The Missing Piece

by Jessica Baxter

  I slowly open the door a creak and stare out into the hallway.

  “You insufferable twit,” Ian says, his hands are balled into fists and his body is shaking. He stands in front of my dorm room, blocking Sarah’s path. Her eyes are wild and she’s fuming with rage. She looks like the Evil Queen when she hands the huntsman the golden box and tells him to cut out Snow White’s heart. My hands quiver and I almost lose my grip on the door.

  “If you hang out with her again, I'll ruin Sophie,” Sarah says, shoving her hands against his chest. He doesn’t budge. She stomps her foot angrily. “You have two weeks. Ditch the tramp or I'll end Sophie.”

  She turns on her heel and as she stomps away, Ian calls after her, “Are you always this daft, or are you making a special effort today?”

  Sarah gives him the finger and then stomps away down the hall. As she does I slowly let the door slide shut and try to calm my pounding heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Friday I ditch the Halloween dance, despite my friends’ efforts to pull me out of my room. Instead, I spend the evening Googling homemade remedies for cancer. My eyes scan thousands of browser pages—each claiming a cure for stage four melanoma skin cancer. Green Tea. Vitamin D. Vitamin B17. Eating ⅓ raw food. Stress Management. Sleep. Exercise. And, then before I can stop myself I’m typing the words I promised I’d never think into WebMD.

  My heart rips, shatters and splits in two as I try to process the words on the screen. 63%. There’s only a 63% chance of survival. That can’t be possible.

  How is it that possible?

  The weight of all that we’ll miss out on hangs heavy in the air and pulls on my chest. Graduation, college . . . marriage. It feels as if a toy soldier is stabbing me in the heart, repeatedly, with the butt of its rifle.

  My mother can’t be dying—not again. She already faced her one-eyed Cyclopes. Why should she have to defeat it a second time? I quickly scan the screen for a sliver of hope, some sort of silver lining, but nothing surfaces. I clench and unclench my fists, slam my laptop shut, and squeeze my eyes close.

  This can’t be happening.

  I’ve always known there was a chance that my mother’s cancer would come back, but that’s all I thought it was: a chance. And, now I have to relive it; the chemo, the sleepless nights, the constant throwing up, the lack of appetite. The worst part is, I can’t even be there to comfort my mom.

  I shake my head, trying to fathom why my father would do this to me—surely, there must be some strand of humanity left in his soul. After staring blankly at the wall for ten minutes, I push my chair back and snatch my phone off the desk. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this. If my father won’t let me come home, mom will.

  I’m too agitated to sit, anxiety and dread pump quickly through my veins. My fingers dial her number and I press the phone to my ear. My mom always has her phone on hand, so it feels odd when I get sent directly to voicemail. The world feels like it’s crashing down on me and there is nothing I can to do to save myself. My heart feels like it weighs fifty pounds.

  Calm down. You need to calm down. Ariel, Aurora, Belle, Cinder . . . ella . . . I can't . . . breathe.

  My breathing quickens until it’s sharp and ragged. I can’t get a grip on reality, the darkness is taking over and I CAN’T push it away. I feel as if I’m having one of those out of body experiences like Scrooge when he journeys with the ghosts of Christmases past, present, and future. But, unlike Scrooge, I don’t get a do-over. This scene in my life has already been written and there is nothing I can do to change it.

  The next few days pass in a blur. I spend every day in my room replaying my father's words again and again until I can quote them verbatim. I make little use of my phone, shower or anything else that might bring me in contact with the world outside of my bedroom.

  Why did her cancer have to come back?

  A shiver runs through me, despite the fact that my window is open. It’s a perfectly warm, sunny Tuesday, but I’m wrapped up in my fleece blanket wearing the same pajamas I wore three days ago. I can’t decide whether I want to stay and fight or cower under my blankets, the way I did when I was younger and had a bad dream.

  Warning bells shoot off in my head, like a Disney firework show in the Magic Kingdom, reminding me there’s only a 63% survival rate. I wipe angry tears from my eyes and suddenly, I’m flying through memories until I’m back at Cedar Heights Memorial Hospital for the first time with my mom.

  My mom looks lifeless as we wait for Dr. Simmons. Her cheeks are gaunt and her eyes are sunk in. It’s almost as if she has come back from the dead. She turns to look at me and whimpers in pain.

  “Mom? What is it?”

  She offers a reassuring smile and then waves me off. “It's nothing honey. The doctor will be here soon.”

  I pick my book back up and sit in the doctor’s swivel chair. The hospital is tiny and smells like dead people. I don’t like hospitals. There’s just something about them that sets me on edge and makes me feel queasy.

  The door opens and Dr. Simmons enters. He’s tall, young and looks like he’s never had to work for anything in his life. He flashes me a dazzling smile, before turning to my mom.

  “Hello, Mrs. Stone. What seems to be the problem?”

  “The past few days I’ve been so exhausted, I can’t seem to make it through my daily to-do lists, no matter how hard I try.”

  Dr. Simmons nods his head. “I see. Has there been any recent changes in your life that might have induced stress?”

  My mom inhales. “No. Not that I can think of.”

  Dr. Simmons puts his clipboard down and walks over to my mom. He grabs his stethoscope and then proceeds to give her a routine check-up. He has her step on the scale. “Mrs. Stone, have you been dieting recently?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Why?”

  “You’ve lost a lot of weight since your last visit.” He says glancing down at her chart. “Have you been feeling nauseous at all?”

  “Off and on, but it usually passes.”

  “Hmm, it sounds like you have nothing more than the common flu. You’ve taken on all the symptoms of the flu, without the vomiting so that’s good.” Dr. Simmons signs an RX form and hands it to my mom. “Take this medicine twice a day for the next week and I’m sure you’ll be back to your normal schedule in no time.”

  My hands ball into fists, stupid doctor. No progress was made on my mother’s case until Dr. James Doyle showed up. He was the only one who thought my mother’s predicament had an explanation bigger than the common flu; he took her to get her first CT and the scans lit up like she won the jackpot.

  If only Dr. Simmons had taken my mother's visit more seriously, if only he had put more time into finding a cure, instead of signing the RX form the first chance he got. Maybe, the survival rate would be better. Maybe we’d have a chance to beat this thing. And, maybe just maybe, I wouldn't be locked in my room mourning my mother’s inevitable death.

  I startle awake to a loud banging on my door. The screen on my phone flashes the time, 6:55 AM, Wednesday morning. The banging comes again and I groan in response.

  I hear mumbling in the hallway, but it’s hard to make out exactly what is being said. Someone mentions my name, and I perk up in bed listening more closely.

  “You’re not her mot—shit . . . I mean, you can’t force her to come.” Danielle’s voice floods under the door.

  “She’s already missed a week of school!” Calliope says. “Do you want to make her repeat senior year?”

  “Of course not! She just found out . . .” Danielle groans. “Do you really want to—can’t you tell she’s grieving?”

  “Whatever. If she doesn’t want to come to class, I’m done getting her assignments.”

  “Calliope, don’t be like that. She’ll come to us when she’s ready to talk?”

  I hear the question and I don’t blame her. I haven’t talked to any of my friends, since the day I found out about my mom’s cancer.

&nb
sp; “Why are you making me out to be the bad guy?” Calliope’s voice comes out sharp and whiny.

  Footsteps pad down the hall, and then there’s a light knock on my door. I pull the pillow over my head and rollover.

  “Ems?” Danielle says softly, shyly. “Look, Calliope didn’t mean that . . . she’s just under a lot of stress right now.”

  I climb out of bed and stand on the other side of the door. I want to reply, but my lips feel like I used Gorilla glue as chapstick. A week has gone by and I haven't been able to get a hold of my mother. I've even tried blocking the number using *67, but the call didn't go through. My father must be screening her calls non-stop or maybe he's taken her phone. Whatever the reason, his message is clear: he is in control. If I want information about my mom I have to contact him, which is something I can't bring myself to do.

  I rest my hand on the door, wanting to have some human connection. However, I can’t bring myself to open the door and let Danielle see me like this. My world is crumbling to pieces; it feels like the dementors from Harry Potter have come and sucked all the happiness and goodness from my life. I am trapped in this dark, spiraling hole and I don’t know how to get out.

  Danielle’s shadow dances through the door crack. She’s shifting her feet again. “Um, you know where to find me if you need anything.”

  I open my mouth, but all that escapes is a sad, pathetic hiccup.

  Friday morning comes and I refuse to get out of bed. It's been a week since my mom’s cancer resurfaced. My thoughts should be occupied with the upcoming holidays and break, but I can’t focus on anything but CT scans, chemotherapy, needles, vials of blood, and the tumor that’s quickly consuming my mom’s body.

  I’m lying in my bed, the covers pulled tightly around my chest, skipping school four the fifth time this week, which I would normally never do, but this is different. The Little Mermaid is playing on a loop on my laptop, a copy of Pride and Prejudice sits open on my lap, but nothing, not even Mr. Darcy, can calm my nerves.

  My dad said he'll fly me home for Thanksgiving, but that doesn't mean diddly squat unless it's in writing and bound by the law. My stomach churns.

  I wish my mom had the courage to tell him enough is enough. But even if she did, would he let her leave?

  My shoulders sag. My dad has never been one to keep promises, but maybe this time will be different. Is mom’s condition enough to make him keep his promise? I bite my lip. Maybe the universe will be on my side this time.

  Goosebumps stand up on my arms the way the hair on your neck does when someone appears behind you unexpectedly. Would he send for me if she was on her deathbed? My hands ball into fists at my side. I clench my teeth.

  Stop it. Mom is NOT going to die.

  She’s going to beat this and then everything will go back to normal. I sigh. Was my life ever normal?

  Recently it feels like my life is stuck playing the scene from The Emperor’s New Groove where Kuzco throws the old man out the window. Even in my own thoughts, I’m not the person in control just like the old man, no matter how hard I try, I can’t change the outcome of my fall.

  I bury my face in my pillow and scream.

  Why did things have to change? Why did my mom’s cancer have to come back?

  My cell phone rings. A number I don't recognize flashes across the screen. I am not in the mood to talk, so I silence the call, sending the caller to voicemail. I wait until the number stops flashing across the screen and then dial my voicemail.

  It surprises me when I hear Mr. Allen's voice on the other end:

  Emily your friends are very worried about you. I am worried about you. I can't give you a cure to make your mother's cancer go away, but I can give you a listening ear. If you don't want to open up to me, that is fine, but please don't shut your friends out. They love you. If there is one thing you learn from me this year I want you to know that a little goes a long way. A little love will get you through about anything. A little kindness from a friend will get you through to the next day. A little happiness is all it takes to keep you going. You don't have to face this alone, my door is always open.

  A warm tightness squeezes my heart. Mr. Allen's kindness in reaching out to me fills me with hope. Tomorrow is a new day and I'm determined not to spend it in my room.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The following morning, I force myself out of bed, even though it feels like my legs are made of lead. It's been a week since I've showered last. My body is covered in dirt and grime and who knows what else, and the thing I'd like more than anything is to scourge my body with boiling water until all of the turmoil and pain from the past week is washed away . . . preferably when no one else is around.

  That's why I gather my toiletries and quickly dart across the hall to the bathroom at precisely 3:00 AM. It's late enough that everyone is now back in their dorms but too early for anyone to be awake and right now that's exactly what I need. Complete and utter silence as I slowly try to piece myself back together.

  I line my shampoo, conditioner, body scrub and body wash in order on the little bench inside the shower stall. After I have everything in place, I turn the water to its hottest temperature and climb inside.

  The water burns. I let it run over me anyway, covering me completely. I start with my head, scrubbing my hair until my brain feels numb. Then I lather body scrub all over, rubbing the sea salt vigorously against my skin. My skin is pink and raw as I wash my body with soap. I tell myself this cleansing will make me stronger, that the boiling water will heal me.

  I climb out of the shower, dry myself off and throw on the comfiest pair of sweats I own and a baggy plain black t-shirt. I twist my hair up in a messy bun, gather my things and then head back to my room.

  The state of my dorm startles me.

  How did I let it get so messy?

  Wads of paper cover the floor, empty fast food bags pile on my desk and my books that are normally neatly stacked on my shelves scatter the walkway. After putting my toiletries away in their proper place, I decide to tackle the dirty pile of clothes sitting at the foot of my bed.

  I barely take two steps when I hear a loud CRUNCH. I slowly lift my foot from the ground, worried I'll find Mickey Mouse's beheaded body beneath it, instead a crunched up Oreo sticks to the bottom of my foot. I slowly exhale as I wipe the cookie crumbs off and then grab my handheld vacuum off the desk and clean up the mess.

  As soon as I've cleared a path to my window, I push it open. A brisk wind blows inside my room causing me to shiver, but I don't care. The clean air feels calm and soothing and it gives me just the right amount of energy needed to finish the task at hand. So far I've gathered the trash off the floor and piled all my dirty clothes and bedding into my hampers by the door.

  By 6:00 AM I've organized my desk, bookshelves, and dresser and am ready to wash my dirty laundry. Cyprus Hall is completely quiet as I haul my dirty clothes to the laundry room at the end of the hall. As I pass Danielle's door, I debate waking her up, so she can take me to buy disinfecting wipes, but decide against it. I'm sure she's still asleep and I doubt the first thing she'd want me to ask for is a trip to the store.

  The laundry room has four washing machines and four dryers. It doesn't cost anything to use them, but you need your dorm key to unlock the doors. I pile my blankets inside— making sure to douse everything with detergent and fabric softener—as the water slowly fills the washing machine.

  A dark gray couch, piled with yellow and teal throw pillows, sits against the back wall of the laundry room. I sit down and pull my laptop out of my backpack. This week it was hard enough remembering to eat and sleep and function like a normal human being, so I didn't think much when my missing homework assignments started to add up.

  I wince as I quickly glance over my student profile and see how badly my grades are suffering. Thanksgiving break is in three weeks and if I want there to be any hope that my father will keep his promise I need to turn everything in. I crack my knuckles. Then I log into my Disneyfre
aks account and begin groveling like mad.

  At 11 AM, I am finally satisfied with the way my room looks and smells, so I decide to ride my bike through the park. The sun is shining and being outside, breathing in the fresh air, even if I don't talk to anyone sounds inviting. Before leaving my room, I stuff my well-read copy of Pride and Prejudice into my bag. One of the many rules that govern my life is to never go anywhere without a book in hand. You never know when you might need to escape reality or need to dodge an awkward situation. I can't begin to count the times that having a book on hand has saved my life.

  A light breeze blows through the trees as I make my way towards Adam's Park. I ride my bike slowly, taking in all the sights and smells that I've missed out on while I was comatose. Children squeal as they run through water shooting out of the splash pad, a group of teenagers throws a football back and forth in the open field and my heart aches.

  I miss my friends.

  Do they miss me?

  My fingers tightly clench my bike handle, sweat drips down my back. Everything around me starts to blur. I shake my head, forcing the thought to vanish before it has a chance to take root. Are hearts supposed to feel this heavy? I can't look up, worried everyone will be pointing and staring at me, so I stare at my shoes. Squeezing my eyes shut, I slowly repeat, deep breath in, deep breath out, exhale, until my pulse is back to normal.

  Once my nerves have calmed, I finish the loop around the pond as I look for the perfect curl-under-me-and-read kind of tree. A tall willow tree sits back on a hill, it isn't completely secluded from the path, but it does have great coverage of shade. I climb off my bike and push it towards the tree. The grass isn't lush or green like back home, but it feels soft and squishy as I sit down and lean against the tree.

  I close my eyes and rest my head in my hands, before pulling Pride and Prejudice out of my bag. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth have just lined up for the upcoming dance when they notice they are standing across from each other. Elizabeth quickly looks him over, promising herself to stay silent and then she realizes that it would torture Darcy more if she engages him in small talk. The cheekiness she shows towards Darcy makes me smirk, but my use of the word cheekiness sends butterflies dancing in my stomach.