Five Feet Apart(40)
What could she be doing this late at night?
Is she still thinking about me?
I look up, watching as a gentle flurry of snow starts to fall, landing on my cheeks and my eyelids and my forehead.
I’ve been on the roof of dozens of hospitals through the years. I’ve looked down at the world below and experienced this same feeling at every single one. Longing to be walking through the streets or swimming in the ocean or living life in a way I’ve never really gotten the chance to.
Wanting something that I couldn’t have.
But now what I want isn’t outside. It’s right here, close enough to touch. But I can’t. I didn’t know it was possible to want something so bad you could feel it in your arms and your legs and in every breath you take.
My phone goes off and I look down to see a notification from her app, a tiny pill bottle emoji dancing away.
Bedtime meds!
I can’t even explain why I’m still doing it. But I take one more long look at her and stand, walking over to the stairwell door and grabbing my wallet before it slams shut. I climb slowly down the stairs and back to the third floor, making sure no one is in the hallway before sneaking back in and down to my room.
Going over to the med cart, I take my bedtime pills with chocolate pudding, just like she taught me. I stare at the drawing I did earlier of myself as the Grim Reaper, the blade of my scythe reading “LOVE.”
You still doing okay? Hope texts me.
Sighing, I pull off my hoodie and send a text back, fudging the truth a bit. Yeah, I’m fine.
I set up my G-tube feeding and get into bed. I grab my laptop off my bedside table and open YouTube, clicking solemnly on a suggested video of Stella’s that I’ve already seen, because I am just that pathetic right now.
Hope and Jason would not even recognize me.
Hitting mute, I watch the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, and the way she throws her head back when she laughs, and the way she crosses her arms in front of her chest when she’s nervous or upset. I watch the way she looks at Abby, and her parents, even the way she jokes around with her friends—but, most of all, I watch the way that people love her. I see it in more than just her family. I see it in Barb’s eyes, and Poe’s eyes, and Julie’s eyes. I see it in every doctor and every nurse and every person who comes into her path.
Hell, even the comments aren’t the garbage fire most YouTube videos get.
Soon I can’t watch anymore. I close my laptop and shut off my light, and lie there in the darkness, feeling every heartbeat in my chest, loud and resolute.
*
The next day I stare out the window, watching the afternoon winter sun slowly near the horizon as the steady vibrating of my AffloVest thrums away at my chest. I check my phone, surprised to see a text from my mom, checking in with me, instead of my doctors, for the first time since her visit almost two weeks ago: Heard you’ve been doing your treatments. Glad to see you’ve come around.
Rolling my eyes, I toss my phone onto my bed, coughing a wad of mucus into the bedpan I’m holding. I glance over at my door as an envelope slides underneath it, my name written on the front of it.
I know I shouldn’t be excited, but I unhook the AffloVest anyway, jumping up to grab it off the floor. Ripping the envelope open, I pull out a carefully folded piece of paper, opening it all the way up to reveal a cartoon drawing done entirely in crayon.
A tall boy with wavy hair is facing a short girl, black crayon labeling them as Will and Stella. I smile as I notice the tiny pink hearts floating above their heads, chuckling at the giant arrow in between reading “FIVE FEET AT ALL TIMES” in big, bright-red letters.
She clearly didn’t inherit the same art skills as Abby, but it’s cute. What exactly is she trying to say? And five feet? It’s six and she knows it.
My laptop dings behind me, and I race over to it, swiping my fingers across my trackpad to see a new text. From Stella.
There’s nothing there except a link to a YouTube video. When I click on it, it takes me to Stella’s newest video, posted exactly three minutes ago.
“B. cepacia—A Hypothetical.”
I smile warily at the title, watching as Stella waves to the camera, her hair in the messy bun I saw last night from the roof, a pile of items carefully laid out on her bed in front of her.
“Hi, everyone! So, there’s something a little different I want to talk to you about today. Burkholderia cepacia. The risks, the restrictions, the rules of engagement, and how to successfully say it ten times fast! I mean, come on, that is quite a name.”
I watch, confused. “All right, so, B. cepacia is a hardy bacterium. It’s so adaptive that it actually feeds on penicillin instead of being attacked by it. So our first line of defense is . . .” She pauses, reaching down to pick up a pocket-size bottle of liquid and holding it up to the camera. “Cal Stat! This is not your average Purell. This is a hospital-grade hand sanitizer. Apply liberally and often!”
She snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves, wiggling her fingers to get them comfortably onto her hands. “Next up is good old-fashioned latex gloves. Tried and true, and used for protection in”—she looks down, clearing her throat and examining the pile of items on her bed—“all kinds of activities.”
All kinds of activities? I shake my head, a smile creeping onto my face. What is she doing?
Next, I watch as she pulls out a handful of surgical face masks, hanging one around her neck. “B. cepacia thrives best in saliva or phlegm. A cough can travel six feet. A sneeze can travel up to two hundred miles per hour, so don’t let one fly in mixed company.”