Five Feet Apart(33)

CHAPTER 13


STELLA


I hold Patches close to my chest and look from my mom to my dad as they sit on either side of me. Both of them shoot me thin-lipped smiles that don’t reach their eyes as they avoid each other’s gazes. I look over at the picture of all of us pinned to the back of my door, wishing I could have those parents back, the ones who always told me everything would be okay.

Taking a deep breath, I suppress a cough, while my dad tries to make some small talk.

He holds up the pink calendar they sent around to all the rooms with the daily specials down at the cafeteria. “I think there’s gonna be cream of broccoli soup tonight for dinner. Your favorite, Stell!”

“She probably won’t be up for eating right after surgery, Tom,” my mom snaps at him, his face falling at her words.

I try to sound enthusiastic. “If I’m up for it tonight, I’ll definitely get some!”

There’s a knock on the door and an orderly walks in, wearing a surgical cap and a pair of blue latex gloves. My parents both stand up, my dad reaching out to take my hand.

It takes everything in me to steady it.

“See you in a few, honey,” my mom says as both of them give me big hugs, which linger a little too long. I wince as my G-tube rubs up against them, but I hold on tight, not wanting them to let go.

The orderly pulls up the railings on the sides of my gurney, locking them in place with a click. I stare at Abby’s drawing as they roll me out, the healthy lungs calling to me. I wish more than anything she were here with me now, holding my hand, singing the song.

The orderly rolls me down the hallway, my parents’ faces fading as they get farther and farther away, and we get into the elevator at the end of the hall. As the doors slide shut, the orderly smiles at me. I try to smile back, but my mouth refuses to make the shape. I clutch at the sheets, my fingers interlacing with the fabric.

The door dings open, the familiar hallways whizz by, everything seeming too bright, too whitewashed to make out specifics.

We go through the heavy double doors into the pre-op area, and then into a room slightly down the hallway. The orderly pushes the gurney into place. “Need anything before I head out?” he asks.

I shake my head, trying to take a deep breath as he leaves, the room becoming completely silent except for the steady beeping of my monitors.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to push away the growing panic eating away at my insides. I did everything right. I was careful and put on the Fucidin, I took my medication at the scheduled times, and I’m still lying here about to go into surgery anyway.

All of my obsessing over my regimen for nothing.

I think I get it now. Why Will would go onto the roof. I’d do anything to get up from the gurney and run far, far away. To Cabo. To Vatican City to see the Sistine Chapel. To all the things I have avoided out of fear of getting sicker, only to find myself lying here anyway, about to go into another surgery I might not come out of.

My fingers wrap around the railings clicked into place on either side of me, my knuckles turning white as I tighten my grip on them, willing myself to be a fighter like Dr. Hamid said yesterday. If I want to do those things, I need more time. I have to fight for it.

The door slowly opens, and a tall, thin person ducks inside. He’s wearing the same green surgeon scrubs, face mask, and blue gloves that the pre-op nurses wear, but his wavy brown hair is peeking out from under a clear surgical cap.

His eyes find mine and I let go of the railings in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, watching as Will sits down in a chair beside me, scooting it back to make sure he’s a safe distance away.

“It’s your first surgery without Abby,” he says in explanation, a new expression I don’t quite recognize filling his blue eyes. It’s not mocking or jokey, it’s totally and completely open. Almost earnest.

I swallow hard, trying to stop the emotions that come bubbling up, tears clouding my eyes. “How did you know that?”

“I’ve seen all your movies,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles at me. “You might say I’m a fan.”

All of them? Even that embarrassing one from when I was twelve?

“I might mess this up,” he says, clearing his throat as he pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket.

He starts to sing, softly.

“I love you, a bushel and a peck—”

“Go away. I’m being stupid,” I blubber as I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand, shaking my head.

“A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.”

Abby’s song. He’s singing Abby’s song. The tears start rolling down my face faster than I can catch them as I watch his deep-blue eyes, focused on reading every lyric off that crumpled piece of paper.

I feel like my heart might burst, I’m feeling so many things at once. “My gran used to sing us that song. I never loved it, but Abby did.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I had to Google it. Man, it is old.”

I laugh with him, nodding. “I know. What the hell is a—”

“Barrel and a heap?” we say at the same time, the both of us laughing, his eyes meeting mine and making my heart dance inside my chest, the heart monitor just next to him beeping faster and faster. He leans forward, ever so slightly, just barely in the danger zone, but enough to push away the pain of the G-tube.