chapter seventeen

Mom and I take turns sitting with Kristina. Dad goes back to work the third day after the amputation. It’s probably for the best, since he’s acting uncomfortable around Kristina and hasn’t said more than a few words to her. I want to smack some sense into him. I know it’s hard. But it’s hard for all of us.

Jeremy handles it best. He’s the one who comes in to visit and sits by her side and talks. He really does have a gift for babbling, but I’ve discovered it’s not a bad thing.

The next few days pass in a haze. I refuse to go to school and no one tries to make me. Who cares about grades? How can they compare to what Kristina’s going through? My old obsession with the stupid Honor Society seems so superficial and unimportant.

Thursday afternoon, I’m sitting with Kristina, trying to think of something to say, trying not to stare where her leg used to be. Trying to get used to it. I wait for her to talk. Wait for her to tell me something. Anything. But she stays quiet, her eyes closed.

Mom is off in the cafeteria or talking to someone on the hospital pay phone, I’m not sure. I hear a sound and turn and Jeremy is standing behind me. I glance at my watch. It’s after four already. School is out.

“How’s she doing?” he asks as he creeps closer.

“I’m awake,” Kristina says, and both of us look toward the bed where she’s lying. She opens her eyes and turns her head and looks at me for a second and there’s a slight reaction in her gaze, but then she focuses on Jeremy.

I feel like I’m failing her again but let him step in front of me.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Jeremy says to her.

“What else do I have to do besides sleep?” she says, and her voice is grumpy but at least she’s talking.

“Want to do my calculus homework?” He points to the backpack on his back.

“Ha ha,” Kristina says, but a tear slips out of her eye. Jeremy quickly moves to her side and takes her hand.

“Hey. You having a bad day?” he asks.

She nods her head and, even from where I am, I see she’s struggling to keep it together, biting her lip and blinking.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s such a simple question, but not one I thought to ask.

“Not really,” Kristina tells him. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” he says. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, but I can imagine how hard this is. I’m here for you. You know that, right? Anything you need, you just ask.”

I grab one of the steel chairs and push it up to Jeremy so he can sit with her. He turns when I slide it up. “Thanks,” he says.

“No. Thank you,” I say and then I quietly leave the room so the two of them have privacy.

I plop myself into a chair in the waiting room and stare at the TV that seems to play twenty-four hours a day. No one else is around and I’m glad I don’t have to make phony conversation.

A little while later, Jeremy approaches and sits beside me.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says. “Word has leaked at school. About the amputation,” he says.

I inhale deeply and nod. I don’t know how, but I suspect that Nick told Gee or Devon. We couldn’t expect to keep it hidden for long. I don’t want to think about Nick though, or anyone else at school, or what they might be saying. It’s so far removed from life in the hospital and the gloom when we’re home.

“Clark’s asking for you. He’s worried about you,” Jeremy says.

“How’s your mom doing?” I say instead of commenting.

He smiles. “She’s back at home.”

I’m happy for him but don’t say a word about Kristina or ask why he’s still spending so much time at the hospital. Kind of obvious.

That night I log on to the computer and see Clark has left a long private note in my Facebook inbox, but I don’t read it or write him back. Not yet. My Facebook wall and Kristina’s are filled with notes from kids from school. Condolences. Get well soon messages. There are even a couple of anonymous posts making jokes about it. One calls Kristina “Peg.” I delete them, but they burn me up inside.

Nick hasn’t posted anything on my wall and I pretend it doesn’t bother me, but don’t dwell on it. He’s not stepping up, that much is obvious. When I check voicemail, I hear Gee and Devon’s separate messages on my cell phone and on the phone at home, but I don’t call them back.

Someone posts pictures of the volleyball tournament on the weekend on my wall. The team dedicated the game to Kristina and had blown-up pictures of action shots of Kristina pasted all over the gym. I think Kristina would hate that, so I don’t tell her.

The next morning, Mom and I go back to the hospital. At lunch, we go to the cafeteria, and as Mom and I are eating soggy lettuce and rubbery chicken, I decide to open the discussion.

“Kristina doesn’t talk to me,” I say between bites of chicken. “I’m kind of worried.”

Mom sighs. “Well, Jeremy is here for her. She talks to him.”

I hold my fork in the air. “Jeremy is the best thing that happened to her.”

She shrugs. “He is. He’s the only one she’ll talk to. I guess family is not what she wants right now.”

We’re both grateful for Jeremy, I think, but also a little bit jealous.

After the first week, Mom insists I go back to school. I try to get out of it, but surprisingly she won’t give in. I don’t announce my return online and all eyes are on me when I show up for my first class. Everyone knows Kristina’s leg was amputated, but I’m not capable of talking about it without crying, and thankfully people don’t bombard me with questions. They give me space.

A few of the teachers corner me to ask questions about Kristina and ask if there’s anything they can do, but I assure them there’s not. Kristina doesn’t want a rally or gifts or anything at all from the school.

All week I wear hoodies, and pull the hood over my head between classes and wear an iPod with music cranked. It’s almost like it used to be before Kristina got sick, with people leaving me alone. Except they stare now and everyone knows my name. But no one tries to penetrate my bubble, not even Clark, who continues to escort me to class despite the fact I’m hooded and plugged. I see Nick once or twice in the hallway, but don’t have the energy to worry about what he thinks of me or what I did. Melissa keeps her distance and for that I’m glad too.

And then as if he knows I’ve been hiding out in the library at lunchtime and senses my desperation and growing isolation, Clark asks me to join him and Jeremy for lunch. I’m actually grateful for human contact and, for reasons I don’t even understand, agree and walk with him to the lunchroom. Jeremy joins us at a table, but doesn’t mention my sister.

Across the room at their table, the volleyball girls and guys watch with big eyes when I sit down with my healthy packed lunch, but thankfully they don’t approach me. I don’t imagine they know what to say.

The following week, the doctor gives her okay for Kristina to be discharged from the hospital. Kristina’s desperate to leave. Well, according to Mom. She still isn’t saying much to me.

Mom’s already bought Kristina the best wheelchair money can buy, crutches, and had ramps installed by workmen at the back door to the house. Dad’s office has been converted to a main-floor bedroom, and she’s moved down Kristina’s bedroom furniture.

I volunteer to go with Mom to pick Kristina up in the morning. I’m surprised when Dad meets us at the hospital. I’m used to his absence.

The nurses pop by as we are getting things ready to leave. They offer Mom last-minute advice on changing the wound’s dressing and helping to care for Kristina. When Kristina uses the washroom with the help of one of the nurses, another asks about psychological help. Though Dad is present in body, he doesn’t say a word, and Mom evades the question.

When Kristina gets back, Mom and I help her into the wheelchair. She doesn’t smile or speak as we wheel her down the hallway. She keeps her hands folded in her lap and her eyes down the entire way to the parking lot. Dad walks behind us, silent.

We manage to get her in the passenger seat of Mom’s car without much of a problem. I sit in the back, and Dad goes to his own car to head to work. Neither Kristina nor I speak on the ride home, but Mom chirps on and on about the nice weather, the traffic, her plants, and while it’s a little unnerving, I have to salute her efforts. Once we get her inside the house, Kristina insists on going to her new room.

I follow her and linger as she hoists herself out of the wheelchair and settles herself into her bed. The nurses told Mom to let her do it herself, but I ache for how clumsy and unsure of her own body she is. But she does it, her mouth set with determination. Wincing as if with pain.

“So?” I say once she’s settled, trying to be natural. “Glad to be home?”

She stares at me and I think she’s going to continue with the silence, but when she laughs it’s a harsh sound. “What do you think, Tess?”

“I know,” I say. “But things will get better.”

“Yeah? You think I’ll be like a salamander and grow a new leg?”

I can’t think of a reply to that one.

She reaches down and smoothes out her pants. Her fingers stop at the safety pin holding up her pant leg just above her stump. “It’s weird how much it hurts. I know it’s phantom pain. How can my leg hurt, when it’s not even there, right?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, wishing I had more. It’s the most she’s spoken to me since her operation and I have nothing to give her back.

“No,” Kristina says, and breathes out a heavy sigh. “It’s my fault. That this happened. I’ve thought and thought about it. All the running and jumping I did. I should have taken it easier. I pushed myself too hard and brought this on.”

A single tear runs down her cheek and drips on her shirt.

“Kristina, you have cancer. You can’t bring that on by exercising too hard.” My heart swells with pain for her and I don’t bother pointing out that no one else on her volleyball team has a limb amputated from pushing themselves too hard.

She shakes her head. “No. It was me. I kept going even when it hurt. I waited a long time before I said anything. Didn’t want to upset anyone. Push. Be the best. I wanted to be the best, and look what it cost me.”

“It’s not your fault,” I repeat.

“I kind of hoped I’d die in the surgery. That they’d cut the wrong vein or something. But no such luck.”

“Kristina!”

“Well, look at me!” She points at her missing limb.

I glance around her room, searching for hints, for the right thing to say.

“You’re still you. And I don’t want you to die,” I finally say. It’s not profound or fancy, but it’s how I feel. I search for more. “I love you, Kristina. I do.” My cheeks flush, but it’s the only thing I can think of to say that means anything. I know it’s not enough, but it’s everything I’ve got.