Midnight Sun(41)

“Any word on the UW study?” my dad asks as we get up to leave.

“I followed up with them last week,” Dr. Fleming says. “No news yet.”

I hope in this case that no news is good news. My dad deserves less bad news in his life.



I completely crash when I get home, falling into one of those heavy, dreamless sleeps that feel like I’m lost in a big black void. I wake up much later, groggy and crabby. I don’t want to eat or watch a movie or even talk to anyone.

Morgan comes over and knows me well enough to just be with me, together but doing our own thing. I strum my guitar mindlessly, the chords coming out sounding dissonant and out of key. Morgan pretends to read Dear Gabby, but she doesn’t ever scroll to a new question.

My phone vibrates constantly. I ignore it. Nothing good can come of answering Charlie’s texts. Better to cut communication off completely and move on than drag this thing out when the end result will be the same no matter what.

“I know I told you to play hard to get, but you have to at least see what he has to say,” Morgan tells me.

I shake my head even as my phone vibrates again. Morgan tosses aside her phone, grabs mine, and starts reading the texts.

“He’s asking you if he can come over to talk to you—”

“Don’t,” I tell her. “Just delete them.”

“Katie…”

I look up, my eyes locking onto Morgan’s. “If I read them, I’ll write back, and then he’ll write back, and then we’ll meet up, which we can’t. No.”

“Why can’t you? You don’t need to be a martyr to protect Charlie’s delicate feelings. He’s a big boy, I’m sure he can handle—”

I stop her midsentence. For the first time ever, Morgan has no idea how I’m feeling. “I can’t handle it, okay?” I yell, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t. He’s just gonna get hurt. And I can’t be the one who hurts him. Now will you please just delete them?”

I can tell Morgan doesn’t want to. I know she hates how much I’m hurting right now. That she’s even willing to forgive me for being an awful cranky beast and yelling at her when none of this is her fault.

“Okay,” she says quietly, clicking through my phone. Deleting, deleting, deleting.

I nod gratefully and go back to my guitar. But it’s just not sounding right tonight. Morgan watches me for a second, then picks her phone back up. I strum and realize my fingers are on the wrong strings, the wrong frets.

I hold up my hand. My fingers are shaking uncontrollably. I push my guitar away before Morgan can notice.

But I know.

I know.





20

I can’t sleep even though I’m tired. I can’t eat even though I’m hungry. I toss and turn, throw the blankets on and off because I’m alternately shivering and then sweating. I hear a car door slam, then the doorbell ring.

I get out of bed and look out the window. It’s Dr. Fleming. In all the years I’ve been seeing her, she’s never come here—I always go to see her at the hospital. She’s far too busy to make house calls.

This is not a good sign. Although she’s not delivering any news I don’t already assume.

My dad steps out onto the porch and closes the front door behind him. I can’t hear what Dr. Fleming says to him, but the next thing I know, he’s yelling, “We should do another set of tests. They could come back different!”

“Her brain has begun to contract,” Dr. Fleming says, loudly enough for me to hear this time. “Once the neural pathways start—”

“What about the study?” my dad bellows. “What about UW? There has to be—”

“They shut it down,” Dr. Fleming tells him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I found out this morning. There won’t be a phase two.”

My dad breaks down at this news. He’s always been so strong. He’s never cried in front of me, not even when my mom died. And now he’s a wreck because of me. Because of my actions.

“I did everything I was supposed to,” he says, choking out the words. “When she was little, no matter how much she cried and moaned, I wouldn’t let her go outside. Play in the park. Go to the beach. She begged me. For things she had every right to do, and I denied her all of them. To protect her. And for what? For this?”

Dr. Fleming pats my father’s back as emotion overcomes him. “XP is a disease that tends to take the joy out of a child’s life,” she tells him. “But all these years I’ve known Katie, she’s never complained, never sulked, only seen the good in things. And the way she talks about you—I’ve never seen a teenager so openly adore her father.”

She’s crying along with Dad now. And I’m crying with them both. They hug.

“Katie’s not only held on to her joy, she brings other people joy. Katie shines brighter than almost any patient I’ve ever treated. And that’s because she’s so well loved. You’re a good father, Jack.”

My dad swipes at his face with his sleeve and nods. “How long?”

“It’s hard to know for sure,” Dr. Fleming tells him.

“Days? Weeks? Months? What?”

And in typical Dr. Fleming fashion, she tells him, “Most likely one of those.”