Five Feet Apart(30)

The second was my first of many drawings, the tornado of stars. The first piece of “wallpaper” I’d collect from her.

And while my parents talked to Barb about the state-of-the-art facility, Abby ran off and found me the final gift of that day.

The best I’d ever receive in all my years at Saint Grace’s.

“It’s impressive, for sure,” my mom said, while I watched Abby trot away down the brightly colored hallway of the children’s ward, disappearing around a corner.

“Stella’s going to be right at home here!” Barb said, giving me a warm smile. I remember clutching Patches, trying to find the courage to smile back at her.

Abby rounded the corner, nearly running smack into a nurse as she sprinted back over to us, a very small, very thin, brown-haired boy wearing an oversize Colombian national team jersey trailing behind her.

“Look! There are other kids here!”

I waved at the boy before Barb stepped in between us, colorful scrubs putting up a wall between the two of us.

“Poe, you know better,” she said, scolding the small boy as Abby took my hand in hers.

But Abby had already set it in motion. Even from six feet away Poe became my best friend. Which is why he’s the only person to talk me through this.

I pace back and forth, the lounge a blur in front of me. I try to focus on the fish tank or the TV or the refrigerator humming in the corner, but I’m still livid over my fight with Will.

“You knew he had boundary issues,” Poe says from behind me, watching me intently from the edge of the love seat. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he meant to hurt you.”

I spin around to face him, clutching at the counter of the kitchenette. “When he said ‘Abby’ and ‘dead,’?”—my voice cracks, and I dig my fingers into the cool marble of the counter—“like it was no big deal, I just . . .”

Poe shakes his head, his eyes sad.

“I should have been with her, Poe,” I choke out, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. She was always there. To stand by me when I needed her. And I wasn’t there when she needed me most.

“Don’t. Not again. It’s not your fault. She’d tell you it’s not your fault.”

“Was she in pain? What if she was scared?” I gasp, the air catching in my chest. I keep seeing my sister plummeting down, like she did in the GoPro video and a million times before, bungee jumping and cliff diving with reckless abandon.

Only, this time there’s no wild whoop of joy and excitement. She hits the water and doesn’t resurface.

She wasn’t supposed to die.

She was supposed to be the one to live.

“Hey! Stop. Look at me.”

I stare at him, tears pouring from my eyes.

“You have to stop,” he says, his fingers clutching the armrest of the couch, his knuckles turning white. “You can’t know. You just . . . can’t. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”

I take a deep breath, shaking my head. He stands up, stepping toward me and groaning in frustration. “This disease is a fucking prison! I want to hug you.”

I sniff, nodding in agreement.

“Pretend I did, okay?” he says. I see he’s blinking back tears too. “And know that I love you. More than food! More than the Colombian national team!”

I crack a smile, nodding. “I love you, too, Poe.” He pretends to blow me a kiss, without actually breathing my way.

I slump down onto the mint-green love seat sitting vacant across from Poe’s, immediately gasping in pain as my vision doubles. I sit bolt upright and clutch at my side, my G-tube burning like absolute fire.

Poe’s face turns white. “Stella! Is everything okay?”

“My G-tube,” I say, the pain subsiding. I sit up, shaking my head and gasping for breath. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

I take a deep breath and lift my shirt and see that the infection has only gotten way worse, the skin red and puffy, the G-tube and the area around it oozing. My eyes widen in surprise. It’s only been eight days here. How have I not noticed how bad it’s gotten?

Poe winces, shaking his head. “Let’s get you back to your room. Now.”

*

Fifteen minutes later Dr. Hamid gently touches the infected skin around my G-tube, and I grimace as pain radiates across my stomach and chest. She takes her hand away, shaking her head as she pulls her gloves off and carefully puts them in a trash can by the door.

“We need to take care of this. It’s too far gone. We have to excoriate the skin and replace your G-tube to purge the infection.”

I immediately feel woozy, my insides turning cold. It’s the words I’ve been afraid of since it first started looking infected. I put my shirt back down, trying not to let the fabric rub against the area.

“But—”

She cuts me off. “No buts. It has to be done. We are risking sepsis here. If this gets any worse, the infection can get into your bloodstream.”

We’re both silent, knowing how big the risk is here. If I get sepsis, I’ll definitely die. But if I get put under for surgery, my lungs might not be strong enough to pull me through to the other side.

She sits down next to me, bumping my shoulder and smiling at me. “It’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, swallowing nervously.