Send Me a Sign(10)

“Drunk shuffleboard?” I suggested. I left the restaurant while they were still laughing and making up rules.



“So? How’d it go?” Mom met me at the front door, swallowing me up in a tight embrace like I’d been gone for weeks instead of just an hour.

I slumped onto the bottom step and hugged my knees. “I didn’t tell them. I just … I couldn’t handle all the questions.”

She hovered above me, smoothing my hair, patting my shoulder. “I understand, kitten. Maybe in a few days. We’re all still adjusting to the idea.”

“No. I don’t want to tell them.” This was all I’d thought about on the drive home—I’d asked for a sign and gotten one. I wasn’t telling.

Mom’s forehead puckered. “I guess that’s best. We’ll get through this and you’ll go back to being the girl you were.”

The girl I was? Had the diagnosis changed me that much already? I lowered my chin to my knees in defeat. She stroked my hair again, and I bit back the urge to jerk away and tell her to stop touching me.

Dad walked out from the kitchen, a book in one hand, a stack of printouts and a highlighter in his other. “All right, kiddo, I carried your suitcase down. It’s time to go.”





Chapter 6

Admission was a mix of paperwork and waiting. Eventually I found myself in a hospital room with white walls, an antiseptic smell, and a view of the parking lot. I was put in a narrow bed, my parents perched in stuffed blue-vinyl chairs, worn shiny from too many passes with antibacterial cleaner. It became a blur after that. A whirl of blood counts, introductions, explanations, and tearful, lingering hugs from Mom. My parents decided to take turns staying overnight. Mom made a big show of volunteering for the first night and tucking me in like I was five before settling onto her cot. I pretended to sleep so she wouldn’t know I heard her toss, turn, and cry in her pillow. I should’ve gotten out of bed and reassured her, but I’d faux smiled and done my no-worries dance all day. I didn’t have enough energy to fake bravery. I was scared; her tears couldn’t be a good sign.

The next morning I was wheeled off to my first surgery: the insertion of a port in the right side of my chest a few inches above my heart. I wouldn’t look at it, but it didn’t feel like much: a small bump under a bandage with constant access to my veins so they could take blood and administer chemo.

I’d become the Summer Girl who couldn’t wear a bikini top.

I spent hours with the oncologist as he explained my treatment, prognosis, and what to expect. I didn’t feel like I understood a word, but when Gyver stopped by I regurgitated mostly coherent answers.

“They’re going to be giving me a ‘chemo cocktail’: a mix of five different drugs I’ll get every day for a week. The goal is to kill all white blood cells—the blasts and the normal ones—and then grow back new, cancer-free cells.”

“When’s this start?” he asked. He’d come with his parents, but they were in the hall consoling mine, which I was thankful for. I needed a break from the suffocating contradiction of their what-a-tragedy looks and we-can-do-this words.

“Day after tomorrow. Welcome to my home for at least the next month. You’ll like my doctor. Everyone calls him Dr. Kevin—probably because his patients are usually younger. I’m the oldest one here.” I swept a hand toward my door—where I’d had Dad hang my lucky horseshoe—and the rest of the pediatric oncology ward beyond. “His name is Kevin Kiplinger—alliterative, that’s a good sign.”

“Alliteration? Signs? Who cares? Is he a good doctor? I’m not doubting your parents’ doctor-picking abilities, but an alliterative name?”

“I thought you liked alliteration.”

“I only told you that … We were ten, Mia Moore.” He reached out a slow hand and touched the bandages above my heart. “Did it hurt?”

“Not much; they used anesthesia. I guess it’ll make things easier; all my IVs will go through there.” I touched the bandage, then my necklace, twisting the gold four-leaf clover charm on the chain. “The worst part was they made me take this off. I felt so naked without it.”

Gyver smiled. “Who knew you’d get so attached to that necklace?”

I rolled my eyes. “You’ve always picked out the best birthday presents.” I let go of the shamrock and touched the bandage again.

“What will you miss the most about home?” he asked.

“Jinx. I brought my laptop and iPod and I can have as many pictures as I want, but they’re not going to let me bring a cat. Will you visit her?”

“Sure. Can I come visit you after the chemo’s started?”

“You’d better.”

“Where is everyone? Your cheer friends? The Jock? Your mom told mine you’re planning on keeping this secret, but that’s just your mom being crazy, right?”

“No. They all think I’m in Connecticut with my grandparents.” Hil’s disdain for sick people still echoed and stung. “For now, that’s what I want.”

“Mi—” Gyver didn’t need to say more than my nickname; he managed to cram disapproval and judgment into two letters.

“It’s what I want,” I repeated. “Besides, I thought you’d be thrilled; you hate them.”