I lay out my scrubs for tomorrow, as I always do, and add a hoodie to the arm of my chair, because the forecast calls for rain. Then I call Atlanta Memorial and ask for Melissa Peterson, the nurse who helped me earlier, but the head nurse on her floor comes on and tells me Melissa is in surgery. “I’m a nurse across the street at Children’s,” I tell her. “I helped bring an older man in today around five thirty. I’m just checking on his condition.”
“Name?” she asks.
“I don’t know. He was unconscious when I found him.”
“Hold, please.” I can hear rustling in the background, then keystrokes on a computer. When she returns to the line, she says, “His name was Merel Friedl. He had a heart attack, and we weren’t able to save him. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, and hang up before she can say anything else.
Finally, at just past nine, with my head throbbing, I crawl into bed. My last thought before I fall is asleep is how much I wish the reality Logan had created in his head actually existed. It would be nice to get an endless supply of second chances, but unfortunately, that’s not how the world works.
4
I WAKE UP to my alarm the next morning at seven, and for the first few blissful seconds, I forget all about the fact that I’ve been given a death sentence. The realization jolts me awake, and then my second coherent thought of the day is that it’s far too sunny out. I’d listened to the weather on the way home yesterday, and they’d said the rain would begin overnight, continuing through midafternoon. And yet the sky outside my window is a brilliant, post-dawn blue.
I haul myself out of bed and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror as I brush my teeth. I don’t look like I’m dying. I should look exhausted or sickly, shouldn’t I? But I just look like . . . me.
I pile my hair into a bun and take a quick shower, and then I head into the bedroom to get dressed for work. I blink in confusion as I realize that the scrubs I set out for myself last night are the same Cat in the Hat ones I wore yesterday. “That makes no sense,” I murmur, picking up the uniform top suspiciously. It doesn’t look rumpled or worn, but I must have absentmindedly laid it back out on my chair rather than tossing it in the laundry basket. “Weird,” I say as a chill goes through me. It sounds like exactly the kind of thing a person with a brain tumor would forget about. It’s a reminder that as normal as I might look on the outside, I’m very sick.
I blink back sudden tears and toss the scrubs into the laundry basket. I reach into my drawer, pull out Mickey Mouse scrubs instead and pull those on before I can question myself further. “You’re sick,” I tell myself. “But you’re fine for now.” As I swipe on some concealer, lipstick, and mascara and brush my hair into a low ponytail, though, I wonder how long that will last.
I BEGIN MY day with some paperwork at the nursing station, and my mind wanders as I think about when to tell the rest of my colleagues my news. There will come a point in the not-too-distant future when I won’t be able to work anymore, and I should be planning now to transition the kids I care for to other nurses. Of course we all share the responsibilities on the pediatric oncology floor, and we all know most of the patients, but each of us has kids who are special to us.
That’s what I’m thinking about as Sheila approaches.
“Please tell me you got laid last night,” she says without any preamble.
I stare at her, slack-jawed for a moment. She knows I found out yesterday that I have only a month or two to live, and she thinks I spent one precious night of my remaining time having random sex? “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.
“What?” Sheila asks. “It’s a normal question. You’re a thirty-nine-year-old woman who’s never been married and who probably can’t even remember the last time she had a man in her bed. You getting a bit of action would be a service to society. The whole world would rejoice with you.”
I drop my iPad on the counter. “Sheila, you said the exact same thing yesterday. Word for word.”
“I most certainly did not!” she responds hotly. “But I’m gathering from your expression that your love life hasn’t improved much since we last talked.”
I shake my head. “Really? You think that’s the best use of my time after what the doctor told me? Not, for example, getting a second opinion, or somehow contributing to world peace or something?”
She looks at me blankly. “What doctor?”
“Dr. Frost.”
She checks her watch. “Jill, your appointment is today.”
“What are you talking about? It was yesterday.”
She steps forward and puts a hand on my forehead. “You feeling okay, honey? Because my calendar most certainly says you’ll be out for an appointment with Dr. Frost today from eleven to twelve. And you know I run a tight ship around here. No room for scheduling mistakes.”
I gape at her. “Okay. So you’re in denial. But I don’t have time for this, Sheila. This is my crisis, not yours. I would have thought you’d be more supportive.” I grab my iPad and stride away before she can reply.
I head into Megan’s room next. “Morning, sunshine,” I say cheerfully as she nods at me and rearranges herself on the bed into a sitting position. “How are you feeling this morning?”
She shrugs. “You know, the usual.”
I check her temperature and blood pressure, and then I step back, suddenly noticing something. “Hey, kiddo, where are your balloons?”
Her nose crinkles. “Balloons?”
“The ones I gave you yesterday.”
She gives me a look. “You didn’t give me any balloons, Jill.”
“Of course I did. To celebrate your last round of chemo.”
She narrows her eyes. “That’s not funny.”
“What’s not funny?”
“My chemo is today, Jill. I don’t get your joke.”
I stare at her blankly. “Megan, honey, your chemo was yesterday. Don’t you remember?” I reach forward to feel her forehead, even though the thermometer just told me her temperature was a reliable and healthy 98.6. “I brought you balloons in the morning.”
She stares at me. “And what, I ate them overnight? What exactly do you think happened to them?”
“I—” I’m at a loss. “Maybe the custodial crew took them?”
“Right. They steal balloons from kids all the time. And I just happen to have forgotten the balloons existed in the first place.”
“But I’m sure I gave them to you,” I say weakly. “We had a whole conversation about them.”
Her face softens as she realizes I’m not joking. Now she just looks concerned. “Maybe you dreamed about giving me balloons or something. Anyways, I’m too old for balloons.”
“That’s what you said yesterday,” I say weakly, no longer convinced of my own sanity as I say good-bye to Megan and head out of her room.
My stops to check on Frankie, Katelyn, and a quiet nine-year-old named Conner are normal and uneventful; none of them makes me think I’m crazy. By the time I head into Logan’s room twenty minutes before eleven, I’ve regained my composure and come to the conclusion that Sheila is having a hard time dealing with my diagnosis, and Megan is simply being absentminded. Still, I’ve sent her supervising physician an email expressing concern over her forgetfulness, in case it’s indicative of a problem.
“Morning, buddy,” I say as I walk over to Logan’s bed and take his temperature and BP. “How are we feeling today?”
“I’m feeling great,” he says brightly. “How are you feeling?”
I smile at him. “Not too badly, all things considered. But it looks like your tree didn’t work, kiddo.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “And what makes you say that?”
“Well, today’s today, isn’t it? I’m not repeating yesterday.” I smile at him. “But it was a fun fantasy, right? Wouldn’t that be amazing if somet
hing like that really worked? If we really had all those second chances at living?”
He frowns. “And what makes you think you don’t?”
“Oh, I’m too old to dream like that, Logan,” I say.
“Hmm.” He studies me for a minute. “Okay. So just work with me here for a second. If what I said was true, and you could keep repeating the same day over and over, what would you want to do with all that time?”
“Logan, none of this is possible, so—”
“So what’s the harm in pretending? For me?”
I hesitate. “Fine. What would I do with the time?” I pause for a second and really think about it. My answer makes me sad, but I say it aloud anyhow. “I’d want to fall in love. And have a family of my own. And reconcile with my dad.” I shrug and look away. “But I won’t get to do any of that, Logan.”
“Sure you will.”
I laugh, despite the lump in my throat. “You sound awfully confident.”
“Look, Jill, no one ever gets enough time. It’s just that people like you and me are more aware that our time is limited, since we’re dying and everything. But it’s about making the most of what you have, you know? And the tree helps you to do that.”
“That isn’t possible.”
“Check your phone. What does the date say?”
I pull my iPhone out of my pocket and push the button to illuminate the screen. I swallow hard as the date appears. Friday, August 7. “That can’t be.”
“It’s not like I somehow hacked into your phone.”
“But how does it say August 7?”
“Because that’s today.”
I look at the phone again, then back at Logan. I’m just about to reply when my phone dings with an appointment reminder. Dr. Frost, 11 a.m. When I look up, Logan is grinning.
“What did your phone just remind you of?” he asks.
“The appointment I had yesterday,” I say weakly.
“No. It’s the appointment you had on your first today. Now it’s your second today. Since you’re repeating the day you had your doctor’s appointment, you’ll have the appointment scheduled each time. It’s pretty simple.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“You will. Go see your doctor. And then come back here. I’ll explain everything once you’re ready to believe me.”
MY PHONE REMINDER dings again in the hallway after I’ve left Logan’s room, and I stare at it for a full minute before making up my mind. I’ll go to Dr. Frost’s office. He doesn’t know me well enough to joke around. Besides, he doesn’t seem like the type of guy who has a sense of humor anyhow. I’m sure I’ll get there, and he’ll act like I’m crazy for showing up two days in a row.
As I head out through the lobby of Atlanta Children’s, I nearly collide with Jamie, just like I did yesterday.
“Oh, sorry!” I say. I step back as he reaches out a hand to steady me. “Hey, Jamie.”
He smiles, but he looks confused. “Hey.”
“I’m like the clumsiest person on the planet.” I can feel the heat creeping up my cheeks. “I should watch where I’m going.”
“Oh, no, it was my fault too. I was watering.” Just like he did yesterday, he nods at the tree in the center of the atrium. “I get distracted sometimes.”
“So you’ve said,” I murmur.
He hesitates. “Sorry, have we met?”
My head suddenly feels like it’s spinning. “Yes, of course. Yesterday.”
He bites his lip. “I wasn’t actually here yesterday. I think you might be confusing me with someone else.”
I blink at him, then mumble an apology and hurry away. I can feel his eyes on my back as I go.
My heart is thudding as I settle into the same chair I sat in yesterday in Dr. Frost’s waiting room. As I listen for my name to be called, I think about what Logan said. Is there a chance he wasn’t making things up? After all, the strange occurrences are adding up.
But no, that’s crazy. Or at least that’s when I tell myself until I’m ushered into Dr. Frost’s office thirty-five minutes late—just like yesterday.
“Dr. Frost—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Miss Cooper, I have a bit of bad news,” he says.
“More bad news?”
He doesn’t acknowledge the question. “I’m afraid that you have an aggressive glioblastoma. It’s actually quite extraordinary that you’ve continued to function without any major side effects aside from the headaches. It has to do with the location of the tumor, but to be honest, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I gape at him. That’s exactly what he said yesterday when he gave me my diagnosis. “Dr. Frost, is it possible to be reliving the same day twice?” I blurt out.
He shoots me a strange look. “Of course not. I’m sure you know that. But in reference to your tumor: glioblastomas arise from the star-shaped cells, called astrocytes, which form the supportive structure of the brain. They’re supported by—”
“I know, I know, we went over all of this yesterday.”
He peers over the rim of his glasses at me. “Miss Cooper, I didn’t see you yesterday.”
I feel suddenly breathless. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“I think I would remember.” He sounds insulted. “Do you believe we saw each other yesterday?”
I’ve just opened my mouth to reply when it occurs to me that a patient with a brain tumor probably shouldn’t be spouting complete nonsense to her neurologist unless she wants to get hospitalized immediately. So instead, I switch tracks. “I’d like to get a second opinion,” I tell him instead.
His mouth straightens into a thin line. “Of course that’s your right, Miss Cooper. But I have the utmost confidence in my diagnosis. There’s really no doubt.”
“I understand. But you’ve just told me I only have a month or two left, and that you don’t recommend treatment. You can see why I’d want to consult someone else.”
He stares at me. “I haven’t told you those things yet.”
I shake off my growing uneasiness. “But they’re true?”
“Er, yes.”
“Then can you recommend another doctor I might be able to speak with to confirm the diagnosis?”
He grits his teeth and scribbles something down on a prescription pad. “Tell her office you’ve already consulted with me.”
I scan the name a few times to commit it to memory, then I thank him and stand to leave. “Just hypothetically,” I say, pausing at the door, “if a person has the weird feeling that she’s reliving the exact same day twice in a row, could that be because of her brain tumor?”
“Is that happening to you, Miss Cooper?”
“It’s just a hypothetical,” I say quickly.
“Well, then, hypothetically, I would say it could be a sign that her tumor may be progressing more quickly than we first suspected.”
MY FEET CARRY me to the bench I sat on yesterday, and I wait there, knowing that if I’m repeating the day, the old man—Merel Friedl, apparently—will be along soon, even though I know full well he died yesterday. Sure enough, ten minutes later, he comes walking out of the front door of Atlanta Memorial with the assistance of a cane.
He sits down beside me and smiles. “Excuse me,” he says.
I stare at him for a moment. This can’t be happening. “Yes?” I manage to ask.
“Do you have the time?” he asks, tapping his bare wrist, just like he did the last time he sat down beside me.
I check my watch. “It’s five minutes ’til noon.”
“Thank you very much.” He pauses and sniffs. “She’ll be in surgery another hour at least, then.”
“Who’s that?”
“My wife, Ernestine.” He smiles. “She was my high school sweetheart. Married her seventy years ago. Can you believe that?”
“Seventy years?” I can feel my eyes filling with tears again. He’s had seven decades with the love of his life, and here I am, getting ready to die before I’ve even fallen in love for the first time.
“Yes. I’m a lucky man. I’m just praying she’ll be okay today. I don’t know how I’d live without her.” He pauses. “Are you married, young lady?”
“Me? Oh, no.”
“Well, don’t worry. You’re young. You’ll find your love. It happens for all of us at different times, in different ways. You just have to listen to your heart.”
I shake my head. “I’m afraid I’m out of time.”
He studies me for a moment and nods. I have the strangest feeling he somehow understands what I’ve just told him—that my days are limited. “Well, you’re here now, aren’t you? You have to make all your moments matter.”
I shrug and glance at him. “This is going to sound crazy, but you didn’t have a heart attack last night, did you?”
He chuckles. “I don’t think they let people my age out of the hospital for a stroll after heart attacks, do they?”
“I guess not.” I’m quiet for a moment as I process what’s happening. “What kind of surgery is your wife having?”
He taps his chest. “They’re operating on her heart. But I think she’ll be fine. She’ll be fine, right?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Please, call me Merel.”
I shake his hand. “I’m Jill.” I look at my watch. “And I’m late for work.”
I stand, and he stands with me and puts a hand on my arm. “Remember this, Jill: more often than not, things are darkest just before the dawn.”
“So I’ve heard,” I murmur, my head spinning as I turn to go.
5
“AM I LOSING my mind?” I ask Logan ten minutes later as I walk into his hospital room. He’s sitting up in bed, as if he was expecting me. “Seriously, Logan, this tree thing, it can’t be real, can it?”
How to Save a Life Page 4
