Five Feet Apart

by Rachael Lippincott

  She nods, her face thoughtful. “You’re right. I don’t.” She takes a deep breath, meeting my anxious gaze. “It’s risky. I won’t say it’s not. But sepsis is a far bigger and far more likely monster.”

  Fear creeps up my neck and wraps itself around my entire body. But she’s right.

  Dr. Hamid picks up the panda sitting next to me, looking at it and smiling faintly. “You’re a fighter, Stella. You always have been.”

  Holding out the bear to me, she looks into my eyes. “Tomorrow morning, then?”

  I reach out, taking the panda, nodding. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m going to call your parents and let them know,” she says, and I freeze, a wave of dread hitting me.

  “Can you give it a few minutes so I can break the news to them? It’ll be easier coming from me.”

  She nods, giving my shoulder a tight squeeze before leaving. I lie back, clinging to Patches, anxiety filling me as I think about the calls I have to make. I keep hearing my mom in the cafeteria, her voice weaving circles around my head.

  I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  I hear a noise outside my door and turn my head to see an envelope sliding underneath. I watch the light trickling in from under the door as a pair of feet stand there for a moment before slowly turning and walking away.

  I stand carefully and bend down to pick up the envelope. Opening it, I pull out a cartoon drawing, the colors sad and dull. It’s a picture of a frowning Will, a wilted bouquet of flowers in his hand, a bubble caption underneath it reading “Sorry.”

  I lie back down on my bed, holding the drawing to my chest and closing my eyes tightly.

  Dr. Hamid said I was a fighter.

  But I really don’t know that I am anymore.

  CHAPTER 12

  WILL

  I messed up bad. I know that.

  I sneak out of our wing and around the east lobby of the hospital after dropping off the drawing, my phone clutched in my hand as I wait for something. A text, a FaceTime call, anything.

  She must have seen the drawing by now, right? Her light was on. But it’s been radio silence since our fight.

  What should I do? She won’t even talk to me, I text Jason, grimacing at myself. I can see him getting a real kick over me hung up on someone enough to ask his advice.

  Just give her some time, man, he replies.

  I sigh loudly, frustrated. Time. All this waiting is agony.

  I plop down on a bench, watching people pass by as they go through the sliding doors of the hospital. Young kids, nervously clutching the hands of their parents. Nurses, rubbing their eyes sleepily as they finally get to leave. Visitors, eagerly pulling on their jackets as they head home for the night. For the first time in a few days I wish I were one of them.

  My stomach growls noisily and I decide to head to the cafeteria to distract myself with some food. Walking toward the elevator, I freeze when I hear a familiar voice pouring out of a room nearby.

  “No envíe dinero, no puede pagarlo,” the voice says, the tone somber, sad. Dinero. Money. I took two years of Spanish in high school and can say only a handful of phrases, but I recognize that word. I peek my head inside to see it’s a chapel, with big stained-glass windows and classic wooden pews. The old, churchy look is so different from the rest of the hospital’s modern, sleek design.

  My eyes land on Poe, sitting in the front row, his elbows resting on his knees as he talks to someone over FaceTime.

  “Yo también te extraño,” he says. “Lo sé. Te amo, Mamá.”

  He hangs up the phone, putting his head in his hands. I pull the heavy door open a bit wider, the hinges creaking loudly as I do.

  He turns around in surprise.

  “The chapel?” I ask, my voice echoing too loud off the walls of the wide space as I make my way down the aisle toward him.

  He looks around, smiling faintly. “My mom likes to see me in here. I’m Catholic, but she’s Catholic.”

  He sighs, leaning his head against the pew. “I haven’t seen her in two years. She wants me to come visit her.”

  My eyes widen in surprise and I sit down across the aisle, a safe distance away. That’s a really long time. “You haven’t seen your mom in two years? What did she do to you?”

  He shakes his head, his dark eyes filled with sadness. “It’s not like that. They got deported back to Colombia. But I was born here and they didn’t want to take me away from my doctors. I’m a ‘ward of the state’ until I’m eighteen.”

  Shit. I can’t even imagine what that was like. How could they deport the parents of someone with CF? The parents of someone terminal.

  “That’s fucked up,” I say.

  Poe nods. “I miss them. So much.”

  I frown, running my fingers through my hair. “Poe, you have to go! You have to visit them.”

  He sighs, fixing his eyes on the large wooden cross sitting behind the pulpit, and I remember what I overheard. Dinero. “It’s pricey. She wants to send money, but she can’t really afford it. And I’m certainly not going to take food off her table—”

  “Listen, if it’s money, I can help. Seriously. I’m not trying to be a privileged dick, but it’s not an issue—” But before I even finish, I know it’s a no go.

  “Come on. Stop.” He turns his head to give me a look, before his face softens. “I’ll . . . I’ll figure it out.”

  A silence falls over us, the quiet, open air of the big room making my ears ring. This isn’t just about money. Besides, I know more than anyone that money can’t fix everything. Maybe someday my mom will catch on.

  “Thanks, though,” Poe says finally, smiling at me. “I mean it.”

  I nod as we fall silent again. How is it fair that my mom can hover over me, while someone else has his just ripped away from him? Here I am, counting down to eighteen, while Poe is trying to slow time down, wishing for more of it.

  More time.

  For me, it was easy to give up. It was easy to fight my treatments and focus on the time I do have. Stop working so damn hard for just a few seconds more. But Stella and Poe are making me want every second more that I can get.

  And that terrifies me more than anything else.

  * * *

  That evening I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling as I do my nebulizer treatment without Stella.

  Anything? Jason texts me, which doesn’t help, since the answer is a resounding no.

  Still nothing from her. Not even a note. But I can’t stop thinking about her. And the longer she’s silent, the worse it gets. I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to be close to her, to reach out and actually touch her, to make her feel better after I screwed up.

  I can feel something reaching from deep in my chest, in the tips of my fingers and the pit of my stomach. Reaching out to feel the smooth skin of her arm, the raised scars I’m sure are on her body.

  But I’ll never be able to. The distance between us will never go away or change.

  Six feet forever.

  My phone pings and I grab it, hopeful, but it’s just a notification from Twitter. I throw my phone down on my bed, frustrated.

  What the hell, Stella? She can’t stay mad forever.

  Can she?

  I need to make this right.

  I switch off the nebulizer and throw my legs over the bed, sliding into my shoes and peering into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear. I see Julie sliding into a room farther down the hall with an IV drip, and I quickly slip out of my room, knowing I have time. Walking quietly down the hallway, I pass the empty nurses’ station and freeze in front of her door, hearing music softly playing on the other side.

  She’s in there.

  Taking a deep breath, I knock, the sound of my knuckles reverberating off the worn wood.

  I hear the music shut off and then her footsteps as she comes closer and closer, stopping
in front of the door, hesitating. Finally it opens, her hazel eyes making my heart pound heavily in my chest.

  It’s so good to see her.

  “You’re here,” I say softly.

  “I’m here,” she says coolly, leaning against the doorframe and acting like she didn’t just ignore me for the whole day. “I got your cartoon. You’re forgiven. Back up.”

  I quickly step all the way back to the far wall, putting the six frustrating feet between us. We stare at each other, and she blinks, looking away to check the hall for nurses before looking down at the tile floor.

  “You missed our treatment.”

  She looks impressed that I actually remembered but stays silent. I notice her eyes are red, like she’s been crying. And I don’t think it’s from what I said.

  “What’s going on?”

  She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks, I can hear the nerves lacing her words. “The skin around my G-tube is pretty badly infected. Dr. Hamid’s worried about sepsis. She’s going to purge my infected skin and replace my G-tube in the morning.”

  When I look in her eyes, I see it’s way more than nerves. She’s afraid. I want to reach out and take her hand in mine. I want to tell her that everything will be okay and that this shouldn’t be a bad one.

  “I’m going under general.”

  What? General anesthesia? With her lungs at 35 percent? Is Dr. Hamid out of her mind?

  I grip the railing on the wall to keep myself in place. “Shit. Are your lungs up for that?” We stare at each other for a moment, the open air between us feeling like miles and miles.

  She looks away, ignoring the question. “Remember to take your bedtime meds and then set up your G-tube feeding for the night, okay?” Without giving me time to respond, she closes the door.

  I walk slowly to it, reaching out to lay my hand flat against it, knowing she’s on the other side. I take a deep breath, resting my head on the door, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s going to be okay, Stella.”

  My fingers land on a sign hanging on her door. I look up, reading it: NOTHING TO EAT OR DRINK AFTER MIDNIGHT. SURGERY 6 A.M.

  I pull my hand away before I get busted by one of the nurses and walk down the hallway to my room, plopping down on my bed. Stella is normally so in control. Why is this time so different? Is it because of her parents? Because of how low her lung function is?

  I roll over on my side, my eyes landing on my own lung drawing, making me remember the drawing in her room.

  Abby.

  Of course that’s why she’s so freaked out. This is her first surgery without Abby.

  I still need to make things right. An idea pops into my head and I sit bolt upright. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I set an alarm for 5:00 a.m., for the first time maybe ever. Then I take my box of art supplies off my shelf and get planning.

  CHAPTER 13

  STELLA

  I hold Patches close to my chest and look from my mom to my dad as they sit on either side of me. Both of them shoot me thin-lipped smiles that don’t reach their eyes as they avoid each other’s gazes. I look over at the picture of all of us pinned to the back of my door, wishing I could have those parents back, the ones who always told me everything would be okay.

  Taking a deep breath, I suppress a cough, while my dad tries to make some small talk.

  He holds up the pink calendar they sent around to all the rooms with the daily specials down at the cafeteria. “I think there’s gonna be cream of broccoli soup tonight for dinner. Your favorite, Stell!”

  “She probably won’t be up for eating right after surgery, Tom,” my mom snaps at him, his face falling at her words.

  I try to sound enthusiastic. “If I’m up for it tonight, I’ll definitely get some!”

  There’s a knock on the door and an orderly walks in, wearing a surgical cap and a pair of blue latex gloves. My parents both stand up, my dad reaching out to take my hand.

  It takes everything in me to steady it.

  “See you in a few, honey,” my mom says as both of them give me big hugs, which linger a little too long. I wince as my G-tube rubs up against them, but I hold on tight, not wanting them to let go.

  The orderly pulls up the railings on the sides of my gurney, locking them in place with a click. I stare at Abby’s drawing as they roll me out, the healthy lungs calling to me. I wish more than anything she were here with me now, holding my hand, singing the song.

  The orderly rolls me down the hallway, my parents’ faces fading as they get farther and farther away, and we get into the elevator at the end of the hall. As the doors slide shut, the orderly smiles at me. I try to smile back, but my mouth refuses to make the shape. I clutch at the sheets, my fingers interlacing with the fabric.

  The door dings open, the familiar hallways whizz by, everything seeming too bright, too whitewashed to make out specifics.

  We go through the heavy double doors into the pre-op area, and then into a room slightly down the hallway. The orderly pushes the gurney into place. “Need anything before I head out?” he asks.

  I shake my head, trying to take a deep breath as he leaves, the room becoming completely silent except for the steady beeping of my monitors.

  I stare at the ceiling, trying to push away the growing panic eating away at my insides. I did everything right. I was careful and put on the Fucidin, I took my medication at the scheduled times, and I’m still lying here about to go into surgery anyway.

  All of my obsessing over my regimen for nothing.

  I think I get it now. Why Will would go onto the roof. I’d do anything to get up from the gurney and run far, far away. To Cabo. To Vatican City to see the Sistine Chapel. To all the things I have avoided out of fear of getting sicker, only to find myself lying here anyway, about to go into another surgery I might not come out of.

  My fingers wrap around the railings clicked into place on either side of me, my knuckles turning white as I tighten my grip on them, willing myself to be a fighter like Dr. Hamid said yesterday. If I want to do those things, I need more time. I have to fight for it.

  The door slowly opens, and a tall, thin person ducks inside. He’s wearing the same green surgeon scrubs, face mask, and blue gloves that the pre-op nurses wear, but his wavy brown hair is peeking out from under a clear surgical cap.

  His eyes find mine and I let go of the railings in surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper, watching as Will sits down in a chair beside me, scooting it back to make sure he’s a safe distance away.

  “It’s your first surgery without Abby,” he says in explanation, a new expression I don’t quite recognize filling his blue eyes. It’s not mocking or jokey, it’s totally and completely open. Almost earnest.

  I swallow hard, trying to stop the emotions that come bubbling up, tears clouding my eyes. “How did you know that?”

  “I’ve seen all your movies,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles at me. “You might say I’m a fan.”

  All of them? Even that embarrassing one from when I was twelve?

  “I might mess this up,” he says, clearing his throat as he pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket.

  He starts to sing, softly.

  “I love you, a bushel and a peck—”

  “Go away. I’m being stupid,” I blubber as I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand, shaking my head.

  “A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.”

  Abby’s song. He’s singing Abby’s song. The tears start rolling down my face faster than I can catch them as I watch his deep-blue eyes, focused on reading every lyric off that crumpled piece of paper.

  I feel like my heart might burst, I’m feeling so many things at once. “My gran used to sing us that song. I never loved it, but Abby did.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “I had to Google it. Man, it is old.”

  I laugh with him, nodding. “I know. What the hell is a—”

  “Barrel and a heap?” we say at the same ti
me, the both of us laughing, his eyes meeting mine and making my heart dance inside my chest, the heart monitor just next to him beeping faster and faster. He leans forward, ever so slightly, just barely in the danger zone, but enough to push away the pain of the G-tube.

  “You’re going to be just fine, Stella.”

  His voice is deep. Soft. I know in that moment, even though it could not be more ridiculous, that if I die in there, I won’t die without falling in love.

  “Promise?” I ask.

  He nods and stretches his arm out, holding up a gloved pinky across the distance. I take it and we pinky promise. The smallest contact, but the first time we’ve ever touched.

  And right now that doesn’t scare me.

  My head snaps in the direction of the door as the sound of footsteps comes closer and closer. Dr. Hamid appears, a surgical nurse pushing through the door with her.

  “Ready to get this show on the road?” she says, shooting me a thumbs-up.

  My head whips around to the chair where Will was sitting, fear gripping my chest.

  It’s empty.

  And then I see him, behind the gray curtain, his back pressed up against the wall. He holds his finger to his mouth and pulls his face mask off to smile at me.

  I smile back, and as I look at him, I start to believe what he said.

  I’m going to be fine.

  * * *

  A few minutes later I’m lying on the operating table, the room dim except for the blinding light directly above my head.

  “All right, Stella, you know what to do,” a voice says, holding up a mask in a blue-gloved hand.

  My heart begins pounding nervously, and I turn my head to face them, meeting their dark eyes as they put the mask over my nose and mouth. When I wake up, it will all be over.

  “Ten,” I say, looking past the anesthesiologist to the operating room wall, my eyes landing on a shape that’s oddly familiar.

  Abby’s lung drawing.

  How?

  But I know of course. Will. He snuck it into the operating room. A single tear falls from my eye and I keep counting.

  “Nine. Eight.” The flowers all start to swim together, the blues and the pinks and the whites all twisting and turning and blurring together, the colors coming off the page and reaching toward me.