chapter ten

Dad is at work, apparently too tied up with his classes and paperwork to meet us at the hospital to take Kristina home. He called my cell earlier to deliver his apology to Kristina. I held in my anger about being asked to pass along his message. Mom is still mad at him for whatever they were fighting about and refuses to talk to him. Before I hang up, I asked him if he’d told his friends at work about her cancer. He pauses and then tells me he has.

Kristina has on her favorite yoga pants, an expensive brand she got on eBay for more than they’re worth. They’re baggy on her where they used to be tight. Her head is hidden under a baseball cap and she’s got on a loose-fitting volleyball sweatshirt. She looks like a poster child for a refugee camp, slouched on the hospital bed, waiting, her feet dangling in the air above the ground with a pair of pink flip-flops on her unpainted toes.

Mom and I are stumbling around like Dumb and Dumber, gathering up belongings and going over the talk with the discharging doctor. We look like poster children for awkward when Jeremy walks into the room, and with him seems to come a breath of fresh air. Kristina looks less waifish and sits up straighter on the bed.

He’s wearing his dorky rap shirt again but I’m more than willing to forgive him as he smiles at all of us and sucks some of the tension from the room.

“So, big day. Going home,” he says and walks closer to Kristina. “You’ll sleep in your own bed tonight.” His voice isn’t charged with false bravado the way mine sounds whenever I speak to Kristina today. It’s natural.

I stare at him. He’s so much more confident than I gave him credit for at school. Clearly he’s a boy who does well in stressful situations. Either that or he just really likes my sister.

Kristina lowers her eyes but doesn’t answer him. He steps closer and leans in and whispers something in her ear. She smiles ever so slightly but it disappears quickly.

“Remember what I dared you,” he says, and then he steps back and lifts her arm. With a closed fist, he passes something into the palm of her hand and she holds it tight. I’m dying to know what it is. And what he said to her.

“Do you need help, Mrs. Smith?” he asks Mom. “Taking things to your car?”

Mom smiles at him, but shakes her head as she tosses Kristina’s gym bag over her shoulder. “I think we’ve got it.”

“I’ll walk you down to the parking lot, if that’s okay.”

Mom, Kristina, and I practically shout yes.

“Let’s go,” Mom says.

Jeremy holds out the crook of his arm and Kristina takes it and gets off the bed. Her free hand is still tight around whatever Jeremy handed her.

Mom leads the way out of the room and they follow. I walk behind them and watch the nurses on the ward as they wave and call good-bye and greet Jeremy like he’s an old friend.

He walks with us to the car and tucks Kristina in the back and then stands in the parking lot waving as we head home.

Mom drives about twenty miles an hour, gripping the steering wheel with ghostly white knuckles and annoying the hell out of me. Kristina is tired and withdrawn, and I almost wish Jeremy had come with us.

At home, Mom heads for the kitchen, chattering about whipping up a healthy meal as Kristina slowly climbs the stairs, holding the railing. She only answers questions in monotone one-word sentences. I follow her to her room, feeling like someone should fluff her pillows or get her some juice, mad at Mom for hiding in the kitchen.

“So, your friends really miss you. Especially Devon,” I say.

She raises her hand and shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Can I have some privacy please?”

Fine by me. I don’t want to have to admit I screwed up her request and told Nick first and that he passed the message on to Devon and Gee. Her detachment is creepy though. A total contrast to life before cancer. It’s like she’s buried herself so deeply inside her head she’s disappearing. I know that feeling, because I’ve done it too, but never for such a serious reason. Besides, on me, it’s natural. The only thing that seems to bring her back to the real world is Jeremy, but he can’t exactly move into our house.

“You want me to get you the laptop?” I call. “I have it in my room. I was going to do homework, but you can use it to catch up on stuff you’ve missed out on.”

“Tess, leave me alone,” she says. “I don’t care about that stuff.”

I don’t move away. “You’re sure? I don’t mind.”

I want Kristina back. I miss her. A memory flashes in my head. The summer, only a couple of months before. Kristina standing in the hallway in her tiny purple and white bikini, yelling at me for hogging the computer. I’d only had it for a few minutes and was using it to google art supplies.

She doesn’t answer but hobbles further inside her room like a little old lady. “Where’d you get those jeans?” she says without looking back.

I’d forgotten I was wearing them and certainly hadn’t realized she noticed.

“Mom got them for me. She wanted to shop. You know. Her personal brand of therapy.”

“They look good.” She turns to face me. “You look good. Different. They suit you. You’re so skinny.”

“You’re the one who’s skinny,” I tell her, doing my best to make it sound like a compliment, hoping to cheer her up, but she hums with unhappiness, a cross between a sigh and a groan. “You’re going to have to use dental floss for toilet paper,” I try.

She doesn’t even crack a smile. “I’m going to take a nap,” she says.

I step away and shut the door quietly behind me. Alone in the hallway, the emptiness inside me threatens to eat me alive. I head downstairs to see Mom frantically racing around the living room, straightening things. She’s a bundle of nervous energy. I sit down on the leather couch in the living room and watch.

“Can I do something?” I ask when she breezes by me with a duster in her hand.

She shakes her head. “How’s Kristina?” she asks.

“Tired.”

She nods and runs back to the kitchen and I hear her chopping vegetables. She whips up her healthy supper while I sit in the living room staring at the walls. Finally I turn on the TV and flick channels instead of studying or working on my sketches.

The doorbell rings, and when no one else appears to get it, I stand and walk over to the door. A delivery man with a bored expression stands in the doorway. He’s holding the biggest, most colorful bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Kristina Smith?” he asks.

I shake my head. “She’s here but not available.”

He thrusts the flowers in my arms. “Well, if she’s here, take them. I have another vase in the car. She’s popular. What’d she do? Have a baby?”

I give him a dirty look and slam the door in his face. I take the flowers into the kitchen and Mom grabs her chest with one hand and then rushes forward. She takes the flowers and puts them on the counter and opens the card.

“It’s from the volleyball team,” she says.

The doorbell rings again. “There’s more,” I say.

Mom presses her lips tight but doesn’t say anything or move to get the door, so I walk slowly back to the door and collect the next vase of flowers without saying a word to Delivery Dude. Mom takes the flowers and reads the card again. They’re from Devon.

“Her boyfriend?” Mom asks.

I shake my head. “Ex,” I tell her. “You know Devon. You’ve met him.”

She nods absently. “Yeah. Kristina didn’t bring him around much though.” She returns to her cooking without another word. The fragrance of the fresh flowers makes me want to sneeze so I leave and go back to the living room.

A short while later, Mom hollers that supper is ready. “Wash up,” she calls.

Dad still isn’t home from work.

I go to the bathroom to wash my hands. She’s chattering about Dad being late and saying we’ll go ahead and eat without him.

“What else is new?” I mumble as I walk back to the kitchen. She’s setting the table and I offer to help but she waves me away as if I’m causing her grief.

“Can you get Kristina for dinner?” she says without looking at me. “I’d like her to come down. She should see the flowers too. It was a nice gesture from her friends.”

I head upstairs and knock on Kristina’s door.

“I’m not hungry,” she calls out.

“Mom’ll freak out if you don’t come down and at least have something.”

Kristina doesn’t answer, so I turn her knob and push the door open. She’s lying on her bed, on top of the covers staring at the ceiling. She looks breakable. “You got a couple of bouquets of flowers. From the volleyball team and Devon,” I tell her.

She doesn’t even blink.

“Do you think I’m going to die?” she asks the ceiling in a flat voice. Unfortunately, I know she’s talking to me.

“No!” I’m surprised by the ferociousness of my voice. A surge of anger sweeps through me. She’s not allowed to give up.

“But what if I do?” she says.

“Then I’ll get the bigger room,” I tell her. “And your Toyota. But you can’t die because I want a Volkswagen Beetle and you love this room.”

She glances over at me then and sits up slowly. “My sickness is bringing out a sense of humor I didn’t even know you had.”

“Neither did I,” I tell her honestly. “You’re not going to die,” I add.

She lifts her hand in the air and studies her fingers, kind of waving them about. The veins popping out on the back of her hands are clearly visible. They look like old woman hands. I try not to picture the poison that was running through them. Chemo to kill the cancer.

“What did Jeremy give you at the hospital?” I ask.

“A charm,” she tells me. She holds up her wrist again and this time, instead of her veins, I notice the old silver bracelet she used to sleep and shower with when she was little.

I walk toward her bed and she holds it up for me to see.

“It’s a dancer,” she says, and points out a charm.

I study it. A silver girl with a long dress and a bun striking a ballroom pose. “A dancer?” I ask.

“Private joke,” she says. I sit on the end of her bed. “I told him about my charm bracelet and how I kept it over the years. We were talking about things we loved when we were kids. He remembers stuff like that.”

“He sounds like a good friend,” I say.

She nods, pulling her wrist back and studying the dancer.

“He’s a really strong person. And so easy to talk to. Probably because of his mom. He’s so, I don’t know, hopeful, I guess.”

“Yeah.” I can’t think of anything to say so I improvise. “I didn’t see him at school today.”

“No. His mom wanted him at the hospital.” She pauses. “He said she never asked him to do that before.”

“He must be worried,” I say softly, and hope it’s the right thing to say. I’m so new at this. I need instructions. I need to download something off the Internet. How to talk to people who have cancer and not sound like an insensitive jerk.

“Yeah,” Kristina pauses. “He’s a nice kid. I mean, he’s not that young. I like him. He’s easy to talk to about stuff.”

Shame creeps through me for not being easier to talk to.

“Your friends at school are so worried.” I tell her.

She closes her eyes. “Of course they are. I have cancer. They’re supposed to be. It’s expected.”

I wonder about her choice of words. “No, they really are. They don’t know what to do. They want to do something to help. Gee wants to collect money to buy you the newest iPhone. She thinks it might make you better.” I snort but she gives me nothing. “I told her not to. That you didn’t want one. Maybe you should talk to them. You know, call Gee or someone. It might help. She’s kind of your best friend, isn’t she?”

“No.”

It’s funny that Kristina never had one person. A BFF. I guess it’s Jeremy now.

“Gee wouldn’t be able to handle seeing me sick. Anyhow, I don’t want to talk to anyone from school. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“How do you know what she can handle? Having friends around is important to you. She wants to see you. It doesn’t matter how you look.”

“It always matters, Tess. They don’t know me. Not really. No one does.” She opens her eyes. “Well, except Jeremy. He sees more than the volleyball star. The hair and the makeup and clothes. He even sees more than the cancer now, you know? He talks to me. He takes the time to ask questions, to understand who I am. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Wow. I didn’t know you were that close.” I smile but it hurts a little. Jeremy can be something for her that I can’t.

“Did you talk to him? About, you know, your leg.”

A tiny smile turns up her lips and then disappears. “That I might lose it? Yeah. A little.” She giggles but it’s weak and she covers her mouth with her hand. “He said if I do, I’ll be on Dancing with the Stars. You know. Like that lady who was married to Paul McCartney and only had one leg.” She holds up her wrist again. “That’s what this is for. To show me what I can do, no matter what.”

I smile. It makes me feel better, thinking about that. Kristina dancing on TV.

“He made me a bet.”

I nod, remembering what he said at the hospital. “What?”

She doesn’t answer. I hear Mom shouting from the kitchen but we both ignore her. I wait for Kristina to tell me more about the bet but she doesn’t. “He said I’ll be the oldest one in the nursing home and all the old men will be secretly in love with me.”

“He totally has a crush on you,” I tell her.

She lifts her shoulder but it’s barely perceptible. “Maybe. A little. But it’s not really like that. He’s a good guy. It’s sweet. We’re friends.” She slides over her covers until she’s flat out on her back again, staring up at the ceiling. “Really good friends.”

I have an urge to tell her about Melissa. About how my best friend turned out to be someone I don’t even know. That maybe she was right about her. But it’s not the time or the place. This isn’t about me.

Kristina looks at me and her lips turn up. “He told me he has a friend who thinks you’re pretty.”

I blush and then laugh, but warmth settles in my stomach. I guess that it’s Clark and I want to ask, but don’t.

I lower my eyes. “His friend obviously needs glasses.” I hope she’ll tell me he already has them.

“No. It’s true, Tess. You are pretty. You look great in that outfit. You should explore this side of you a little more. Try a little makeup. You could be even prettier if you tried a little.”

Familiar resentment crawls into my bones and I suddenly feel gawky. Pretty is her territory. Not mine. I don’t want to listen to it and long to flee but then she smiles, though her eyes have the saddest expression I’ve ever seen.

“Remember when I was pretty?” she says.

My anger disappears. I prod inside for strength. I pretend to contemplate her question.

“No,” I finally answer. “I can’t say that I do remember when you were pretty.” And then I grin at her and she gives me a fake death stare.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re still pretty,” I tell her. “Just more hard core. Like a punk rocker on crack except without rad clothes or good taste in music.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re the one who listens to bad music.”

I point at the posters on her wall and roll my eyes with exaggeration.

“You ever notice no one ever says I’m smart?” she asks.

“Totally.”

She sticks out her tongue and then runs her hand through her hair. Long strands of it come out. Bigger clumps than is normal. We both stare at it.

I reach out and take it from her hand. “It’s only hair,” I say. “It’ll grow back.”

I stand up, gripping her hair in my fist. It feels weird and my eyes fill with tears. I hurry for the wastebasket and throw it inside, and blink hard and fast before I turn around to head back to her bed.

I sit down again. “People like labels. You’re pretty, I’m smart. It doesn’t mean you aren’t smart too. Dad thinks you’re smart. I heard him.” I grin. “He told me you’re too lazy to use your brains, but smarter than you let on.”

She snorts. “Thanks a lot.” And then looks serious. “You’re okay, you know that. We’re just different.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m mute and you have verbal diarrhea.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be nicer to me when I’m sick?”

“Is that what you want?” I ask her.

She smiles again. “Not really, but yes. Besides, you’re not so mute anymore.”

I take a deep breath, trying to find courage. “I’m here for you,” I blurt out and then duck my head as shyness overcomes me.

She closes her eyes then and her breathing slows, as if our conversation exhausted her. “I know,” she says. Then she rolls over away from me, onto her side. Our conversation is obviously over. “Can you tell Mom I’m sleeping and I’ll eat something later?”

“Yeah, sure.” I push myself up from her bed and stare at her back. My heart aches but I stand straighter.

“Can you tell her Jeremy is coming over later?”

“Sure,” I say.

After I scarf back food with Mom, I head to my room. I pull out my sketch pad and my favorite pencil and examine my work in progress. I’ve shaded in explosions from the volcano but they’re not vivid enough. I’ve used shadows to show the lava running but the perspective isn’t working. My feelings aren’t spilling onto the page. I add a few lines and squint, trying to make the lava flowing from the image run right off the page.

It’s not working.

Nothing seems to be working. I feel completely and utterly useless and put my sketch pad down.