Send Me a Sign(87)

“Not possible, Hil. I was stupid.”

That was the limit of Gyver’s patience. He pressed past Hil and sat on the side of the bed—claiming his spot and my attention. “Not stupid. Scared.”

Over his shoulder, Hil gave me an amused smile. “I’ll visit soon—I’ve got some questions and want answers.” She rolled her eyes in the direction of Gyver’s back, then propelled Ryan out the door.

I leaned close to Gyver, inhaled a painful breath, and began. “You were right. I was selfish. And really, really hurtful. I’m so sorry. I need you to forgive me. I need you.” Tears again.

Gyver waited until I was done coughing. “As much as I’m convinced you’re perfect, the doctors keep telling me you’re only human … Though there’s nothing only about you. You were scared. Sorry I was so judgmental.”

“I didn’t get your CD before, but I do now.”

“Do you?”

“I think so. I hope so. I listened to more of it. ‘Fix You,’ by Coldplay. That’s a ‘surrender’ song. Isn’t it?”

“That’s why I picked it. What do you think?”

“I think—” There was so much I needed to say, but my head was clouded with fever and fatigue. I reached for his hand. “I think you’ve given me another reason to prove the psychic wrong.”

“Time’s up,” the doctor said from the door. “Let her rest. You can come back tomorrow.”

Why couldn’t it be Dr. Kevin, who knew it was Gyver’s right to be by my side now and whenever?

“I didn’t get to listen to all of it yet. And my car’s at the school.” Alarm tightened my grip on his hand.

Gyver removed his iPod from the pocket of his jacket and scrolled through its screens. “It’s on here too. I’d tell you to sleep now and listen later, but you’ve got a history of falling asleep to my music.” He gently tucked the earbuds in my ears.

I blinked at the small screen. “You spelled my name wrong.”

“No, I didn’t.”

I gave him a dubious look. “I know how to spell my name.”

“I didn’t. Your name has never been awesome because it’s alliterative. Remember, Mi, I’m Italian.”

“What does that mean?” I yawned.

“You’re a smart girl; you’ll figure it out.” Gyver squeezed my hand, then released it to cup my face. Slowly, making intense eye contact the whole time, he leaned in and brushed his lips down my cheek. “You sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Doctor?” I called as he held the door open for Gyver. “Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” The doctor looked young and driven. Four pens spaced evenly in his pocket, short hair gelled into perfection. His face was focused determination versus Dr. Kevin’s endless cheer.

“How sick am I? Did you say pneumonia?”

“You’re sick. You’ll be in here for about a week while we get your fever down and lungs clear. Maybe longer.”

“No, I mean, other than that: the cancer?”

He frowned. “That hasn’t changed—you’re doing well. Responding to treatment. I checked your records and your last counts were excellent. I know you’re supposed to begin your next round of consolidation chemo next week—we’ll have to push that back until you’re better. But it won’t be a problem.”

“But I’ve been getting these pains. My heart races and it feels like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. It feels like I’m dying.”

The doctor appraised me. “Rapid pulse? Shallow breathing? It sounds like anxiety.”

“Aren’t I sick?”

“Yes, but that sounds like anxiety.” He reached out and put a calming hand on mine, which was so twisted in my necklace it was cutting trails in my fingers.

“I’m not dying?”

“Not today. But you need to take better care of yourself—you shouldn’t have let yourself get this sick before telling anyone. Have you been sleeping? Eating well?”

“No.” I plucked at the sheet, pulling my knees up toward my chin. “I can’t. It got so … It just seemed like too much.” My heart was starting to throb and something began to beep.

“Take a deep breath.”

I did, but it made me cough. I tried again with more success.

The doctor nodded encouragingly as my pulse slowed and the beeping stopped. “You are responding to treatment, but there’s a mental toll as well as a physical one. I’m going to have a counselor visit you.”

Yesterday I would’ve scoffed and rejected his advice. But yesterday I’d been ready to give up and accept death. I wasn’t anymore. “Okay.”

“Cancer’s part of your life; it isn’t your whole life. You need some long-term perspective, and we need to get that anxiety under control.”

“Thanks.”

“Now get some sleep,” he insisted.

Like I had a choice. My eyelids were already sealing out his words and the world. Anxiety? I fumbled closed-eyed until I found the Play button on Gyver’s iPod.



“Mark, do you speak Italian?” I asked drowsily. I’d been fading in and out of sleep as I tried to focus on the songs Gyver’d chosen. I’d fall asleep in one song and wake up coughing in the next. Fall asleep and wake up during the same song—did that mean I’d slept only seconds, or through a whole repetition of the playlist? The fever wasn’t helping either. Not much was making sense.