Victory! I walk back down the hallway, whistling, sliding onto my bed and grabbing my phone as FaceTime pings, a call coming in from Stella just like I hoped.
I answer it, her face appearing, her pink lips turning up at the corners. “A dragon lady? So sexist!”
“Hey, you’re lucky you said no nudes!”
She laughs again, looking at the drawing and then back at me. “Why cartoons?”
“They’re subversive, you know? They can look light and fun on the outside, but they have punch.” I could talk about this all day. If there’s anything I’m passionate about, this would be it. I hold up a book that’s on my nightstand that has some of the best of the New York Times political cartoons. “Politics, religion, society. I think a well-drawn cartoon can say more than words ever could, you know? It could change minds.”
She looks at me, surprised, not saying anything.
I shrug, realizing how hard I just nerded out. “I mean, I’m just a wannabe cartoonist. What do I know.”
I point at the drawing behind her, a beautiful picture of lungs, flowers pouring out of the inside, a backdrop of stars behind them. “Now that is art.” I pull my laptop closer to me, realizing what it means. “Healthy lungs! That’s brilliant. Who did it?”
She looks back at it, pausing. “My older sister. Abby.”
“That’s some talent. I’d love to take a look at her other work!”
A strange look comes onto her face, and her voice turns cold. “Look. We’re not friends. We’re not sharing our stories. This is just about doing our treatments, okay?”
The call ends abruptly, my own confused face swinging into view. What the hell was that? I jump up, angry, and throw open the door to my room. Storming down the hallway, I make a beeline for her door, ready to give her a piece of my mind. She can kiss my—
“Hey! Will!” a voice says behind me.
I swing around, surprised to see Hope and Jason walking toward me. I was texting Jason like an hour ago, and I still totally forgot they were coming today, like they always do on Fridays. Jason holds up a bag of food, grinning at me as the smell of fries from my favorite diner a block away from our school wafts down the hallway, trying to reel me in.
I freeze, looking between Stella’s door and my visitors.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’ve seen both of her parents come and go. I saw her friends visiting her the first day she got here.
But Abby? She hasn’t even talked about Abby.
Where has Abby been?
I walk up to Hope and Jason, grabbing the bag and nodding for them to follow me into my room. “Come with me!”
I throw open my laptop, the two of them standing behind me as it boots up, surprised expressions on their faces.
“Nice to see you, too, dude,” Jason says, peering over my shoulder.
“So, I met a girl,” I say, facing the both of them. I shake my head when Hope gives me one of those smiles, her eyes excited. Jason is completely up to date on all things Stella, but I haven’t filled Hope in yet. Mostly because I knew she’d react like this. “Not like that! Okay. Maybe like that. But it can’t be like that. Whatever.”
I swing back to my computer, opening the tab to Stella’s YouTube page and scrolling to a video from last year labeled “Polypectomy Party!” I click on it, before slamming my space bar to pause the video and spinning around to fill them in.
“She’s got CF. And she’s, like, a crazy control freak. She’s made me start doing my treatments all the way and everything.”
Relief fills Hope’s eyes and Jason is positively beaming. “You’ve started doing your treatments again? Will. That’s awesome,” Hope gushes.
I wave her praise away, even though I’m a little surprised it got this big of a reaction. Hope pestered me about it for a while, but when I told them to leave it alone, they didn’t make a big deal about it. I sort of thought we were all on the same page.
But now they both look so relieved. I frown. I don’t want to get their hopes up.
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway. Get this. She has a sister named Abby.” I fast-forward to a few minutes in, pressing play so they both can watch.
Stella and Abby are sitting in a hospital room, artwork lining the walls like in her room now. Dr. Hamid is there, a stethoscope pressed to Stella’s chest as she listens to her lungs. Stella’s legs are shaking anxiously as she looks between Dr. Hamid and the camera.
“Okay. So, I’m having a nasal poly . . . ?”
“Polypectomy,” Dr. Hamid says, straightening up. “We’re removing polyps from your nasal passages.”
Stella grins at the camera. “I’m trying to talk the doc into a nose job while she’s there.”
Abby gives her a big hug, squeezing her tightly. “Stella’s nervous. But I’ll be there to sing her to sleep, just like always!” She starts to sing, her voice soft and sweet, “ ‘I love you, a bushel and a peck—’ ”
“Stop!” Stella says, clamping her hand down over her sister’s mouth. “You’ll jinx it!”
I hit pause on the video, swinging around to face my friends.
They both look confused, clearly not getting the realization that just came to me. They look at each other, eyebrows raised, and then Hope gives me a big smile, leaning over to squint at the sidebar.
“You watched all her videos?”
I ignore her.
“Well, she just freaked out like five minutes ago when I asked to see more of her sister’s art. That video was last year,” I say as an explanation.
“Okay, and?” Jason asks, frowning.
“Abby’s not in any of the videos after this.”
They nod, slowly catching on. Hope pulls out her phone, frowning as she taps away. “I found Abby Grant’s Instagram. It’s mostly art, and her and Stella.” She looks up at me, nodding. “But you’re right. She hasn’t posted in a year.”
I look from Jason to Hope, then back again. “I think something happened to Abby.”
* * *
The next afternoon my phone buzzes noisily, reminding me of an exercise session Stella programmed into my regimen. I haven’t seen her since I figured out something happened with Abby, and the thought of seeing her in just a few minutes is making me weirdly nervous. I couldn’t really enjoy the rest of the visit with Hope and Jason, even as we ate fries and talked about all the latest post-Thanksgiving school drama over the new episode of Westworld. We always wait to watch new episodes together, even if I’m on an entirely different continent in another time zone and need to Skype them.
Taking a deep breath, I head to the gym to meet Stella, pushing open the door and walking past the rows of treadmills and ellipticals and stationary bikes.
Peeking into the yoga room, I see her sitting on a green mat meditating, her legs crossed, her eyes closed.
Slowly I push open the door, walking as quietly as I can to a mat across the room from her.
Six feet away.
I sit down and watch how peaceful she looks, her face soft and calm. But her eyes slowly open to meet mine and she stiffens.
“Barb didn’t see you, did she?”
“Abby’s dead, isn’t she?” I blurt out, cutting right to the point. She stares at me, not saying anything.
Finally she swallows, shaking her head. “Real nice, Will. About as delicate as a jackhammer.”
“Who has time for delicacy, Stella? We clearly don’t—”
“Stop!” she says, cutting me off. “Stop reminding me that I’m dying. I know. I know that I’m dying.”
She shakes her head, her face serious. “But I can’t, Will. Not now. I have to make it.”
I’m confused. “I don’t under—”
“I’ve been dying my whole life. Every birthday, we celebrated like it was my last one.” She shakes her head, her hazel eyes shining bright with tears. “But then Abby died. It was supposed to be me, Will. Everyone was ready for that.”
She takes a deep breath, the weight of the world on her shoulders
. “It will kill my parents if I die too.”
It hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ve been wrong all along.
“The regimen. All this time I thought you were afraid of death, but it’s not that at all.” I watch her face as I keep talking. “You’re a dying girl with survivor’s guilt. That is a complete mind-fuck. How do you live with—”
“Living is the only choice I have, Will!” she snaps, standing up and glaring down at me.
I stand up, staring at her. Wanting to step closer and close the gap between us. Wanting to shake her to get her to see. “But, Stella. That’s not living.”
She turns, pulling on her face mask and bolting for the door.
“Stella, wait! Come on!” I take a few steps after her, wishing I could just reach out and grab her hand, so I can fix it. “Don’t go. We’re supposed to be exercising, right? I’ll shut up, okay?”
The door slams behind her. Shit. I really screwed that up.
I turn my head to stare at the mat where she was just sitting, frowning at the empty space where she just was.
And I realize I’m doing the one thing I’ve told myself this whole time I wouldn’t do. I’m wanting something I can never have.
CHAPTER 11
STELLA
I slam open the door to my room, Abby’s drawings all blurring together in front of me as all the pain and the guilt I’ve been pushing further and further down rears its ugly head, making my knees buckle under me. I crumple onto the ground, my fingers clutching at the cold linoleum floor as I hear my mom’s scream ringing in my head just like it did that morning.
I was supposed to be with her that weekend in Arizona, but I was struggling so hard to breathe the night before our flight that I had to stay behind. I apologized over and over again. It was supposed to be her birthday gift. Our first trip, just the two of us. But Abby waved it off, hugging me tight and telling me that she’d be back in a few days with enough pictures and stories to make me feel like I’d been there with her all along.
But she never came back.
I remember hearing the phone ring downstairs. My mom sobbing, my dad knocking on my door and telling me to sit down. Something had happened.
I didn’t believe him.
I shook my head, and laughed. This was an Abby prank. It had to be. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. I was the one who was supposed to die, long before all of them. Abby was practically the definition of alive.
It took three full days for the grief to hit me. It was only when our flight back was supposed to land that I realized Abby really wasn’t coming home. Then I was blindsided. I lay in bed for two weeks straight, ignoring my AffloVest and my regimen, and when I got up, it wasn’t just my lungs that were a mess. My parents couldn’t talk to each other. Couldn’t even look at each other.
I’d seen it coming long before it happened. I’d prepared Abby for what to do to keep them together after I was gone. But I hadn’t expected to be the one doing it.
I tried so hard. I planned family outings; I made dinner for them when they couldn’t do anything but stare off into space. But it was all for nothing. If Abby came up, a fight always followed. If she didn’t, her presence suffocated the silence. They were separated after three months. Divorced in six. Putting as much distance between each other as possible, leaving me straddling the in-between.
But it hasn’t helped. Ever since then it’s like I’ve been living a dream, every day focused on keeping myself alive to keep them both afloat. I make to-do lists and check them off, trying to keep myself busy, swallowing my grief and pain so my parents don’t get consumed by theirs.
Now on top of all that, Will, of all people, is trying to tell me what I should be doing. As if he has any concept of what living actually means.
And the worst part is that the only person I want to talk to about it is Abby.
I angrily wipe away my tears with the back of my hand, pulling my phone out of my pocket and texting the only other person I know who will understand.
Multipurpose lounge. Now.
* * *
I think of all the drawings around my room. Each one a separate trip to the hospital with Abby there to hold my hand. And now there are three trips. Three whole trips without a drawing to go with them.
I remember the first day I came to Saint Grace’s. If I hadn’t been afraid before, the size of this place was enough to make a six-year-old feel overwhelmed. The big windows, the machinery, the loud noises. I walked through the lobby, clutching Abby’s hand for dear life and trying so hard to be brave.
My parents talked to Barb and Dr. Hamid. Even before they knew me, they did their very best to help me feel like Saint Grace’s Hospital was my second home from the moment I got there.
But, of everyone, it was Abby who really did that. She gave me three invaluable gifts that day.
The first was my stuffed panda bear, Patches, carefully hand-selected from the hospital gift shop.
The second was my first of many drawings, the tornado of stars. The first piece of “wallpaper” I’d collect from her.
And while my parents talked to Barb about the state-of-the-art facility, Abby ran off and found me the final gift of that day.
The best I’d ever receive in all my years at Saint Grace’s.
“It’s impressive, for sure,” my mom said, while I watched Abby trot away down the brightly colored hallway of the children’s ward, disappearing around a corner.
“Stella’s going to be right at home here!” Barb said, giving me a warm smile. I remember clutching Patches, trying to find the courage to smile back at her.
Abby rounded the corner, nearly running smack into a nurse as she sprinted back over to us, a very small, very thin, brown-haired boy wearing an oversize Colombian national team jersey trailing behind her.
“Look! There are other kids here!”
I waved at the boy before Barb stepped in between us, colorful scrubs putting up a wall between the two of us.
“Poe, you know better,” she said, scolding the small boy as Abby took my hand in hers.
But Abby had already set it in motion. Even from six feet away Poe became my best friend. Which is why he’s the only person to talk me through this.
I pace back and forth, the lounge a blur in front of me. I try to focus on the fish tank or the TV or the refrigerator humming in the corner, but I’m still livid over my fight with Will.
“You knew he had boundary issues,” Poe says from behind me, watching me intently from the edge of the love seat. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he meant to hurt you.”
I spin around to face him, clutching at the counter of the kitchenette. “When he said ‘Abby’ and ‘dead,’ ”—my voice cracks, and I dig my fingers into the cool marble of the counter—“like it was no big deal, I just . . .”
Poe shakes his head, his eyes sad.
“I should have been with her, Poe,” I choke out, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. She was always there. To stand by me when I needed her. And I wasn’t there when she needed me most.
“Don’t. Not again. It’s not your fault. She’d tell you it’s not your fault.”
“Was she in pain? What if she was scared?” I gasp, the air catching in my chest. I keep seeing my sister plummeting down, like she did in the GoPro video and a million times before, bungee jumping and cliff diving with reckless abandon.
Only, this time there’s no wild whoop of joy and excitement. She hits the water and doesn’t resurface.
She wasn’t supposed to die.
She was supposed to be the one to live.
“Hey! Stop. Look at me.”
I stare at him, tears pouring from my eyes.
“You have to stop,” he says, his fingers clutching the armrest of the couch, his knuckles turning white. “You can’t know. You just . . . can’t. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
I take a deep breath, shaking my head. He stands up, stepping toward me and groaning in frustration. “This disease is a
fucking prison! I want to hug you.”
I sniff, nodding in agreement.
“Pretend I did, okay?” he says. I see he’s blinking back tears too. “And know that I love you. More than food! More than the Colombian national team!”
I crack a smile, nodding. “I love you, too, Poe.” He pretends to blow me a kiss, without actually breathing my way.
I slump down onto the mint-green love seat sitting vacant across from Poe’s, immediately gasping in pain as my vision doubles. I sit bolt upright and clutch at my side, my G-tube burning like absolute fire.
Poe’s face turns white. “Stella! Is everything okay?”
“My G-tube,” I say, the pain subsiding. I sit up, shaking my head and gasping for breath. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
I take a deep breath and lift my shirt and see that the infection has only gotten way worse, the skin red and puffy, the G-tube and the area around it oozing. My eyes widen in surprise. It’s only been eight days here. How have I not noticed how bad it’s gotten?
Poe winces, shaking his head. “Let’s get you back to your room. Now.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later Dr. Hamid gently touches the infected skin around my G-tube, and I grimace as pain radiates across my stomach and chest. She takes her hand away, shaking her head as she pulls her gloves off and carefully puts them in a trash can by the door.
“We need to take care of this. It’s too far gone. We have to excoriate the skin and replace your G-tube to purge the infection.”
I immediately feel woozy, my insides turning cold. It’s the words I’ve been afraid of since it first started looking infected. I put my shirt back down, trying not to let the fabric rub against the area.
“But—”
She cuts me off. “No buts. It has to be done. We are risking sepsis here. If this gets any worse, the infection can get into your bloodstream.”
We’re both silent, knowing how big the risk is here. If I get sepsis, I’ll definitely die. But if I get put under for surgery, my lungs might not be strong enough to pull me through to the other side.
She sits down next to me, bumping my shoulder and smiling at me. “It’ll be okay.”
“You don’t know that,” I say, swallowing nervously.
Five Feet Apart Page 9
