Connecticut
Winter, Sophomore Year
I stayed completely silent on the way home from the hospital that night.
My mother glanced at me in the rearview mirror, her face pinched with concern. “Kelsey? Are you all right? You’re so quiet back there.”
“Fine, Mom.” I wondered if she heard the utter lack of conviction in my voice. “Tired. I want to go to bed.”
“I’m sure you’ll feel much better tomorrow.” Her words were too cheerful, and I knew she sensed my complete and total despair. “David can come over for dinner, and tell us all about the dance. That was so nice of him to come by, wasn’t it?”
“Mm-hm.” Sure. It was great of him to come by and flaunt his girlfriend in front of my face. The thought of glamorous, gorgeous Isabel with her fabulous figure and flowing hair squeezed my chest like a vise. She and David were probably having a grand old time on the dance floor right now, pathetic girls in hospital beds the furthest thing from their minds as they laughed and took pictures with people I used to call my friends. Holding back my tears took phenomenal effort.
I left my bloodstained shoes in the garage when we got home. I hadn’t wanted to put my torn-up, bloodied pants back on, so I’d been given a pair of scrubs to wear home. I threw them in the garbage when I changed into my pajamas, not wanting any reminder of that hospital or this night.
My mother tucked me in like I was five years old again. I was exhausted and I knew she was too, but I needed her to be more exhausted than me. There was so much I had to find out, and I didn’t want anyone hovering.
Once she turned out my light and closed the door, I grabbed my cell phone, a dinosaur talk-and-text-only model that was all my parents could spring for on their limited income. I knew David was still at the dance, but I also knew he wanted me to check in with him. Besides, texting would keep me awake until I could go downstairs to use the computer.
I typed in, I’m home. Got a fill-up on blood (so gross). How’s the dance? Then I waited for his response.
And waited some more. Oh, and then waited even more than that.
I hit the button on my phone in frustration, wondering if he’d written back and the chime had failed to sound. Nope. Not a single new message.
Guess he wasn’t that worried about me after all.
I didn’t know why, but I felt like I needed to hear from David before I did what I’d been dreading and faced a search engine. Obviously, it wasn’t going to happen that way.
I tiptoed down to the study and closed the door. When the site loaded, I typed in the words that had been burning a hole in my brain all night. I’d hoped to come down there and find reasons why something scary like leukemia couldn’t possibly be my diagnosis, but the more I clicked, the more it felt like pure dread flowed through my veins instead of donor blood.
The symptoms fit. The bloody nose, the effortless bruising, the excessive blood loss during my period. The fatigue.
Fantastic.
I checked my phone again. Still nothing.
Now I had to confirm the thing that scared me the most: the treatment.
I searched desperately for the site that would tell me a blood transfusion meant the end of my worries, that I’d been cured tonight without even knowing it. But the goddamn Internet refused to humor me. The sites all seemed to agree that while transfusions could treat the symptoms, the best way to completely eliminate the disease was through chemotherapy and radiation.
I checked my phone again. God, David, where the hell are you?
Sitting in that chair with my infuriatingly silent cell phone, and with the computer screen and all its horrors as the only source of light, I’d never felt so scared or alone in all my life. I rested my head on my knees and tried to control the tremors racking my frame, but nothing helped. My brain seemed to take its cue from my body, flashing dozens of erratic images behind my eyes.
I saw myself cheering David on at his baseball games, and the way he’d sneak me a sly wink before he wound up for a fastball. I thought about the sunlight catching Miranda’s hair as she ran through the field near David’s house, picking dandelions. Miranda, being poked and prodded as a potential match for bone marrow donation. I remembered the way she’d brushed my hair tonight, and suddenly I imagined it transforming into dry, strawlike strands before detaching from my scalp in clumps. I wondered what Isabel and her friends would do to me then.
Then, for the first time since that afternoon on the Cliff Walk, I thought about kissing David. I’d pulled back because I hadn’t been ready to wander into messier territory. The last time I’d let a friend kiss me, our relationship had unraveled right after. Whether it was a direct result of the kiss or not didn’t matter. It happened, and I didn’t want to risk leaving the safe, comfortable place David and I were in.
Did I want that now? Did it even matter, if David had already moved on?
I tried to imagine that day on the boulders with a different ending—one where I didn’t pull away. It shocked me to realize I could. And that my whole body came alive when I did, only to go numb as I remembered the way David had lowered his voice in front of Isabel at the hospital. I thought he’d done it to keep our conversation private. But what if he’d only been trying to make it look like he didn’t care in front of her? And worse, what if he didn’t? Maybe he’d only gone to the hospital out of some sense of obligation. Maybe he’d started to see me as a joke, just like everyone else.
I didn’t know what I would do if it were true. I couldn’t face this without him.
I looked at my phone again. Not a single message.
I walked into our lower-level bathroom on wobbling legs. If I hadn’t been shaken to the core already, my reflection in the vanity mirror would have frightened me. Pale skin, bruiselike circles beneath my eyes, matted hair. I gathered the brittle strands in my hands, wishing it hadn’t taken the thought of losing them to make me want to pay more attention. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to let my hair down more often, to wear it like a crown jewel the way Isabel did. I promised myself that if I got through this, I’d do exactly that.
That’s when the worst thought of all hit me. What if I went through treatment and it didn’t work? What if I was going to die?
A choked sob escaped my throat, and I clamped my hand over my mouth. In the mirror, the hospital bracelet still circling my wrist taunted me. I’d never felt so disgusted by anything in my life.
I yanked the medicine cabinet open and located the scissors my dad used to trim his beard. Then I sliced the godforsaken piece of plastic off with a vengeance. A little too much vengeance, because the sharp tip of the scissors pierced the skin beneath my palm. My heart leaped into my throat as a drop of blood swelled at the site.
Shit, not again!
I grabbed the hand towel off its holder and held it as hard as I could against the cut. At the same time, I sank to the bathroom floor and sobbed my fear and frustration into the other side of the towel.
I cried until I was too exhausted to move. Upstairs, my family slept, quietly unaware. And somewhere out there, wherever he was, my best friend was too busy to care.