Send Me a Sign(66)

“God, what’s wrong with you? She’s sick. I would never—” Ryan’s voice choked off and he turned his back on Gyver. Fastening my last three buttons, he eased me back against the pillow and tucked the blankets up. I shivered as the cool sheets replaced his body heat.

Gyver dismissed him. “It’s nothing compared to this summer—not that you’d know.”

“You’re right. I wasn’t here then. But I’m here now—so stop acting like you know everything.” His voice was fierce, but the hand on my cheek was gentle and cool.

“It’s just the flu,” Gyver said.

“She’s neutropenic—she has no immune system,” corrected Ryan. “There’s no ‘just’ about anything she catches. Do you know how bad her counts are? Or that her temp went up four degrees since yesterday?”

“Where’d you learn all that?” My voice was too thin to reflect my shock.

“The nurses just now. Internet. Books from your dad. And I listened when the doctor was talking to you.” He sounded miserable. “I don’t want you to end up in isolation.”

“Isolation?” Gyver and I asked.

“My God, Mia. Were you in the same room when the doctor was talking? If you don’t respond to antibiotics, you have to go in isolation. That’s why there are hand-washing signs all over your door and why the nurses keep telling us ‘no kissing.’”

“But they were saying I might go home today. Weren’t they?” It was so hard to remember; it seemed so long ago.

“Yesterday it looked good, but now your fever’s back up.” He reached for my hand, stroking it with his thumb.

Gyver had gasped “huh?” when Ryan mentioned kissing. I shut my eyes. It was much more likely I was sicker via the stress of last night than the barely-brushed-lips kiss I’d stolen from him. Perhaps I should’ve reassured Gyver, but I couldn’t. “Ryan was helping me change. I sweated through my shirt,” I offered instead.

I peeked from beneath lowered lids; Gyver looked defeated, wilted. “Mi, how’d you get so sick? You were fine. I would’ve stayed.” He took a step forward, then stopped. Ryan was in his spot.

“I’m just tired,” I mouthed.

“’Course you’re tired, you didn’t sleep well last night. You can as soon as your meds come. Promise.”

“You stayed here?” There was a long pause before Gyver continued in a detached voice, “I came to talk about yesterday, but it looks like you don’t need me.”

The tears started as a whimper this time. They leaked from under closed lids and felt icy on my fevered face.

“Don’t cry, baby.” Ryan’s soft breath on my neck as his hand wiped my face; Gyver’s panicked, “Mi—”

I didn’t open my eyes, couldn’t look at either of them. Or my parents, doctors, and nurses when they arrived.

“There’s too many people in here,” barked Business Nurse over the melee of greetings, status updates, and my mother’s loud wailing. My hand instinctively closed on Ryan’s.

“I guess I’ll go,” Gyver offered.

I didn’t protest. Didn’t open my eyes.

Couldn’t bear to see him walk away from me for the second time in two days.





Chapter 36

I spent two days at the mercy of feverish hallucinations. Voices alternated between whispering and yelling gibberish. Faces loomed clownishly large and then blurred behind the spots in my vision. In my delusions the nurses’ needles morphed to guns, then transformed into my mother’s knitting needles.

I woke up yelling something, my mouth coated with desperation, but I couldn’t remember why. I’m sure there was a moment when my fever broke and danger passed, but I didn’t notice it. Awareness came back gradually—being able to differentiate day from night. Sitting up without the room tilting. Realizing the only person who’d held my hand or called all week, besides my parents and Mr. and Mrs. Russo, was Ryan. That his summer tan was fading and being replaced by dark circles under his eyes and lines on his face. Lines that seemed to get deeper every time he rubbed his forehead.

His blue eyes filled the first time I opened mine and said, “Hi, Ryan.”

He wiped them on his sleeve and climbed out of his chair so he could pull me against his chest in an urgent hug. “Hey, you. How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

He sniffle-laughed and rocked me gently. “Tired? How’s that even possible?”

I wanted to answer him, but my eyes were sliding shut and my lips wouldn’t cooperate.



Mrs. Russo walked through the door carrying a plate of biscotti. Mr. Russo was behind her with a cardboard tray holding four cups of coffee. I didn’t care about either of those things. I cared about Gyver, and when he didn’t appear behind them, my stomach sank.

“Where is he?” I asked, still staring at the door like I could will him into appearing just by wishing hard enough.

Mrs. Russo handed the biscotti to Dad and washed her hands before answering. Then she came to stand beside me and put a warm hand on my arm. “Gyver’s at home.” There was sadness in her voice and eyes, I didn’t want to think about what it meant.

“He didn’t … He hasn’t …” Finishing those thoughts meant acknowledging his continued absence out loud and I couldn’t do it.