Beyond The Roses

by Monica James

  But I continued because, after the first quarter of the trial, my tumor had shrunk. It was now roughly the size of a small lemon.

  Dr. Carter told me not to get my hopes up, but I was thrilled. I was convinced I would beat this. I was beating the odds as it was for surviving for as long as I had, but it was all in vain. Regardless, for the first time in a long time, I had hope. And that hope was thanks to someone who changed my life forever.

  Georgia Faye was my one and only true friend. All my socialite friends had long forgotten about me, and our “friendship” presented itself for what it truly was—superficial, just like the world I once lived and thrived in.

  I met Georgia while she too was receiving the trial drugs. We would chat daily, and it was nice to have someone who understood just how hard life was. Soon, we grew inseparable, as our dire circumstances bound us together.

  We decided we wouldn’t let this disease beat us without a fight. Georgia’s tumor was slightly larger and more aggressive than mine was, but that only inspired her to fight harder. Georgia was the most positive and inspirational person I knew.

  We joined a gym, grew strong, and obliterated the stigma that came with being sick. We drank disgusting potions believed to keep the brain healthy, but we downed that gunk like it was going out of fashion. Everything was better back then because Georgia was by my side.

  When our results came back as showing improvement, we felt like the luckiest girls alive.

  Both our muscle masses had grown thanks to our strenuous workouts, so my limp was gone. Georgia helped me with my stutter while I helped her with her blackouts by teaching her some meditation I learned in yoga.

  Life was good. Well, as good as good can be for two women, such as Georgia and me.

  Georgia and I were friends for a year, and it was the best year of my life. But life can be cruel, and it showed me just how unforgiving it could be. To celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday, we were going to go out to a bar.

  I was applying my favorite shade of lipstick when my cell rang. There was a bounce to my step, but it was the last I ever had. On the other end of the line was Georgia’s mom—she was sobbing, inconsolable, her words a blubbering mess. She informed me that Georgia had passed in her sleep. She had succumbed to the disease we were certain we would beat.

  The funeral was beautiful. Georgia would have loved it. It was colorful and vivacious, just like Georgia. But my best friend would be none of those things ever again. After Georgia’s death, I lost all hope. It felt as if my heart was ripped from my chest. I stopped doing all the things Georgia and I used to do as the memories were too painful to bear alone.

  If the strongest person I knew couldn’t beat this, then how could I?

  Dr. Carter said a new trial drug had just become available, and that I was the perfect candidate. It was stronger than the previous drugs, and because of my positive test results, he thought I had a good shot at making my inoperable tumor operable. The previous drugs had reduced the size of my tumor, but it was still inoperable. He had hope. But me, I didn’t. Once upon a time, I had hope, but all it did was give me a false sense of normalcy. So I stopped taking any drugs and accepted that I would eventually end up in a hole in the ground, just like the only person I ever loved, and who had loved me back in return.

  Wiping away the torrent of tears, I force myself to return to the now. Since Georgia’s death, it’s been too easy to slip back into the darkness.

  “S-sorry, Zoe, I didn’t m-mean to scare y-you.” I stand slowly, the world constantly spinning. When I meet her wide, concerned eyes, my stomach drops.

  “It’s completely okay. Please don’t apologize. Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be okay.” Zoe doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t press.

  “Can I help you unpack?”

  “I can unpack later. I’d love to take a look around.”

  “I’d be happy to show you.”

  “Sure, thank you.”

  A grin lights up her face. “Would you mind if I go to my room first? I need to grab a sweater.”

  “Of course, no problem.” She’s out the door, promising to be back in five minutes.

  Deciding to go barefoot, I sit on the edge of the bed and untie my laces. As I kick off my shoes, a flesh of red from inside my backpack catches my eye. I know without looking what it is.

  This red bandana I packed with care belonged to Georgia.

  She used to wear it around her pale head with pride. Deciding to honor my friend, I reach for it, fingering the soft material between my fingers. “I miss you,” I whisper, wishing she was here with me.

  Suppressing my sadness, I wobble as I walk over to the wall mirror. I hate that my limp comes and goes because I know that I can be strong again. But there’s no point.

  My reflection stares back at me in the mirror as I comb my fingers through my chestnut hair. It’s grown healthy since I stopped taking the drugs. It’s just past my shoulders. I tie the bandana in my hair, styling it like a headband, just how Georgia did. The red draws out the green in my eyes. It also emphasizes the dark circles. I look and feel so much older than twenty-five.

  Looking around my room, I appreciate Strawberry Fields for what it is—it’s a holiday camp, a summer vacation for the dying. The membership requirements—you must be dying to get in—pun completely intentional.

  And that’s why I’m here.

  The doctors have told me it’s only a matter of time before I succumb to my illness, just like Georgia. But until that time comes, I want to help people. I’ve volunteered for three months because after reading the brochure, no matter how much time I have left, I want to make a difference. I can relate to what these kids are going through because all I ever wanted was for someone to listen to me and to be treated normally. I intend to be here for these kids and let them know they’re not alone. I want them to know that even though they’ve been given a life sentence, that doesn’t mean they can’t live life to the fullest. I want them to know that it’s okay to be different.

  This is the first time in so many months I feel like I belong.

  A smile is etched on my face as I close my door, thankful I listened to my gut and came here. However, a yelp replaced that smile when I turn without looking and bump straight into something hard.

  At first, I’m certain it’s the wall, but that’s impossible, considering I’m standing in the open corridor. That only leaves one other option. I’ve just rudely slammed into someone.

  “I am so…” The words die in a gargled mess when I peer up, and up, and see the striking face of a man who emanates sheer masculinity. The first thing that catches my attention is the vibrancy of his blue-gray eyes. They are crystal clear, mesmerizing beneath his black, horn-rimmed glasses. His dark brown hair is slicked back with short sides.

  His face is complete perfection, and I’m staring like a total creep.

  Mortified, I look down, which is a bad idea because I see that perfect face is attached to a perfect body. I now understand why I believed I bumped into a wall—a brick wall, that is—because he has muscles where I didn’t even know muscles existed.

  “Sorry,” I choke out, finishing my sentence spoken a lifetime ago.

  “No problem,” he replies a moment later. His voice is deep, honeyed. I suddenly wonder why my arms feel like they’re on fire. Peering down, I see his strong fingers are wrapped around my biceps. The gesture was to stop me from falling, which I’m grateful for because I’m certain I’m about to collapse in a messy heap.

  He is the most handsome man I have ever seen. I can’t help but wonder who he is.

  Zoe answers the question for me. “Hello, Dr. Archibald.”

  Her voice seems to snap us from whatever bubble we’re in because he smoothly removes his hands while I physically shake my head, hoping to knock some sense into it.

  He clears his throat before turning to look at her. “Hi, Zoe. Keeping out of mischief, I hope?”

  She chuckles, and I’m thankful I can breathe
again. “Shh, I have a reputation to uphold.”

  He’s a doctor? I suddenly feel beyond mortified for slobbering all over myself.

  “Okay. Your secret is safe with me.” There is a weighty silence before Dr. Archibald spins slowly. I hold my breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Dr. Archibald. I’m one of the many doctors who work here.”

  “Hello, Dr. Archibald. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lola. Lola Van Allen.” I give him a small wave, thankful I managed to spit out my sentence in one attempt.

  “Likewise.” He places his hands into his pressed pants pockets. “Did you just arrive?”

  His innocent comment snaps me from my hormone-fueled episode, and I nod. “Yes. Zoe was just about to show me around.”

  A dimple kisses his right whiskered cheek. “Well, you’re in good hands. I’ll see you around, Lola.” I nod, incapable of speech.

  He lingers for a moment, clearly sizing me up. He gives me a once-over before those stunning blue eyes rest on the bandana in my hair. Can he see the significance? How I tied it with love and care.

  He appears to want to say something else but changes his mind at the last minute. The air shifts.

  A second later, he walks off before I can question my temporary insanity further.

  A small giggle has me turning over my shoulder, raising a brow. “What?” I’m surprised I can speak.

  Zoe shrugs mischievously. “Nothing,” she replies, dragging out the G.

  “Spit it out.” I’m curious to know what’s going on.

  “Oh nothing, other than the fact you’ve just been infected with the Dr. Roman Archibald love bug.”

  “The what?” I scrunch up my nose.

  She bursts into fits of laughter. “You’ve got a lot to learn.” She wraps her arm around me playfully. “What do you want to see first?”

  “I want to see it all.” And for the first time in a long time, I mean it.

  Zoe shows me the gardens first as the sun is too beautiful to waste. The earth feels liberating beneath my toes; so much so, Zoe also kicks off her sandals halfway through the tour.

  The luscious greens extend as far as the eye can see. Numerous water activities take place on the lake as the still waters run along the edge of the entire property. Many rowboats are tied to the docks.

  Zoe details the multiple activities that take place on different days. Water polo, canoeing, volleyball, golf, and horseback riding are just the start of what’s on hand. A handful of kids are sitting under the trees and reading while most are splashing water in the lake.

  Zoe is chatting about how Strawberry Fields caters for thirty kids when I stop, needing to catch my breath. She doesn’t realize until she turns and sees me leaning against a tree for support. “Oh, my god! Am I walking too fast? I’m so sorry.” She runs over, concerned.

  “It’s okay. I just…my leg. It hurts sometimes.” My limp has returned since I stopped taking the drugs. Not as bad as before, but when I overdo it, it reminds me that it’s winning at life.

  Seeing as Zoe and I will most likely be working together over the next three months, and I don’t have anything to hide, I see no point in being evasive. “So the answer to your question as to why I’m here…I have a brain tumor. Inoperable. I’ve tried many different drugs. Nothing worked except a trial drug, but that too ended up being bullshit.” I can’t help but be bitter. “The doctors said I could go at any time, but no one knows their fate.”

  When Zoe blinks once, I quickly backtrack. “Sorry. That wasn’t incredibly depressing or anything. I just wanted to be honest.”

  She wets her lips, shaking her head. “No, it’s not depressing. It’s uplifting and inspirational that you want to come here and share your experience with kids who could really use your strength. What you’re doing…you’re making a difference, and these kids will appreciate it, even if they don’t show it half the time.”

  A baseball flies past our heads while she grins.

  I’ve never been ashamed of my illness, which is why I decided to come here. Getting through to children who don’t understand why they’ve been dealt such a bad hand can be tough, and I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. But being able to relate to them by telling my story—I can only hope I’ll be there for them like Georgia was for me.

  Zoe is clearly interested in what I just said, and I’m happy to tell her whatever she wants to know. “So you don’t take any pills? No chemo drugs?”

  “No. I don’t see the point. They give me false hope. I’m on medication to control my seizures and migraines. They wanted me to take a mood stabilizer, but I’m not interested in living the rest of my short life as a zombie. But as far as drugs to help my condition, there aren’t any. I’ve tried them all. The limp comes and goes because the tumor is pressing against my frontal lobe, affecting my movement. And just for fun, my temporal lobe is also affected, and that’s why I s-stutter occasionally.” It kicks in right on cue.

  Zoe is quiet, which is a first for her.

  “I need a drink,” I say out loud, needing to lighten the mood. I didn’t come here for me. I came here to help others like me.

  Zoe sniffs, before letting out a strangled laugh. “Me too.” The mood settles as we walk to the house.

  “Zoe, I’ve been looking for you,” says a sweet voice. Up ahead, I see a slender girl in a wheelchair veer her way over to us.

  “Cassandra.” Zoe smiles and throws her arms around her neck. “I want you to meet my new friend, Lola Van Allen.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Cassandra.” I bend forward and shake her limp hand, which is curled by her side. Cassandra is almost completely paralyzed from the chest down. She controls her motorized wheelchair by a joystick with her left hand.

  I don’t let that stop me from reaching out and touching her because she’s not a leper. None of us are.

  Cassandra smiles, and the sight is truly beautiful.

  “Who’s hungry? It’s almost time for lunch,” Zoe says.

  My stomach growls at the mere mention of food. They turn to look at me and burst into fits of laughter. It’s nice to laugh. Zoe leads the way.

  We enter the dining room, which looks like something out of a movie. A crystal chandelier hangs from the high ceiling. The sunlight drifting in from the copious windows sends mini rainbows across the room as it strikes each dangling gemstone. A vase of roses sits in the center of each table, filling the room with a sweet fragrance.

  We follow Cassandra, who zips over to a table in a small alcove. Looking around, I acquaint myself with my fellow volunteers and the children I’ll be spending my time with. They’re a mixed bunch. Some look unwell while others appear healthy, but the common factor is they’re all under fifteen, and they’re dying.

  “I was homeschooled,” I hear the teenage girl at the next table say to her peer. “Yup, I’m that freak.”

  I cluck my tongue.

  This is what I came here for. To put an end to this stigma associated with being sick.

  Trying this volunteer thing on for size, I approach the table, not wanting to press on my first day. “Hi, I’m Lola.” Both girls look at me. “I overheard what you said, and I just want you to know that no, you’re not a freak. We’re just…different.”

  The girl looks at me, turning up her lip bitterly. I know what she sees. On the outside, I look like the perfect beacon of health.

  Crouching down and dropping to her level, I smile. This is why I’m here. To make a difference. “I have a brain tumor, so if you’re a freak, then so am I.” Her eyes widen, and I can see it. We’re both in the same club no one wants to join, but we’re banded by shitty circumstances nonetheless.

  “Are you a volunteer here?”

  I nod, hoping it’s a good thing.

  It is.

  She beams brightly and reaches for her cell. “I’m going to text Francis and Ryan. You have to be our buddy. I’m Tash, by the way.”

  When I read over the welcoming pack, it stated a group of kids are assigned
a buddy. A buddy is someone who does activities with their group and is the leader of the pack. It warms me beyond words that Tash wants me as hers.

  The smell of ripe tomatoes and golden mozzarella wafts through the air. Volunteers in the green and navy uniform emerge from three entrances off to the sides, carrying silver trays of food.

  An older lady walks over to Cassandra and smiles. “Hello, Cassandra. I hope you’re hungry. We have lasagna on the menu.” Cassandra sighs, and I don’t understand why until the volunteer sits beside her and produces an adult bib. She ties it around her neck as Cassandra can’t do it herself.

  “Welcome to my hell,” she quips when she notices Tash looking at her.

  Tash quickly averts her gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “It’s okay. Alpers-Huttenlocher syndrome hasn’t been kind to me for over ten years. I’m used to people staring.”

  I’ve read about Cassandra’s condition, as it’s a disease that attacks the brain. Cassandra, just like me, would have been healthy and not known better. She walked, talked, and ate on her own, but our stories take the same turn. She would have experienced inexplicable changes, and then as time progressed, she would have watched herself deteriorate before her eyes, helpless to stop it.

  Tears sting, but I wipe them away. None of us wants sympathy.

  A beautiful woman in a lilac jacket and white pleated pants enters the room. Her white heels add height to her petite frame. Her long dark hair is twisted into a high bun, emphasizing her large green eyes and plump coral-painted lips.

  She searches the room, appearing to seek someone out. When her gaze lands on me, I’m surprised to see that someone is me. She waves, and I turn over my shoulder to ensure it is me she’s addressing. I see it is.

  “Hello, Lola.” I meet her warm eyes. “I’m Tamara Meriwether, the art teacher.” I nod with a smile. “Sorry to interrupt lunch, but I wanted to give you this.” She passes me a clear folder as I stand.

  “Thank you.” I accept and open it up to see a timetable and a long list of activities.

  “You’re helping out in my art class. I thought you may want it now as we’re starting some fun activities after lunch.”