Hope and Other Punch Lines(56)

My first thought when I wake up, after I’m not dead, is I bled all over Noah. I’m not proud that this is where my brain goes first instead of the much more logical and empathetic My parents must be devastated. Maybe my grandma is right about my narcissism.

I have a tube in my nose and an IV hooked up to my arm. I’m wearing a hospital gown, though I have no recollection of changing clothes. I do remember being rolled from room to room. X-rays, a CT scan. Not sure when I fell asleep. I assume they medicated me, that perhaps there are some good drugs dripping into my veins right at this moment.

My mother stands next to my bed, staring at me intently, and I get the distinct impression she’s been in this position for a while. Possibly hours.

“Abbi? Oh, honey.” My mother’s clenched face softens and releases. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know. Embarrassed, I guess.” My mom laughs a snot-filled laugh because she’s also simultaneously crying.

“I meant physically.”

“Okay. Tired. I have a headache. Where’s Dad?” I ask mostly to get her to stop looking at me.

“Daddy’s right here,” my father says, and the fact that he calls himself Daddy when he’s been Dad for a long time now breaks something on my insides.

I turn my head toward him, slowly, since I’m afraid of disrupting all my attached machinery, and I notice that his eyes are as puffy as my mother’s. If I could, I’d jump out of bed and perform a tap dance, anything to make them both feel better. To prove that I’m going to be fine. But when I breathe, it feels like pressing a bruise. Standing would be impossible.

“Guess what? You won Color War,” my mom says. She’s decided to play this cheery, despite her tear-soaked cheeks. I’m okay with that. I’m familiar with this script. It’s much better than the alternative. “Nice work.”

“How do you know?” My voice sounds clear, if a little rough. Like I’m at the tail end of a cold. Not like I’m dying.

“There were a bunch of camp people here. You should have seen the waiting room,” my mom says, and then starts counting on her fingers. “First of all, Julia and her boyfriend, I think? A mom and this cute little girl dropped off a bunch of pictures she drew for you. A boy who was quite dapper and kept apologizing. He also tried to get everyone to hold hands and send you positive energy, which was awkward.”

My mom chatters and floats round the room as she talks, picks up random objects and then puts them back down. A clipboard. A vase. A remote control. “Let me see, what else? You have a ton of flowers.”

“Noah and Jack are still out there,” my dad adds. “They’ve been here all day. They seem like nice boys. Kept offering to get us coffee. Kept calling me Mr. Goldstein. Then their friend with lots of tattoos showed up. He brought cookies!”

Apparently, my dad is as nervous as my mom. All verbal diarrhea.

I’m in a hospital bed. My parent’s look scared and tired and so unwaveringly sad.

So this is it, I think.

“Listen, I just want to say…I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The sobs start low, behind my defective lungs, and try to push their way out. “I should have told you. I wanted one last summer—”

“Oh, baby, don’t cry. It’s going to be okay. You’ll be able to go home soon, I think. They need to do one more test.” My mom sits down next to me and links our hands. Her face is wet again. Still, she smiles. She looks deranged. “But you’re going to be fine. I know it. It’s—”

“Wait. Should have told us what?” my dad asks, and I consider changing the subject, reversing back to my mother’s false promises. There’s no real need to confess. I’m here. The truth—the fact that I’m sick—is no longer a secret. What difference does it make that I knew this was coming?

And yet, I realize I don’t want to be like Cat, who pushes her way into my mind even at this moment, though this time she brings with her an epiphany: I don’t want to get by on half-truths and twisted language, on the filtered picture rather than the real image.

“It’s…it’s been going on for a while. The coughing. The blood. I didn’t want to worry you,” I say.

“Worry us!” my mother yells, and my dad and I both jump. My mom never yells; we’ve moved from loving sympathy to rage in mere seconds. I feel dread climb its way up my spine vertebra by vertebra. “This is your health. Are you serious? You didn’t tell us?”

“Mom,” I begin.

“How long?”

I shrug. “It wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, it was, but it wasn’t? I didn’t think I needed to say anything until…”

“Until what, sweet—” my dad starts, but my mom interrupts him.

“Tell us, damn it! The doctors will need to know. How long?” She’s on her feet again, pacing the room, her fingers balled into tight fists. I look over at my dad, but he has his dropped his head into his hands.

“Don’t be mad,” I plead. I knew they’d be upset, but I figured they’d take the news in their usual calm, martyrlike way. Also, and it pains me to admit this, I thought seeing me sick would mean they couldn’t really get mad. You know, because of the whole limited-time-left thing.