Текст книги "One Tiny Lie "
Автор книги: K. A. Tucker
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
CHAPTER FIVE
Diagnosis
While I’ve attempted to experience as many of Princeton’s campus-coordinated events as possible as a way of immersing myself in the spirit and culture, Reagan has decided to immerse herself in as many beer-and-vodka-coordinated events as exist. And she’s decided that I need immersing along with her. It’s because I want to please my lively roommate that I ended up at dorm parties every night this week and in bed each morning with heavy eyelids. That, and I also hoped I’d run into Connor again. In the back of my mind, there was a fear of running into Ashton, too. In the end, hope won out over fear.
Unfortunately, I never saw Connor. But I also didn’t see Ashton. I did meet a few more freshmen, though, including a Korean girl named Sun who’s as new to the whole partying scene as I am and sort of attached herself to me on Thursday night.
I honestly don’t know how Reagan is going to survive the heavy workload of classes here. Her books sit in a pile on her desk, unopened. Not even a flip-through. I’m starting to believe that she’s not a student, that Kacey and Dr. Stayner have somehow planted her here. I can almost picture them cackling while they hatched this plan. Student or not, though, I’m happy to have Reagan as a roommate. Except when she puppy-dog-eyes me into drinking with her.
Ceaseless knocking on our door wakes me up.
“Kill me now,” Reagan moans.
“I will, but can you get that first?” I mumble, burying my head under my pillow, pushing a textbook with exceptionally sharp corners out from beneath me. I had managed to sneak out of the dorm party two floors up and come back to get some reading done late last night. The clock read three a.m. the last time I had checked. Now it reads seven. “It has to be for you, Reagan. I don’t know anyone on campus,” I rationalize, curling my body up tighter.
“Shhh . . . they’ll go away,” she whispers. But they don’t. The knocking increases in strength and urgency, and I’m starting to get concerned it will wake up half the floor. As I lift myself to my elbows, ready to crawl out of my top bunk and answer it, I hear Reagan’s defeated groan and rustling sheets. She makes a point of stomping to the door. She throws it open with a quiet curse and something about Satan.
“Wake up, sleepyheads!”
I bolt upright so fast that the room starts to spin. “What are you doing here?” I ask in a high-pitched voice as I turn to see the distinguished-looking man in a well-tailored suit step into the room. I haven’t seen Dr. Stayner in person in two and a half years. He looks basically the same, if not for a bit more gray in his hair, which he has a bit less of, in general.
He shrugs. “It’s Saturday. I told you that we’d talk today.”
“Yeah, but you’re here. And it’s seven a.m.!”
He glances at his watch with a frown. “Is it really that early?” And then he shrugs and throws his arms up in the air, his eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. “What a beautiful day!” As quickly as they lifted, his arms drop and his calm tone returns. “Get dressed. I have a conference in the city that I have to get back to by noon. I’ll meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes.”
Before turning to leave, he spots a disheveled but curious-looking Reagan in a rumpled tank top and pink pajama bottoms. He holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Stayner.”
She accepts it with a weary frown. “Hi, I’m Reagan.”
“Ah, yes. The roommate. I’ve heard so much.”
From whom? I haven’t talked to him since . . .
I sigh. My freaking sister. Of course.
“Make sure Livie socializes, will you? She has a tendency to focus too much on school. Just keep her away from those Jell-O shooters.” Not waiting for a reaction, he walks out as briskly as he walked in, leaving my new roommate staring at me.
“Who is that?”
Where do I begin with that answer? Shaking my head as I swing my legs out of bed, I mumble, “I don’t have time to explain right now.”
“Okay but . . . He’s a doctor? I mean, is he . . .” She hesitates. “Your doctor?”
“For better or worse, it would seem.” I want nothing more than to pull the covers over my head for a few more hours, but I know that if I’m not down there in thirty minutes, he’s liable to march down the hall shouting my name at the top of his lungs.
“What kind of doctor is he? I mean . . .” She’s twirling a strand of her long hair around her fingers. Nervous Reagan is a rare sight.
I open my mouth to answer but stop, an impish idea coming to me. I still owe Reagan for the vodka shot she practically forced down my throat last night. . . Pressing my lips together to hide my smile as I rifle through my dresser for a pair of jeans and a shirt, I say calmly, “Oh, his focus is primarily schizophrenia.”
There’s a pause. I don’t look, but I’m sure her mouth is hanging open. “Oh . . . well, is there anything I need to worry about?”
Grabbing my toiletry bag, I walk over to the door but make a point of pausing as my hand closes over the knob, looking up as if deep in thought. “I don’t think so. Well, unless I start to . . .” I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, never mind. That probably won’t happen again.” With that, I quietly slip out the door. I make it about four feet before I burst into giggles, loud enough that someone moans, “Shut up!” from a nearby room.
“I’ll get you for that, Livie!” Reagan shrieks through the closed door, followed by her howls of laughter.
Sometimes humor does make it better.
“I knew the text was from Kacey,” Stayner says as he tips his head back to drain the last of his coffee—the largest cup of it that I’ve ever seen. I on the other hand have let mine grow cold, barely touching it as Dr. Stayner coaxed out every last embarrassing detail from my first week on campus.
He’s big on talking things out. I remember Kacey cursing him for it in the beginning. My sister was broken back then. She refused to discuss anything—the accident, the loss, her shattered heart. But, by the end of that intense inpatient program, Dr. Stayner had dragged out every last detail there was to know about Kacey, helping her heal in the process.
She warned me about him too, back when the calls started. Livie, just tell him what he wants to know. He will find out one way or another, so make it easier on yourself and just tell him. He probably already knows anyway. I think he uses Jedi mind tricks.
In the three months of our nontherapy sessions, I’ve never had a truly difficult conversation with Dr. Stayner, nothing that I found too painful, too tragic, too hard to bring up. True, he’s asked me to do things that still give me heart palpitations, like bungee jumping and watching a back-to-back marathon of the Saw movies, which gave me nightmares for weeks after. But our actual conversations—about Mom and Dad, about what I remember of my childhood, even about my uncle Raymond and why we left Michigan—were never difficult or uncomfortable. Most of them were pleasant.
Still, two hours talking about my drunken make-out session and everything that has ensued since has left me drained and my face smoldering. I knew I’d likely be questioned about last Saturday night. I planned on glazing over the more embarrassing moments, but Dr. Stayner has a way of drawing out every last detail.
“You’ve come far in our few months together, Livie.”
“Not really,” I counter.
“You’re going on a date with a guy tonight, for Pete’s sake!”
“It’s not really a date. It’s more of a—”
His dismissive wave quiets my objection. “Three months ago you would have blown the guy off for a textbook without even thinking twice.”
“I guess.” I push back a strand of hair that has blown across my face with the light breeze. “That or just dropped to the ground, unconscious.”
Dr. Stayner snorts. “Exactly.”
There’s a pause, and I cast a sidelong glance. “Does that mean my therapy is over? I mean, look at me. I’ve practically become an exhibitionist. And if I don’t cut back on the partying soon, you’ll have to admit me to an alcohol abuse program.”
Dr. Stayner bursts out in a round of loud, boisterous laughter. When his amusement dies down, he spends a few moments staring down at his cup, his index finger running along the rim.
And I start to get nervous. Dr. Stayner is rarely quiet for this long.
“I’m going to let you live your college life the way you need to live it,” he says quietly. “You don’t need me telling you what to do or how to have fun. You need to make those decisions for yourself.”
I flop back against the bench with a sigh of relief, a strange calm washing through me. As quickly as Dr. Stayner planted himself into my life, he’s stepping right back out. “I guess Kacey was wrong,” I say more to myself, the declaration lifting a weight off my shoulders that I didn’t realize was there.
There’s that soft laughter again. “Oh, your sister . . .” He drifts off as a group of cyclists speed past. “When Kacey was first admitted into my care, I wondered about you, Livie. I truly did. I questioned how you turned out so well, all things considered. But I had my hands full with Kacey and Trent, and you seemed to be motoring along on a clear path. Even when Kacey came to me in the spring with her concerns, I was skeptical.” He pulls his glasses off to rub his eyes. “It’s the people like your sister—the obviously shattered ones—who make my job easy.”
I frown, his words puzzling. “But I’m not like her, right?” I catch the waver in my voice.
Dr. Stayner’s shaking head answers me before his words do. “Oh, no, Livie. You are surprisingly alike in many ways, but you are not alike in those sorts of matters.”
“Really? I’ve always seen the two of us as polar opposites.”
He chuckles. “You’re both stubborn as mules and sharp as whips. Of course your wit is a tad more sugarcoated than hers. Your sister wears her temper on her sleeve, but...” He purses his lips. “You’ve surprised me a few times with your outbursts, Livie. And I’m not easily surprised.”
I watch those same cyclists cross along another path as I take in his words, a tiny smile touching my lips. No one has ever compared me to my sister quite like that before. I’ve always been the studious, responsible one. The trustworthy one. Cautious, calm, and levelheaded. My sister’s the firecracker. I’ve secretly envied her for that.
And I think back on the past summer, jam-packed with things I never thought I could do, and a whole lot of other things I never even considered doing. Kacey had been there with me for a lot of it, eagerly embarrassing herself along with me. “This summer was interesting,” I admit with a smile. I turn to look at the graying doctor and I ask him the one question he’d never answered before, hoping that he will now. “Why did you have me doing all those crazy things? What was it really about?”
He puckers his lips as if deciding what to say. “Would you believe me if I said it was purely for my own entertainment?”
“I might,” I answer truthfully, earning his chuckle. “I mean, I get the speed dating, but I don’t see how line dancing or prolific cussing has helped me. I’d think it would have the opposite effect. You know . . . extreme psychological scarring.”
Dr. Stayner looks skeptical. “How could line dancing possibly scar you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Have you ever been to one of those places before? With my sister?”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, you’re being dramatic. It couldn’t have been that—”
“She had a microphone!” I exclaim. “She tried to hold an impromptu auction to sell me off for a date!” Thank God Storm was there to get her under control . . . My hand flies up as I remember the best part. “Oh! And then she spiked my drink.” Dr. Stayner starts chuckling as I shake my head. “I noticed right away, of course. Otherwise who knows what would have happened.” I settle back against the bench as I mutter more to myself, “I probably would have made out with a cowboy or a mechanical bull, or something. Had my ass branded, maybe . . .”
His head falls back with raucous laughter and after a few moments I can’t help but giggle along with him. “Oh, Livie,” he says, pulling his glasses off to wipe the tears from his eyes. “It was never about what I asked you to do. It was about your exuberance tackling each and every single task.” He turns to look at me with amazement in his eyes and a slight chuckle in his voice. “I was waiting for you to tell me to go to hell but you kept answering the phone, taking each and every one of those crazy requests I made, and delivering with excellence!”
I cock my head to the side as I regard him. “You knew they were crazy?”
“You didn’t?” He shakes his head at me, and then a sad smile transforms his face. “I learned a lot about you over the summer, Livie. Between the wild-goose chases and our talks. That’s what this summer was about. Information gathering.” He pauses to scratch his cheek. “You are one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met, Livie. You respond to human heartache so acutely. It’s like you absorb others’ pain. Despite your extreme shyness, you will do just about anything not to fail. You don’t like to fail tests and you most certainly don’t like to fail people. Especially those you care about and respect.” His hand goes to his heart and he bows his head. “I’m touched, truly.”
I dip my head as I blush.
“I also learned that while you are accepting and open-minded of others and their faults, you are exceptionally hard on yourself. I think doing something wrong would make you physically ill.” Dr. Stayner steeples his fingers in front of his face for a moment. “But my biggest discovery? The reason that I wanted to talk to you in person today . . .” He sighs. “You seem to be governed by a life plan. It’s ingrained in your daily routines; it’s almost like a religion for you. It has dictated the choices you have made so far and those you plan to make in the future. You don’t question it, you don’t test it. You just do it.” Running his finger along the rim of his cup, he goes on to say with an even, slow voice, “I think your parents helped create that plan and you are holding on to it for dear life as a way of holding on to them.” He pauses, and then his voice grows soft. “And I think it’s stifling your growth as your own person.”
I blink repeatedly, trying to process how this conversation turned so quickly from talk of mechanical bulls to my stifled growth. “What are you saying?” I ask, my voice a touch strained. Is this a diagnosis? Is Dr. Stayner diagnosing me?
“I’m saying, Livie . . .” He pauses, his mouth open to say something, a pensive expression on his face. “I’m saying that it’s time for you to find out who you really are.”
I can do nothing but stare at the man in front of me. Who I am? What is he talking about? I know who I am! I’m Livie Cleary, daughter of Miles and Jane Cleary. Mature and responsible daughter, driven student, loving sister, future doctor, kind and considerate human. “But, I . . .” I struggle to find the words. “I know who I am and what I want, Dr. Stayner. That’s never been in question.”
“And don’t you think that’s a little strange, Livie? That you decided at the age of nine that you wanted to go into pediatrics, specializing in oncology, and you have never even considered another life? Do you know what I wanted to be when I was nine?” He pauses for only a second. “Spider-Man!”
“So, I had more realistic goals. There’s nothing wrong with that,” I snap.
“And did you ever wonder why you avoided boys like the plague up until now?”
“I know exactly why. Because I’m shy and because—”
“Boys suck the brains out of girls . . .”
“And make them crazy.” I finish my father’s warning with a sad smile. Dad started warning me of that around the time that Kacey’s hormones started raging. He said my grades would suffer if I fell into the same trap.
“I think your reaction to the opposite sex is less about your shyness and more a subconscious mindset to avoid straying from this life plan you believe you must follow.” Subconscious mindset? Unease slips through my stomach like a snake, sending shivers up my spine. Is he saying that Kacey is right? That I’m . . . sexually repressed?
I lean forward and let my chin rest in the palms of my hand, my elbows set against my knees, as I think. How could Dr. Stayner find fault in who I’ve become? If anything, he should be pleased. He said it himself! I turned out so well. I know my parents would be proud. No, there’s nothing wrong with who I am.
“I think you’re wrong,” I say quietly, staring at the ground. “I think you’re looking for things to diagnose me with. There’s nothing wrong with me or what I’m doing.” Sitting up straight, I take in the campus surrounding us—this beautiful Princeton campus that I’ve worked hard to make sure I attend—and I feel anger surge. “I’m a straight-A student going to Princeton, for Christ’s sake!” I’m borderline yelling now and I don’t care. “Why the hell would you show up at seven a.m. on a Saturday after I just started college to tell me my entire life is . . . what . . .” I swallow the sudden lump in my throat.
Dr. Stayner takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes yet again. He remains completely calm, as if he expected this reaction. He told me once that he’s used to being yelled at, so not to ever feel guilty about it. I sure as hell don’t think I’ll be feeling guilty after the bomb he just dropped on me. “Because I wanted you to be aware, Livie. Fully conscious and aware. This doesn’t mean you should stop doing what you’re doing.” He shifts slightly so that he’s facing me. “You’re a smart girl, Livie, and you’re an adult now. You’re going to be meeting people and dating. Working hard to achieve your goals. And, I hope, going out and having some fun. I just want to make sure you’re making your choices and setting your goals for you and not to please others.” Sliding back against the bench, he adds, “Who knows? Maybe Princeton and med school are what you really want. Maybe the man who makes you happy for the rest of your life is also the one who your parents would have handpicked for you. But maybe you’ll find out that’s not the right path for you. Either way, I want you to make your choices with your eyes wide open rather than on autopilot.”
I don’t know what to say to all of this so I stay silent, staring at nothing, confusion and doubt settling heavily on my shoulders.
“Life has a funny way of creating its own tests. It throws curve balls that make you do and think and feel things that are in direct conflict with what you had planned and don’t allow you to operate in terms of black and white.” He gives my knee a fatherly pat. “I want you to know that you can call me anytime you want to talk, Livie. Anytime at all. No matter how trivial or silly you think it is. If you want to talk about school, or guys. Complain about your sister”—he says that one with a crooked smile. “Anything at all. And I do hope you call me. Regularly. When you’re ready to talk. Right now I assume you want to pour that coffee over my head.” Standing up with a big stretch, he adds, “And all conversations will be confidential.”
“You mean you won’t be enlisting my sister to do your dirty work anymore?”
Rubbing his chin, he smiles as he murmurs, “What a good little minion she has become.”
“I guess you considered the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing optional?”
He peers down at me with an arched brow. “You were never my patient, were you?”
“And now I am?”
He smiles, holding out his hand to guide me up. “Let’s just keep it loose. Call me when you want to talk.”
“I can’t pay.”
“I don’t expect a dime from you, Livie.” Almost as an afterthought, he slides in, “Just your firstborn child.”
Normally I’d give him an eye roll at the very least for a joke like that. But not now. I’m not in the mood for any jokes. The weight that I’ve worn on my back for three months as I wondered what Dr. Stayner might discover about me, which lifted just twenty minutes ago, has now crashed back down onto my back, crippling me under its heft.
I’m sure he’s wrong.
But what if he isn’t?
CHAPTER SIX
If versus When
The almost two-hour commute from the Princeton campus to the Children’s Hospital in Manhattan gives me plenty of time to stew over Dr. Stayner’s surprise visit and outrageous diagnosis. By the time I get to the front desk to sign in for my first volunteer session, I’m more rattled than I was to begin with. I’m also convinced that he might be losing his magic touch as the brilliant psychiatrist. Either that or he’s insane and no one has caught on yet. Maybe both.
“Have you ever worked with children in a hospital before, Livie?” Nurse Gale asks as I follow her swaying hips down the long corridor.
“No, I haven’t,” I answer with a smile. I’ve spent enough time in hospitals, though, that the sounds of beeping machines and the mixture of medicine and bleach filling my nostrils instantly brings me back seven years to the days of forced smiles, and Kacey with tubes and bandages and a hollow stare.
“Well, I hear your reference glows in the dark,” she jokes as we round the corner and follow the signs toward the playroom, my quick tour of the hospital coming to an end. “You’re a natural magnet for children.”
My eyes roll before I can stop myself. Not at the nurse—at Stayner. Back in June, when I mentioned to him that I had applied for a volunteer position at this hospital but hadn’t heard back from them, he casually mentioned that he had a few friends there. The next week, I received a phone call for a brief interview, quickly followed by an offer for a position on Saturday afternoons in the Child Life program—playing with young patients. I jumped at the opportunity. Of course I saw Dr. Stayner’s fingerprints all over it but it only made me appreciate him more, knowing that when I apply for med school, having this volunteer position on my application will show that I’ve been committed to pediatrics for years. It had seemed like he was helping me achieve my goals at the time. Ironic now, given that he basically thinks I’m a preprogrammed drone who shouldn’t be here in the first place.
I push all of that away, though, because I know what I want and I know that I belong here. So I nod politely at Nurse Gale and say, “I think they’re a magnet for me too.”
She stops at a door and turns to give me a pensive smile. “Well, you just be careful about what kind of attachments you make, you hear, sweetie?” With that, we step into a bright and colorful playroom with a handful of children and other volunteers. My shoulders immediately relax as I hear the infectious laughter. It’s like a shot of Valium through my veins.
I know I’ve never been quite normal. As a child, I was always the one rushing to the teacher when someone needed a Band-Aid, or stepping in between a squabble to mediate. As a teenager, I looked forward to my volunteer days at the YMCA, or the pool, or the library. Really, anywhere that involved these tiny humans. There’s just something so uncomplicated about small children that I gravitate toward. Maybe it’s their infectious giggles or their shy hugs. Maybe it’s their brutal honesty. Maybe it’s the way they cling to me when they’re scared or hurt. All I know is that I want to help them. All of them.
“Livie, this is Diane,” Nurse Gale says, introducing me to a stocky, middle-aged woman with short, curly brown hair and kind eyes. “She’s a part of our Child Life program. She’s supervising the room today.”
With a wink, Diane gives me a quick five-minute tour of the bright playroom and explains what her role is. When she’s done, she points out two boys sitting side by side with their backs to me, cross-legged, in front of a pile of LEGOs. They’re the same size, except the one on the right is leaner. He’s also completely bald, whereas the boy on the left has short, sandy brown hair.
“These two are yours today. Eric? Derek? This is Miss Livie.”
Identical faces turn to regard me. “Twins!” I exclaim with a grin. “Let me guess . . . you’re Derek.” I point to the one on the left, the one with the full head of hair.
He gives me a wide grin displaying missing front teeth, instantly reminding me of Storm’s daughter, Mia. “I’m Eric.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “I’m never going to get this right.” Why do parents feel the need to name their identical twins rhyming names? I don’t say that out loud, though. I only smile.
“Derek’s the bald one. He’s easy to remember,” Eric confirms with a shrug. “But soon I’m going to be bald too. Then you’re screwed.”
“Eric,” Diane warns with an arched brow.
“Sorry, Miss Diane.” He diverts his attention to a Hot Wheels car next to him, a sheepish look on his face. And my chest tightens a notch. Both of them?
“Are you here to play with us?” Derek asks quietly.
I nod. “Is that all right?”
His little face suddenly brightens with a smile and I see that he’s also missing his two front teeth.
Shifting my focus to his brother, who’s now smashing two cars together, I ask, “And you, Eric? Are you okay with that?”
Eric looks over his shoulder at me and says with another shrug, “Sure. I guess.” But I catch the tiny smile as he turns back, and I know without a doubt that he’s the imp of the two.
“Okay, good. First I’m just going to go over a few things with Miss Diane, okay?”
Their heads bob in unison and they go back to their Legos.
With my eyes still on them, I take a few steps back and drop my voice. “Cancer?”
“Leukemia.”
“Both of them? What are the odds of that?”
She just shakes her head and sighs. “I know.”
“How—” I swallow, unsure how to finish that sentence, a lump forming in my throat. “How bad?”
Diane crosses her arms over her chest. “Their chances are great. Well . . .” Her eyes flicker to Derek briefly. “Their chances are good,” she corrects herself. Offering me a pat on my forearm, she says, “You’re going to see a lot while you’re here, Livie. Try not to lose sleep over it. Best you just focus on the here and now and leave the rest to medicine and prayer.”
I have to remind myself to smooth my furrowed brow as I walk over to where the boys are. Sitting down cross-legged on the floor opposite them, I clap my hands. “Who wants to show me how to build one of these cool houses?” Neither, apparently, because that’s when I get hit with a barrage of questions—one after another, the two of them tag teaming like they’ve rehearsed it for hours.
“We’re almost six years old. How old are you?” Eric asks.
“Eighteen.”
“Do you have parents?” Derek’s voice is so soft next to his brother’s that I barely hear him.
I simply smile and nod, not elaborating.
“Why did you come here?”
“To learn how to build with LEGOs, of course.”
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A doctor. For kids like you.”
“Huh.” Eric pushes his little car around. “I think I want to be a werewolf. But . . . I’m not sure yet though. Do you believe in werewolves?”
“Hmm . . .” I twist my mouth as if considering it. “Only the friendly kind.”
“Huh.” He seems to consider that. “Or maybe I’ll be a race car driver.” He gives an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Well, lucky for you that you have lots of time to decide that, right?” I feel the little kick my subconscious gives my stomach, warning me to get away from this line of conversation.
Thankfully, Derek is already moving toward a new direction. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, not yet. But I’m working on it.”
His little bald brows bunch together. “How do you work on a boyfriend?”
“Well . . .” My hand crosses over my mouth to keep from bursting out with laughter. With a quick glance over to my left, I see that Diane’s lips are pressed tightly together as she helps another patient paint. She’s within earshot and she’s trying hard not to laugh. “I met someone who I like and I think he might like me too,” I answer honestly.
Derek’s little head bobs up and down slowly as he mouths, “Oh.” He looks ready to ask another question, but his brother cuts him off.
“Have you ever kissed a boy?”
“Uh . . .” I stall for just a second, not expecting that question. “I don’t kiss and tell. That’s a good rule. You should remember it,” I say, and I fight against the blush.
“Oh, I will. Dad says one day I’ll want to kiss girls, but I’m only five so it’s okay not to want to now.”
“He’s right, you will. You both will.” I look at them both in turn with a wink.
“Unless we die,” Eric says matter-of-factly.
I pull my legs to my chest and hug them, the position somehow comforting against the sudden tightness inside. I’ve been around a lot of kids and I’ve heard a lot of things. I’ve even had several conversations about death and heaven. But, unlike that idle child chatter sparked by curiosity, Eric’s words send a chill through my body. Because they’re true. These two little boys in front of me may never kiss a girl, or become race car drivers, or learn that werewolves—friendly or otherwise—don’t exist. They may miss out on all that life has to offer them because for some cruel reason, children are not immortal.
“You’re pressing your lips together tight, like Mom does,” Eric says, snapping two Lego blocks together. “She always does that when we talk about dying.”
I’m not surprised. God, what that poor woman must face, watching not one but both of her little boys get pumped with rounds of chemicals, not knowing if it will be enough, wondering what the next few weeks, months, or years will bring!
A painful lump to my throat swells just thinking about it. But I can’t think about it, I remind myself. I’m here to make them not think about it. “How about we make a rule,” I begin slowly, swallowing. “No talk of dying during our playtime. Only talk about what you’re going to do when your treatment is over and you go home, okay?”
Eric frowns. “But what if—”
“Nope!” I shake my head. “There is no ‘what if.’ Got it? How about we don’t plan on dying. We plan on living. Deal?”
They look at each other and then Eric says, “Can I plan on not kissing a girl?”
The heavy cloud in the room suddenly evaporates as I burst into laughter, on the verge of tears for so many reasons. “You can plan whatever you want as long as it involves you growing old and wrinkly. Shake on it.”
Their eyes light up as they slip their little hands into my proffered one in turn, like we’re making a secret pact. One that I think I need as much as they do.
