Текст книги "The Fault in Our Stars "

Автор книги: John Green

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

CHAPTER EIGHT

We had a big Cancer Team Meeting a couple days later. Every so often, a bunch of doctors and social workers and physical therapists and whoever else got together around a big table in a conference room and discussed my situation. (Not the A ugustus Waters situation or the

A msterdam situation. The cancer situation.)

Dr. Maria led the meeting. She hugged me when I got there. She was a hugger.

I felt a little better, I guess. Sleeping with the BiPA P all night made my lungs feel almost normal, although, then again, I did not really remember lung normality.

Everyone got there and made a big show of turning off their pagers and everything so it would be all about me, and then Dr. Maria said,

“So the great news is that Phalanxifor continues to control your tumor growth, but obviously we’re still seeing serious problems with fluid accumulation. So the question is, how should we proceed?”

A nd then she just looked at me, like she was waiting for an answer. “Um,” I said, “I feel like I am not the most qualified person in the

room to answer that question?”

She smiled. “Right, I was waiting for Dr. Simons. Dr. Simons?” He was another cancer doctor of some kind.

“Well, we know from other patients that most tumors eventually evolve a way to grow in spite of Phalanxifor, but if that were the case,

we’d see tumor growth on the scans, which we don’t see. So it’s not that yet.”

Yet, I thought.

Dr. Simons tapped at the table with his forefinger. “The thought around here is that it’s possible the Phalanxifor is worsening the edema,

but we’d face far more serious problems if we discontinued its use.”

Dr. Maria added, “We don’t really understand the long-term effects of Phalanxifor. Very few people have been on it as long as you have.”

“So we’re gonna do nothing?”

“We’re going to stay the course,” Dr. Maria said, “but we’ll need to do more to keep that edema from building up.” I felt kind of sick for

some reason, like I was going to throw up. I hated Cancer Team Meetings in general, but I hated this one in particular. “Your cancer is not going away, Hazel. But we’ve seen people live with your level of tumor penetration for a long time.” (I did not ask what constituted a long time. I’d made that mistake before.) “I know that coming out of the ICU, it doesn’t feel this way, but this fluid is, at least for the time being, manageable.”

“Can’t I just get like a lung transplant or something?” I asked.

Dr. Maria’s lips shrank into her mouth. “You would not be considered a strong candidate for a transplant, unfortunately,” she said. I

understood: No use wasting good lungs on a hopeless case. I nodded, trying not to look like that comment hurt me. My dad started crying a

little. I didn’t look over at him, but no one said anything for a long time, so his hiccuping cry was the only sound in the room.

I hated hurting him. Most of the time, I could forget about it, but the inexorable truth is this: They might be glad to have me around, but I was the alpha and the omega of my parents’ suffering.

Just before the Miracle, when I was in the ICU and it looked like I was going to die and Mom was telling me it was okay to let go, and I was trying to let go but my lungs kept searching for air, Mom sobbed something into Dad’s chest that I wish I hadn’t heard, and that I hope she never finds out that I did hear. She said, “I won’t be a mom anymore.” It gutted me pretty badly.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that during the whole Cancer Team Meeting. I couldn’t get it out of my head, how she sounded when she

said that, like she would never be okay again, which probably she wouldn’t.

A nyway, eventually we decided to keep things the same only with more frequent fluid drainings. A t the end, I asked if I could travel to

A msterdam, and Dr. Simons actually and literally laughed, but then Dr. Maria said, “Why not?” A nd Simons said, dubiously, “Why not?” A nd Dr. Maria said, “Yeah, I don’t see why not. They’ve got oxygen on the planes, after all.” Dr. Simons said, “A re they just going to gate-check a BiPA P?” A nd Maria said, “Yeah, or have one waiting for her.”

“Placing a patient—one of the most promising Phalanxifor survivors, no less—an eight-hour flight from the only physicians intimately

familiar with her case? That’s a recipe for disaster.”

Dr. Maria shrugged. “It would increase some risks,” she acknowledged, but then turned to me and said, “But it’s your life.”

Except not really. On the car ride home, my parents agreed: I would not be going to A msterdam unless and until there was medical

agreement that it would be safe.

* * *

A ugustus called that night after dinner. I was already in bed—after dinner had become my bedtime for the moment—propped up with a

gajillion pillows and also Bluie, with my computer on my lap.

I picked up, saying, “Bad news,” and he said, “Shit, what?”

“I can’t go to A msterdam. One of my doctors thinks it’s a bad idea.”

He was quiet for a second. “God,” he said. “I should’ve just paid for it myself. Should’ve just taken you straight from the Funky Bones to

A msterdam.”

“But then I would’ve had a probably fatal episode of deoxygenation in A msterdam, and my body would have been shipped home in the

cargo hold of an airplane,” I said.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But before that, my grand romantic gesture would have totally gotten me laid.”

I laughed pretty hard, hard enough that I felt where the chest tube had been.

“You laugh because it’s true,” he said.

I laughed again.

“It’s true, isn’t it!”

“Probably not,” I said, and then after a moment added, “although you never know.”

He moaned in misery. “I’m gonna die a virgin,” he said.

“You’re a virgin?” I asked, surprised.

“Hazel Grace,” he said, “do you have a pen and a piece of paper?” I said I did. “Okay, please draw a circle.” I did. “Now draw a smaller

circle within that circle.” I did. “The larger circle is virgins. The smaller circle is seventeen-year-old guys with one leg.”

I laughed again, and told him that having most of your social engagements occur at a children’s hospital also did not encourage

promiscuity, and then we talked about Peter Van Houten’s amazingly brilliant comment about the sluttiness of time, and even though I was in bed and he was in his basement, it really felt like we were back in that uncreated third space, which was a place I really liked visiting with him.

Then I got off the phone and my mom and dad came into my room, and even though it was really not big enough for all three of us,

they lay on either side of the bed with me and we all watched A NTM on the little TV in my room. This girl I didn’t like, Selena, got kicked off, which made me really happy for some reason. Then Mom hooked me up to the BiPA P and tucked me in, and Dad kissed me on the forehead,

the kiss all stubble, and then I closed my eyes.

The BiPA P essentially took control of my breathing away from me, which was intensely annoying, but the great thing about it was that it

made all this noise, rumbling with each inhalation and whirring as I exhaled. I kept thinking that it sounded like a dragon breathing in time with me, like I had this pet dragon who was cuddled up next to me and cared enough about me to time his breaths to mine. I was thinking

about that as I sank into sleep.

I got up late the next morning. I watched TV in bed and checked my email and then after a while started crafting an email to Peter Van

Houten about how I couldn’t come to A msterdam but I swore upon the life of my mother that I would never share any information about the

characters with anyone, that I didn’t even want to share it, because I was a terribly selfish person, and could he please just tell me if the Dutch Tulip Man is for real and if A nna’s mom marries him and also about Sisyphus the Hamster.

But I didn’t send it. It was too pathetic even for me.

A round three, when I figured A ugustus would be home from school, I went into the backyard and called him. A s the phone rang, I sat

down on the grass, which was all overgrown and dandeliony. That swing set was still back there, weeds growing out of the little ditch I’d

created from kicking myself higher as a little kid. I remembered Dad bringing home the kit from Toys “R” Us and building it in the backyard with a neighbor. He’d insisted on swinging on it first to test it, and the thing damn near broke.

The sky was gray and low and full of rain but not yet raining. I hung up when I got A ugustus’s voice mail and then put the phone down

in the dirt beside me and kept looking at the swing set, thinking that I would give up all the sick days I had left for a few healthy ones. I tried to tell myself that it could be worse, that the world was not a wish-granting factory, that I was living with cancer not dying of it, that I mustn’t let it kill me before it kills me, and then I just started muttering stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid over and over again until the sound unhinged from its meaning. I was still saying it when he called back.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hazel Grace,” he said.

“Hi,” I said again.

“A re you crying, Hazel Grace?”

“Kind of?”

“Why?” he asked.

“’Cause I’m just—I want to go to A msterdam, and I want him to tell me what happens after the book is over, and I just don’t want my

particular life, and also the sky is depressing me, and there is this old swing set out here that my dad made for me when I was a kid.”

“I must see this old swing set of tears immediately,” he said. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

I stayed in the backyard because Mom was always really smothery and concerned when I was crying, because I did not cry often, and I knew

she’d want to talk and discuss whether I shouldn’t consider adjusting my medication, and the thought of that whole conversation made me

want to throw up.

It’s not like I had some utterly poignant, well-lit memory of a healthy father pushing a healthy child and the child saying higher higher

higher or some other metaphorically resonant moment. The swing set was just sitting there, abandoned, the two little swings hanging still

and sad from a grayed plank of wood, the outline of the seats like a kid’s drawing of a smile.

Behind me, I heard the sliding-glass door open. I turned around. It was A ugustus, wearing khaki pants and a short-sleeve plaid button-

down. I wiped my face with my sleeve and smiled. “Hi,” I said.

It took him a second to sit down on the ground next to me, and he grimaced as he landed rather ungracefully on his ass. “Hi,” he said

finally. I looked over at him. He was looking past me, into the backyard. “I see your point,” he said as he put an arm around my shoulder.

“That is one sad goddamned swing set.”

I nudged my head into his shoulder. “Thanks for offering to come over.”

“You realize that trying to keep your distance from me will not lessen my affection for you,” he said.

“I guess?” I said.

“A ll efforts to save me from you will fail,” he said.

“Why? Why would you even like me? Haven’t you put yourself through enough of this?” I asked, thinking of Caroline Mathers.

Gus didn’t answer. He just held on to me, his fingers strong against my left arm. “We gotta do something about this frigging swing set,”

he said. “I’m telling you, it’s ninety percent of the problem.”

Once I’d recovered, we went inside and sat down on the couch right next to each other, the laptop half on his (fake) knee and half on mine.

“Hot,” I said of the laptop’s base.

“Is it now?” He smiled. Gus loaded this giveaway site called Free No Catch and together we wrote an ad.

“Headline?” he asked.

“‘Swing Set Needs Home,’” I said.

“‘Desperately Lonely Swing Set Needs Loving Home,’” he said.

“‘Lonely, Vaguely Pedophilic Swing Set Seeks the Butts of Children,’” I said.

He laughed. “That’s why.”

“What?”

“That’s why I like you. Do you realize how rare it is to come across a hot girl who creates an adjectival version of the word pedophile?

You are so busy being you that you have no idea how utterly unprecedented you are.”

I took a deep breath through my nose. There was never enough air in the world, but the shortage was particularly acute in that moment.

We wrote the ad together, editing each other as we went. In the end, we settled upon this:

Desperately Lonely Swing Set Needs Loving Home

One swing set, well worn but structurally sound, seeks new home. Make memories with your kid or kids so that someday he or she or

they will look into the backyard and feel the ache of sentimentality as desperately as I did this afternoon. It’s all fragile and fleeting, dear reader, but with this swing set, your child(ren) will be introduced to the ups and downs of human life gently and safely, and may also

learn the most important lesson of all: No matter how hard you kick, no matter how high you get, you can’t go all the way around.

Swing set currently resides near 83rd and Spring Mill.

A fter that, we turned on the TV for a little while, but we couldn’t find anything to watch, so I grabbed A n Imperial A ffliction off the bedside table and brought it back into the living room and A ugustus Waters read to me while Mom, making lunch, listened in.

“‘Mother’s glass eye turned inward,’” A ugustus began. A s he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.

When I checked my email an hour later, I learned that we had plenty of swing-set suitors to choose from. In the end, we picked a guy named

Daniel A lvarez who’d included a picture of his three kids playing video games with the subject line I just want them to go outside. I emailed him back and told him to pick it up at his leisure.

A ugustus asked if I wanted to go with him to Support Group, but I was really tired from my busy day of Having Cancer, so I passed. We

were sitting there on the couch together, and he pushed himself up to go but then fell back down onto the couch and sneaked a kiss onto my

cheek.

“A ugustus!” I said.

“Friendly,” he said. He pushed himself up again and really stood this time, then took two steps over to my mom and said, “A lways a

pleasure to see you,” and my mom opened her arms to hug him, whereupon A ugustus leaned in and kissed my mom on the cheek. He turned

back to me. “See?” he asked.

I went to bed right after dinner, the BiPA P drowning out the world beyond my room.

I never saw the swing set again.

* * *

I slept for a long time, ten hours, possibly because of the slow recovery and possibly because sleep fights cancer and possibly because I was a teenager with no particular wake-up time. I wasn’t strong enough yet to go back to classes at MCC. When I finally felt like getting up, I

removed the BiPA P snout from my nose, put my oxygen nubbins in, turned them on, and then grabbed my laptop from beneath my bed,

where I’d stashed it the night before.

I had an email from Lidewij Vliegenthart.

Dear Hazel,

I have received word via the Genies that you will be visiting us with A ugustus Waters and your mother beginning on 4th of May. Only a

week away! Peter and I are delighted and cannot wait to make your acquaintance. Your hotel, the Filosoof, is just one street away from

Peter’s home. Perhaps we should give you one day for the jet lag, yes? So if convenient, we will meet you at Peter’s home on the

morning of 5th May at perhaps ten o’clock for a cup of coffee and for him to answer questions you have about his book. A nd then

perhaps afterward we can tour a museum or the A nne Frank House?

With all best wishes,

Lidewij Vliegenthart

Executive A ssistant to Mr. Peter Van Houten, author of A n Imperial A ffliction

* * *

“Mom,” I said. She didn’t answer. “MOM!” I shouted. Nothing. A gain, louder, “MOM!”

She ran in wearing a threadbare pink towel under her armpits, dripping, vaguely panicked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Sorry, I didn’t know you were in the shower,” I said.

“Bath,” she said. “I was just . . .” She closed her eyes. “Just trying to take a bath for five seconds. Sorry. What’s going on?”

“Can you call the Genies and tell them the trip is off? I just got an email from Peter Van Houten’s assistant. She thinks we’re coming.”

She pursed her lips and squinted past me.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m not supposed to tell you until your father gets home.”

“What?” I asked again.

“Trip’s on,” she said finally. “Dr. Maria called us last night and made a convincing case that you need to live your—”

“MOM, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!” I shouted, and she came to the bed and let me hug her.

I texted A ugustus because I knew he was in school:

Still free May three? :-)

He texted back immediately.

Everything’s coming up Waters.

If I could just stay alive for a week, I’d know the unwritten secrets of A nna’s mom and the Dutch Tulip Guy. I looked down my blouse at my chest.

“Keep your shit together,” I whispered to my lungs.

CHAPTER NINE

The day before we left for Amsterdam, I went back to Support Group for the first time since meeting Augustus. The cast had rotated a bit down there in the Literal Heart of Jesus. I arrived early, enough time for perennially strong appendiceal cancer survivor Lida to bring me up-to-date on everyone as I ate a grocery-store chocolate chip cookie while leaning against the dessert table.

Twelve-year-old leukemic Michael had passed away. He’d fought hard, Lida told me, as if there were another way to fight. Everyone else

was still around. Ken was NEC after radiation. Lucas had relapsed, and she said it with a sad smile and a little shrug, the way you might say an alcoholic had relapsed.

A cute, chubby girl walked over to the table and said hi to Lida, then introduced herself to me as Susan. I didn’t know what was wrong

with her, but she had a scar extending from the side of her nose down her lip and across her cheek. She had put makeup over the scar, which only served to emphasize it. I was feeling a little out of breath from all the standing, so I said, “I’m gonna go sit,” and then the elevator opened, revealing Isaac and his mom. He wore sunglasses and clung to his mom’s arm with one hand, a cane in the other.

“Support Group Hazel not Monica,” I said when he got close enough, and he smiled and said, “Hey, Hazel. How’s it going?”

“Good. I’ve gotten really hot since you went blind.”

“I bet,” he said. His mom led him to a chair, kissed the top of his head, and shuffled back toward the elevator. He felt around beneath

him and then sat. I sat down in the chair next to him. “So how’s it going?”

“Okay. Glad to be home, I guess. Gus told me you were in the ICU?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Sucks,” he said.

“I’m a lot better now,” I said. “I’m going to A msterdam tomorrow with Gus.”

“I know. I’m pretty well up-to-date on your life, because Gus never. Talks. A bout. A nything. Else.”

I smiled. Patrick cleared his throat and said, “If we could all take a seat?” He caught my eye. “Hazel!” he said. “I’m so glad to see you!”

Everyone sat and Patrick began his retelling of his ball-lessness, and I fell into the routine of Support Group: communicating through

sighs with Isaac, feeling sorry for everyone in the room and also everyone outside of it, zoning out of the conversation to focus on my

breathlessness and the aching. The world went on, as it does, without my full participation, and I only woke up from the reverie when

someone said my name.

It was Lida the Strong. Lida in remission. Blond, healthy, stout Lida, who swam on her high school swim team. Lida, missing only her

appendix, saying my name, saying, “Hazel is such an inspiration to me; she really is. She just keeps fighting the battle, waking up every

morning and going to war without complaint. She’s so strong. She’s so much stronger than I am. I just wish I had her strength.”

“Hazel?” Patrick asked. “How does that make you feel?”

I shrugged and looked over at Lida. “I’ll give you my strength if I can have your remission.” I felt guilty as soon as I said it.

“I don’t think that’s what Lida meant,” Patrick said. “I think she . . .” But I’d stopped listening.

A fter the prayers for the living and the endless litany of the dead (with Michael tacked on to the end), we held hands and said, “Living our best life today!”

Lida immediately rushed up to me full of apology and explanation, and I said, “No, no, it’s really fine,” waving her off, and I said to Isaac,

“Care to accompany me upstairs?”

He took my arm, and I walked with him to the elevator, grateful to have an excuse to avoid the stairs. I’d almost made it all the way to

the elevator when I saw his mom standing in a corner of the Literal Heart. “I’m here,” she said to Isaac, and he switched from my arm to hers before asking, “You want to come over?”

“Sure,” I said. I felt bad for him. Even though I hated the sympathy people felt toward me, I couldn’t help but feel it toward him.

Isaac lived in a small ranch house in Meridian Hills next to this fancy private school. We sat down in the living room while his mom went off to the kitchen to make dinner, and then he asked if I wanted to play a game.

“Sure,” I said. So he asked for the remote. I gave it to him, and he turned on the TV and then a computer attached to it. The TV screen

stayed black, but after a few seconds a deep voice spoke from it.

“Deception,” the voice said. “One player or two?”

“Two,” Isaac said. “Pause.” He turned to me. “I play this game with Gus all the time, but it’s infuriating because he is a completely suicidal video-game player. He’s, like, way too aggressive about saving civilians and whatnot.”

“Yeah,” I said, remembering the night of the broken trophies.

“Unpause,” Isaac said.

“Player one, identify yourself.”

“This is player one’s sexy sexy voice,” Isaac said.

“Player two, identify yourself.”

“I would be player two, I guess,” I said.

Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem and Private Jasper Jacks awake in a dark, empty room approximately twelve feet square.

Isaac pointed toward the TV, like I should talk to it or something. “Um,” I said. “Is there a light switch?”

No.

“Is there a door?”

Private Jacks locates the door. It is locked.

Isaac jumped in. “There’s a key above the door frame.”

Yes, there is.

“Mayhem opens the door.”

The darkness is still complete.

“Take out knife,” Isaac said.

“Take out knife,” I added.

A kid—Isaac’s brother, I assume—darted out from the kitchen. He was maybe ten, wiry and overenergetic, and he kind of skipped across

the living room before shouting in a really good imitation of Isaac’s voice, “KILL MYSELF.”

Sergeant Mayhem places his knife to his neck. A re you sure you—

“No,” Isaac said. “Pause. Graham, don’t make me kick your ass.” Graham laughed giddily and skipped off down a hallway.

A s Mayhem and Jacks, Isaac and I felt our way forward in the cavern until we bumped into a guy whom we stabbed after getting him to

tell us that we were in a Ukrainian prison cave, more than a mile beneath the ground. A s we continued, sound effects—a raging underground

river, voices speaking in Ukrainian and accented English—led you through the cave, but there was nothing to see in this game. A fter playing for an hour, we began to hear the cries of a desperate prisoner, pleading, “God, help me. God, help me.”

“Pause,” Isaac said. “This is when Gus always insists on finding the prisoner, even though that keeps you from winning the game, and the

only way to actually free the prisoner is to win the game.”

“Yeah, he takes video games too seriously,” I said. “He’s a bit too enamored with metaphor.”

“Do you like him?” Isaac asked.

“Of course I like him. He’s great.”

“But you don’t want to hook up with him?”

I shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“I know what you’re trying to do. You don’t want to give him something he can’t handle. You don’t want him to Monica you,” he said.

“Kinda,” I said. But it wasn’t that. The truth was, I didn’t want to Isaac him. “To be fair to Monica,” I said, “what you did to her wasn’t very nice either.”

“What’d I do to her?” he asked, defensive.

“You know, going blind and everything.”

“But that’s not my fault,” Isaac said.

“I’m not saying it was your fault. I’m saying it wasn’t nice.”