Five Feet Apart(46)

I hide the milk shake and note behind my back, slapping on a big smile. “Morning, Barb!”

She looks up from a patient chart, eyeing me suspiciously. “It’s afternoon.”

I nod, slowly stepping back inside. “Sure, right. Afternoon.” I gesture with my free hand. “All this snow, you know, makes it hard to tell . . . what time of day it is.”

I roll my eyes, closing the door before I can say anything more ridiculous.

We lie low for the rest of the day so we don’t make Barb more suspicious of us. We don’t even risk Skyping or texting. I make a big show of reorganizing my med cart, secretly slipping notes under Will’s door every time I’m in the hallway to get more supplies.

Will heads to the vending machine about a dozen times, his replies coming with every new bag of chips or candy bar.

“When is date number two?” he writes, and I smile, glancing to my notebook at what I’ve actually spent my day working on.

My plan for his birthday tomorrow.





CHAPTER 20


WILL


I watch my mother sleepily from the edge of my bed as she argues back and forth with Dr. Hamid. As if screaming about it will somehow help change the results of my stats. There’s been no change from the Cevaflomalin.

Not exactly the best birthday present.

“Maybe there’s an adverse drug interaction. Something keeping the new drug from working as it should?” she fires back, her eyes practically frantic.

Dr. Hamid takes a deep breath, shaking her head. “The bacteria in Will’s lungs are deeply colonized. Antibiotic penetration into lung tissue requires time for any drug.” She points at my daily IV of Cevaflomalin. “This drug is no different.”

My mom takes a deep breath, gripping the edge of my bed. “But if it’s not effective—”

Not again. I’m not leaving again. I stand up, cutting her off. “Enough! It’s over, Mom. I’m eighteen now, remember? I’m not going to any more hospitals.”

She spins around to look at me, and I can tell she’s ready for this moment, her eyes filled with anger. “Sorry I’m ruining your fun by trying to keep you alive, Will! Worst mother of the year, right?”

Dr. Hamid slowly backs toward the door, knowing this is her cue to leave. My eyes flick back to my mother, and I glare at her. “You know I’m a lost cause, don’t you? You’re only making it worse. No treatment is going to save me.”

“Fine!” she fires back. “Let’s stop the treatments. Stop spending the money. Stop trying. Then what, Will?” She stares at me, exasperated. “You lie down on a tropical beach and let the tide take you? Something stupid and poetic?”

She puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “Sorry, but I don’t live in a fairy tale. I live in the real world, where people solve their . . .”

Her voice trails off, and I take a step forward, raising my eyebrows, daring her to say it. “Problems. Go ahead, Mom. Say it.”

It’s the word that sums up what I’ve always been to her.

She exhales slowly, her eyes softening for the first time in a long time. “You are not a problem, Will. You are my son.”

“Then be my mom!” I shout, my vision going red. “When was the last time you were that, huh?”

“Will,” she says, taking a step closer to me. “I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to—”

“Do you even know me at all? Have you looked at a single one of my drawings? Did you know there’s a girl I like? I’ll bet you didn’t.” I shake my head, the rage pouring out of me. “How could you? All you see of me is my fucking disease!”

I point at all the art books and magazines stacked on my desk. “Who is my favorite artist, Mom? You have no idea, do you? You want a problem to fix? Fix how you look at me.”

We stare at each other. She swallows, collecting herself and reaching over to take her purse from off the bed, her voice soft and steady. “I see you just fine, Will.”

She leaves, closing the door quietly behind her. Of course she left. I sit down on my bed, frustrated, and look over to see an elaborately wrapped gift, a big red ribbon carefully tied around it. I almost throw it out, but instead I grab it, ready to see just what she could possibly think I’d want. I rip off the ribbon and the wrapping paper to reveal a frame.

I can’t understand what I’m seeing. Not because I don’t recognize it. Because I do.

It’s a political cartoon strip from the 1940s. An original of the photocopy I have hung up in my room.

Signed and dated and everything. So rare, I didn’t even think any still existed.

Shit.

I lie back on my bed, grabbing my pillow and putting it over my face, the frustration I was feeling toward her transferring to myself.

I resented so much the way she was always looking at me that I didn’t realize I was doing the exact same thing.

Do I know where she’s off to now? Do I know what she likes to do? I’ve been so focused on how I want to live my own life, I’ve entirely forgotten she has one.

It’s me.

Without me, my mom is all alone. All this time I thought she only saw my disease. A problem you fix. But, instead, she was looking right at me, trying to get me to fight against it alongside her, when all I did was fight her tooth and nail. All she wanted was for me to stay and fight, when all I kept doing was getting ready to leave.