”

Shit. Shit. Shit
. “You do?” My voice was nothing more than a terrified squeak.

She rolled her eyes, heaving out a dramatic sigh. “Of course, I do. You and Kal finally did it, didn't you? Went out on an actual date? I don't know why you felt like you needed to hide it from me. I mean, you two are like the perfect couple. Why it took you so long to realize it is beyond me.”

Laughter bubbled up to my lips as relief sailed through me. I turned my attention back to my closet, pulled out a bunch of sweaters I hadn't worn in months, and tossed them her way. “You want these?”

“No dodging, Mia. I need details!” She caught the clothes easily and considered them. “Hell yes, I'll take them! These are practically brand new. Why don't you want them?” She didn't wait for my response, but folded them up as small as she could and crammed them into her purse.