Send Me a Sign(17)

“What can I do? Do you want a sleeping pill?” She smoothed her hair and sat beside me.

“I guess.”

She pressed the call button and took my hand. “Dr. Kevin said sleeplessness is normal.”

I nodded. Her hand seemed so cold.

“Is there anything else I can do, kitten?”

“No. Thanks.”

“You’re sure?”

I looked up, alarmed; there were tears in her voice. “Mom?”

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped.

“Sorry? For what?”

“This is all my fault! These cancer genes had to come from somewhere. Bad DNA your father and I passed on.”

“It’s not anyone’s fault.” I was shocked by her apology. “It’s bad luck.”

“But what would we do without you? You’re all we’ve got, and I can’t do anything to fix you. I feel so helpless!”

“I’m going to be okay.”

“You’re right, you’re going to be fine. Of course you will be.” She sniffed and tried to get herself under control.

Southern Nurse arrived. She was only on duty at night. The less I dealt with her, the better. Not because she was mean—she was pecan pie sweet—but because if I didn’t see her, it meant I slept. She listened to Mom’s request and came back with apple juice and a pill.

“Mom?” I whispered. The pill had started to pull me toward sleep and I needed to get this out. “Do you think I was stupid not to tell? I miss my friends.”

“I know you do, but they’d just sit here feeling useless and uncomfortable. Do you want them to see you like this?”

The words hung in the air: guilt wrapped in a cocoon of maternal caresses and a gentle tone. I knew it was her projecting how she felt, but it didn’t make it less true. She kissed my cheek and added, “Of course it’s your decision, but things will be back to normal soon.”



The sleep meds caused weird dreams. In a blurry, drugged subconscious, I dreamed of Gyver—on stage with his band, Empty Orchestra. In my dream, just like in real life, I marveled how Gyver’s look—just off of normal in high school halls—worked on stage. Really worked. In a girls-in-the-audience-swoon sort of way. I was trying to convince the bouncer—Business Nurse—to keep all East Lake girls out. It wasn’t because I didn’t want them to see me in a hospital gown, it was because I didn’t want them to see him on stage or hear him sing.

Dr. Kevin had replaced Gyver’s drummer, and Business Nurse wouldn’t be bribed, not even when I promised to let the volunteers make me latex-free balloon animals. Yes, even the lounge clown had a cameo in my dream.

I woke to find a pick on my pillow and Nurse Snoopy in the doorway. “Gyver was here all morning. You just missed him.”

“I know,” I whispered. My left hand was still warm from holding his. I’d missed him and I missed him. More than made sense. More than I should.



“I’m waiting at the airport for my parents. They’re coming back from visiting Louisa and her new baby. I had a few minutes and figured I’d call.” Lauren was an eleven-years-younger-than-her-sister oops.

“You didn’t go?” I asked.

“Nope. It’s all baby gushing and I’d worry about dropping him. I’ll see him when he’s bigger. Plus, no parents equals parties. I wish you’d been here, it was insane. So, how’s Connecticut?”

“Fine. Boring.”

“Yeah right. I’m totally convinced the reason you’ve stayed so long is you found some gorgeous preppy with his own yacht and you’re acting out a Nicholas Sparks summer romance.”

“What?” I laughed. Only Lauren. As long as I shut my eyes, I could pretend I wasn’t in a hospital room with Mr. Russo and Dad discussing football a few feet away. Pretend this was a normal conversation.

“It would be a hundred percent okay if you met someone. It’s not like you and Ryan are exclusive.”

“I know that.” This was a sore point and she knew it. Why would she bring it up, unless … “Wait, has he?”

“Not in front of me. He’d be crazy to do anything while we were at Chris’s house—Hil would castrate him for you. But I think every girl on the beach knew his name. I mean, are you surprised? You disappear for a lifetime and you know he’s a man-whore.”

“Thanks, Laur.” I smacked the bed in frustration—sick of being stuck and forgotten.

“What? Would you rather not know? Geez, shoot the messenger. He did ask about you, and if you’d been there, I’m sure it would’ve been the Mia-Ryan show.”

I was teetering between hanging up and clinging to this bit of normal. I was angry: at myself for being here, at Lauren for prattling on about the “stupid no-boyfriends pact,” at Ryan for being Ryan, at my life for not being what I’d planned and worked so hard for.

“Everything’s falling apart.” It was a whisper. A confession. If Lauren had pressed, I would’ve spilled everything.

“Okay, drama queen.” I could practically hear the eye roll in her voice. “If you’re sick of Ryan’s games, move on. So anyway …”

I didn’t hang up. Just sighed and half listened as she told me about the “mutiny-worthy guy” who worked at Scoops, launching into rhapsodies about his ability to make a frappe and complaining about the weight she’d put on drinking them. I tried to feel connected, tried to care, but it all felt so foreign. My contributions to the conversation were minimal and awkward.