Five Feet Apart(59)

“Staring at the wall can get a bit boring after a while,” she says, handing everything off to me.

I laugh. Ain’t that the truth.

“Any news?” I ask her, desperate to know how the surgery is going. But, more important, the results of the culture. I need to know I didn’t give Stella B. cepacia. That those lungs will give her the time she wants.

Barb shakes her head. “Nothing yet.” She glances over at the OR doors, taking a deep breath. “I’ll tell you the second I hear something.”

I open to the first blank page in my sketchbook and start to draw, the memories coming to life again in front of my eyes. Slowly, noon comes, the door busting open as Stella’s parents come back, Camila and Mya trailing a few feet behind, cafeteria food containers piled high in everyone’s hands.

“Will!” Mya says, running over to give me a one-arm hug, careful not to drop her food. I try not to wince, my body still weak from last night.

“We didn’t know what you’d want, so we brought you a sandwich,” Camila says as they all sit down in the chairs next to me, Stella’s mom opening her purse to pull out a plastic-wrapped hoagie.

I smile gratefully, my stomach growling its appreciation. “Thank you.”

Looking up from my drawing, I watch all of them as they eat, talking about what Stella will do now, their words overflowing with love for her. She’s the glue that holds them all together. Her parents. Camila and Mya. Every single one of them needs her.

I pull my eyes away and draw, each page filled with another picture of our story.

The hours swim together—Camila and Mya leaving, Barb and Julie coming and going—but I keep drawing, wanting every little detail to be remembered forever. I look over at her parents, her mom fast asleep on her dad’s chest, his arms wrapped protectively around her as his eyes slowly close.

I smile to myself. Seems like Stella isn’t the only one to get a second chance today.

The OR doors swing open, and Dr. Hamid comes through with a small entourage of surgeons.

My eyes widen and I reach out, nudging her parents awake, and we all stand, studying their faces anxiously. Did she make it? Is she okay?

Dr. Hamid pulls down her surgical mask, smiling, and the three of us sigh with relief.

“Looks great,” one of the surgeons says.

“Oh, thank god!” Stella’s mom pulls her dad into a tight hug. I laugh with them, all of us elated. Stella made it.

Stella has new lungs.

? ? ?

I plunk down on my bed, absolutely worn out but happier than I’ve ever been. Looking up, I meet my mom’s gaze as she sits in a chair next to my bed.

“Are you warm enough?” she asks me for the millionth time since she got back to the hospital. I look down at my two layers of sweatpants and three layers of shirts I put on to appease her, a smile creeping onto my face.

“I’m practically sweating at this point.” I tug at the neck of my hoodie.

There’s a knock and Barb peers around the door, meeting my eyes as she holds up a sheet full of test results. I’m paralyzed; her eyes aren’t giving away anything of what I’m about to hear.

She pauses, leaning against the door as she scans the paper. “The bacterial cultures will take a few days to grow, and there’s still a chance it will grow in her sputum. But as of now . . .” She smiles at me, shaking her head. “She’s clean. She didn’t get it. I don’t know how in the hell, but she didn’t.”

Oh my god.

As of now, she’s B. cepacia free.

As of now, that’s enough.

“What about Will?” my mom asks from behind me. “The Cevaflomalin?”

I meet Barb’s gaze, a look of understanding passing between us. She swallows, glancing back down at the papers in her hand, the results of a test I already know the answer to.

“It’s not working for me, is it?” I ask.

She lets out a long sigh and shakes her head. “No. It’s not.”

Aw, shit.

I try not to look at my mom, but I can feel the distress on her face. The sadness. I reach out and take her hand, squeezing it gently. For the first time, I think I’m actually as disappointed as she is.

I look up at Barb remorsefully. “I’m so sorry for all of this.”

She shakes her head and sighs. “No, sweetie . . .” She trails off, shrugging and smiling faintly at me. “Love is love.”

Barb leaves and I hold my mom’s hand while she cries, knowing she did all she could do. It’s no one’s fault.

She eventually falls asleep, and I sit in a chair by the window, watching as the sun slowly sets on the horizon. The lights at the park that Stella never got to see switching on as another day ends.

*

I wake up in the middle of the night, restless. Sliding into my shoes, I sneak out of my room, heading down to the first floor, to the recovery room where Stella sleeps. I watch her from the open door, her small body hooked up to large machines that do the job of breathing for her.

She made it.

I inhale, letting the air fill my lungs the best it can, the discomfort tugging at my chest, but I also feel relief.

Relief that Stella gets to wake up a few hours from now and have at least five more wonderful years, filled with whatever her to-do list has on it. And maybe, if she’s feeling fearless, a few things not on there, like going to see some holiday lights at one a.m.