Love Me Broken (41 page)

My mom goes all out with the Christmas decorations. She doesn’t say it, but we all know it’s because she thinks this holiday season might be my last.

We get a tree, a real one, and I sit in a chair while my mother insists I join in the only way I can: by pointing to where I think the ornaments should go. I can’t hop up and down anymore. I don’t have the energy.

After four months of radiation and chemo, most of the cancer cells are gone, but there is a new dark cluster on my lymph nodes. The doctor points to it on the x-rays and tells me this is what worries him.

No shit. It worries me too.

Another surgery is scheduled for the week before Christmas. Meanwhile, I putter around with the bike, barely able to last an hour outside anymore. Some days I just flip through books about motorcycles. Erica’s checked me out a whole stack of them from the library. It’s not the same though. It only reminds me what I can’t do.

My mom bakes cookies: gingerbread men, sugar cookies shaped like candy canes and snowmen, white chocolate macadamia nut. They smell good, but I can’t keep them down. I eat mostly rice and chicken cut into cubes. I’m always thirsty though.

My bones and joints ache. I feel like an old man.

I don’t complain though. I remember how my father gasped and shuddered. I don’t want their last memories of me to be like that. I want to give Erica one last Christmas. I want to give her at least that.

Then I don’t know. I’m not sure how much longer I can last.

My Christmas gift to Adam is a perfect report card. His mom, as per his request, gets him an assortment of beanies and hats.

Of course, the rest of the holiday doesn’t go according to plan. We were hoping to have Adam home for Christmas, but his recovery is slower than expected, and the doctors say he’ll be in the hospital until shortly after the New Year. At this point, we’re just happy to have Adam alive, wherever he is. I think he is a bit disappointed though. He’ll be missing two holidays this way.

On New Year’s Eve, I receive an unexpected phone call. I am just getting into the car, heading home from the hospital after a visit with Adam, when my phone vibrates. I look down at it, expecting Rachel to be asking me to pick up milk or something on the way home. But the Caller ID says something different.

I almost press the button that sends it to voicemail. Then I reconsider, and answer.

“Hello.”

There’s a half-beat of silence, then Nicole says, “Hi, Erica.” She sounds nervous. “Is this a good time?”

I take the keys out of the ignition. “Sure.”

“Um, well, I meant to call earlier, but so much time went by, and I didn’t know if you even wanted to hear from me, and—not that I’d blame you, with everything I said and all that you’ve got going on.”

I’m silent, waiting for her to get out what she’s trying to say.

“I just want to say that I’m sorry. I was a bad friend. I didn’t know what was going on, or how serious you were about Adam. I take back every stupid thing I said.”

I blink. Such open apologies are rare. “Uh, thanks.” Then I think about it, and add, “I’m sorry too.”

“Oh I’m so happy you said that!” she says, and giggles a little. “Because if you were still mad, I would have been totally screwed.”

Now I’m confused. “Nicole?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise, but I was really worried you’d still hate me. Actually, it was supposed to be a
Christmas
surprise, but that turned out to be too expensive.”

“Nicole,” I say firmly, “what’s going on?”

“Well, like I said I would have called earlier, but—I traded in my plane ticket. The one you got me, so that I can visit you. I traded it for one to San Diego.”

“You’re coming here?” Whatever awkwardness there was inside me is quickly dissolving. I’m so desperate for a friend here that the idea of seeing Nicole again almost makes me want to cry.

“No. Not exactly. I’m kind of already here.”

I laugh. “What?”

“Yeah, I’m at the airport, but I don’t, like, know where to go. I thought about asking for your address from your parents. Make it seem like I wanted to send you a card, you know? But I was afraid they’d tell you.”

I shake my head. Oh Nicole. So impulsive and irresponsible. “Well,” I say, looking down at the keys in my hand, “I’d really like to see you. How long are you in town?”

“Until tomorrow. Or longer. Whenever. The tickets are easy to change.”

I nod, taking this in. I’m starting to get really excited to see Nicole again. “Do you have money for a cab? It might be easier than for me to come across town to pick you up. I’m not—I’m a good driver now, but I don’t really feel comfortable on the freeway yet.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Great. There’s a coffee shop right by the hospital. I’ll text you the address and meet you there.”

And with that, we end the conversation. As soon as we disconnect, I call Adam. I can’t wait to tell him the good news.

* * *

Being closer, I beat Nicole to the coffee shop. I’ve got so much to think about that it seems like no time before she arrives. She gets out of her cab wearing a flashy new outfit: a wide-brimmed white hat, dark sunglasses, and a beige trench coat with the collar turned up. She looks like a celebrity trying to avoid notice from the paparazzi. On the crook of her left arm she has a few shopping bags, and with her right hand she pulls along a wheeled suitcase.

A little old man exits at the same time she enters, and he holds the door open for her. She gives him a small nod, like she’s used to having doors opened for her by staff. I try not to laugh.

Nicole has never flown on a plane before. To her, it must seem like an extreme extravagance.

She catches eyes with me and gives an overexcited scream, throwing her hands up and waving them until she gets close enough to throw them around me in a hug. I don’t scream myself—I just don’t have the energy for it anymore—but I do give her a hug back. A real one.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she says. Then she glances to a table, and we both sit down.

“You look fancy,” I say.

She gives a coy grin. “This was actually my arriving in New York outfit. Samantha wore something similar in Season Two.”

I roll my eyes. “I should have known.”

Then she looks at me, taking me in, and her smile drops. “Oh, Erica. You look exhausted.”

I give a weak smile back. “I feel exhausted. These last few months have been... rough.”

She takes my hand from across the table. “I want to hear all about it. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

We order drinks first, so as not to be taking up a table for free. Nicole is ever mindful of coffee shop etiquette. Then I tell Nicole the basics: that I’ve been staying with Rachel and taking classes, and that Adam has had just about every kind of treatment and is currently recovering in the hospital.

“On New Year’s?” she asks, as if that’s the worst part of it.

“Christmas too,” I say, and she waves it off. She’s never been into Christmas. She doesn’t like holidays where you don’t get to go out and dress up.

“We should have a little party for him,” she suggests. When I start to object, she holds up a hand. “I mean, just us. Maybe turn the TV to the ball drop in Times Square. We should do
something
.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Something normal, I mean. He’s been through so much. And the last thing any sick person wants is to be treated like a sick person. He’s
eighteen
, for crying out loud. Let’s do what he’d do normally.”

I’m surprised that I agree with her. “I think we can do that. He can’t stay up late, usually, with his pain meds. But it’s midnight in New York three hours before here. We could just do it at nine.”

“Or tape it, even,” she says. “And celebrate tomorrow.”

I nod. This is why I like Nicole: she brings such energy to every place that she goes. It’s impossible to be upset around her. Already my thoughts are lighter, my attitude better.

“So,” I say, grinning, “have you been seeing anyone lately?”

She smiles. “You’re going to think this is bad,” she starts, and then goes on to tell me how she’s dating not one, not two, but
three
guys simultaneously.

Oh, Nicole. How I’ve missed you.

* * *

The New Year’s party winds up being the highlight of an otherwise bleak winter. Adam is too tired for the midnight celebration, as Nicole anticipated, so we celebrate the next morning: Adam, Nicole, Rachel, and me. Nicole and I buy cheap party hats and confetti and noisemakers. Nicole originally wanted a cake too, but I had to explain that Adam’s stomach is too sensitive for cake right now.

The only downbeat moment of her visit is when she tells me that she heard Watson’s is closing. The owner, Watson, was finally moving to Florida and leaving the shop behind. I tell her not to mention it to Adam. Then I send a text to Levi, telling him that I’d heard and that I was sorry. And to please not mention it to Adam. He’s already got so much disappointment. He can deal with Watson’s when he’s stronger.

After Nicole leaves, Adam starts chemo again, and things return to the way they were before. Except that Adam is growing even worse. He returns home finally, and we sleep in the same bed again. He says he’d rather chance me rolling over on him than miss the time we could have together.

But I wake up in the night hearing him crying next to me, trying to be quiet, trying to hide it. He’s in so much pain that I begin to feel selfish for keeping him alive. But the thought of losing him is too much for me to deal with. He spends the nights next to me, sweating and shivering and suffering. He’s so thin that I can feel the nubs of his spine when he lies next to me in bed. His face is hollow, his cheekbones prominent and his eyes like empty sockets. He barely eats. Everything makes him sick. By the end of January, the only thing we buy for him anymore is tapioca pudding.

He doesn’t complain.

It’s March. We’re back at the hospital. Rachel is with us and the air is tense and nervous. We are in the oncologist’s office, waiting for word on the last round of CT scans and MRIs and x-rays and blood work. I am almost too afraid to be hopeful.

Adam is wearing long sleeves, even though it’s nearly 80 degrees outside. A knitted cap is pulled down over his ears. He’s always cold now. Even with his oxygen tube, he has trouble breathing. He walks slower, delicately, like an old man. There’s been talk of a wheelchair.