by Janette Oke
But now … it was all to be lost again. Dana would undoubtedly lose those pounds and that curly hair—again. She would lose the hours of classroom study that would propel her toward the coveted diploma. She would lose her strength, her bright eyes, and sense of humor. She would lose her dreams and plans and even more of her teenage years.
And I would be a loser too. I knew that. Everyone in our house would. Dana’s illness was robbing us all. Not just Dana. Cancer was a spoiler, a taker of life even while one still lived. It was a dream robber … a home wrecker … a plan changer … a peace stealer … and, for some, it was a grave filler. I started to cry again. How could one disease have such power to destroy?
And then I thought of something Mom had said when Dana had been so sick before. She said that cancer was a faith builder. A magnet to draw one closer to God. Well, maybe for Mom—but not for me. I didn’t feel close to God at all. He seemed to be a long, long way off, if He really existed.
But my own deeper self denied that I doubted His existence. If He didn’t exist, how could I be so angry with Him? How could I feel bitter that He had not answered my prayers if He was just a figment of people’s imagination? No, I was sure that God was real. He just wasn’t keeping His part of the bargain, that was all. He was supposed to look after His children.
My thoughts jumped forward. If God wasn’t upholding His end, how could He expect me to carry mine? At that moment my decision was made. I wasn’t going to pray to Him anymore. I wasn’t going to have anything to do with Him at all. I’d make Him suffer—just as He made me.
I heard my name being called, but I didn’t answer. I didn’t even move. I still wasn’t ready to talk. I hadn’t sorted through everything that I had to process. How this new illness would affect us all. What Dana, my sister who had become my best friend all over again, was going to have to endure before another remission. Why this had happened to us now. I needed a little more time on my own.
Eventually I rubbed my eyes and climbed stiffly down from the tree fort. Already the evening sky was darkening. I had spent a couple of hours in seclusion.
Corey was outside with Max. He was trying to teach her how to retrieve a ball. She was quite willing to chase after it whenever he threw it, but she had no idea she was to bring it back to him again. Each time she grabbed it, she raced off, prancing and jumping and feeling very pleased with herself for managing to catch it.
“Where were ya?” Corey asked when he saw me.
At first I wasn’t going to answer, and then I decided I would. “The tree fort.”
“I woulda went too.”
I did not correct his grammar. Nor did I tell him that at the moment he would not have been welcomed. I just ruffled his hair a bit and passed on into the kitchen. I hadn’t done any of my afternoon chores. I wondered if Mom would be upset.
But when I entered the kitchen there was no scolding. In fact, Mom didn’t say anything. She did come to me and put her arms around my shoulders and drew me close for just a minute. I didn’t want to start crying again, which I was afraid I would, so I pushed back rather quickly. She didn’t say anything even then. Just let me go.
“I’ll be right back to set the table,” I managed to tell her. “I need to see Dana first.”
As I climbed the stairs to our room I tried hard to think. I wasn’t sure what I could say to Dana. I couldn’t say, as I’d said so often in the past, “I’m praying for you.” I knew better than to lie right in the face of God.
When I opened the door, Dana was not lying on her bed crying into her pillows, as I guess I had expected. She was sitting at her computer, no doubt sending out another e-mail message. When she heard me enter, she half turned.
I didn’t speak. So she did. “I guess you heard.”
I could only nod.
“I need to start chemo again.”
“I know.”
“They want to start right away, so I can’t even finish the school year. And I nearly made it all the way through too.” Her words seemed conversational—almost natural. Her face was expressionless. I understood her words, but I couldn’t find the heart to answer.
“I’ll lose my hair again.”
I could only stare.
Then Dana swung back around to the computer. “I saw Matt at the hospital today. Remember him? I told you about him before. He’s only seven. His cancer is worse than mine. They’re taking him to Disneyland—if he gets well enough after this treatment series.”
I still didn’t respond. The tears had begun to gather in my eyes again.
“I’m writing him a story. It’s the story of the boy with his lunch—only in my own words. I’m telling him where to find it in the Bible too. I hope he reads it.”
Dana began to type again.
I just stood, fidgeting. Mom had said that Dana needed me. She didn’t. She was doing just fine. To look at her, you’d never know she’d just received word that she was headed for more of those awful treatments.
“Well—I’ve gotta set the table,” I mumbled. I turned to go. I was almost to the door when Dana stopped me. “Erin … do you mind if we still share our room? I feel so much better when you’re here with me.”
I swallowed hard. It was a few moments before I could manage, “Sure. That’s fine.”
The youth pastor called a special meeting for all the church youth. There would be an all-night prayer gathering on behalf of Dana. I knew it would be pretty awkward to try to get out of—but I dreaded it. I had made up my mind not to pray anymore. Wouldn’t I be a hypocrite if I went? Yet how could I possibly refuse to go? Dana was my sister. What would Dad and Mom think?
I almost caught myself praying that I’d catch a bad cold—or something. Praying had been such a normal response to all my problems that it was hard to break the habit. The first few words were already forming in my mind before I jerked myself to a mental halt.
The night arrived, and Dad said he’d drive me in. Mom had already fixed up a bagged snack to take along and made sure my Bible was handy on the kitchen table. Dana was taking a nap, so Mom had brought it from our room the last time she’d checked on Dana.
It was with a heavy heart and a heavier conscience that I climbed into the car. Dad didn’t ask any questions. I guess he just assumed Dana was on my mind again.
“Give me a call in the morning if you want to come home earlier than seven,” he said as he dropped me off. Seven was the time that the prayer meeting was to disband.
I nodded. I wished I could crawl right back into the car and go home with Dad then and there.
The youth were already gathering. They seemed excited and challenged about being called to pray. I wasn’t feeling that way at all. I guess I got off easier than I should have, though. Everyone seemed to think that my long face and slumped shoulders were because of Dana. And they were, in a way, but my resolve not to believe that God loved me or sought to do anything on my behalf was what really made me sullen.
We started off by singing several praise choruses. Normally I liked to sing, but the words didn’t come easily now. Interspersed among the songs were little sermonettes and reminders from our youth pastor—things about the greatness of God and the power of prayer and all that. I tried not to listen, but I couldn’t help but hear. After about half an hour we went to a prayer time. One after the other of the youth group prayed for Dana—that she would be healed, that it would happen quickly. That she wouldn’t have as much sickness with the chemo as she’d had before. That she would continue to have her faith strengthened, even in the midst of her pain and suffering. They prayed for the rest of the family too. Even for Brett. Maybe especially for Brett. The youth pastor even dared to wonder if God may have allowed Dana’s illness to bring Brett back to Him. It made me angry with God all over again. Why take it out on Dana just because Brett was being dumb? Besides, I reasoned, if it hadn’t been for Dana’s illness, Brett would still be fine.
Yet deep in my heart I was glad they were praying. Surely—surely God would listen
with so many people bringing sincere requests. Maybe He wouldn’t even notice that I was stubbornly refusing to join in.
After the prayer session, in which I had not said one word, we took a break. We went down to the church kitchen, where Mrs. Fallon had snacks set out for us. Then it was back upstairs. We started with singing again. Then we switched to giving testimonies. That went on for some time. I sat numbly and listened to the voices bounce around me. I purposely tried not to understand the words. Then the pastor was speaking directly to me.
“Erin.” I think he had to say my name a second time before he caught my attention.
“Erin, would you like to share your feelings with us?” I didn’t.
The words that I wanted to say, I would never have dared. I could have said, Yes, I feel like I’d like to go home. Put an end to this farce.
“How can we better pray for you?” our youth pastor persisted.
I didn’t think I cared how they prayed. But just as I looked up, I saw Graham. He was looking directly at me, and there was such care and pain in his eyes. I lowered my head and tried hard to sort out my confusion. Our friendship had become very special to me. I couldn’t let Graham know what I was thinking. How I was feeling. How angry I was with God. I just couldn’t—Graham would never speak to me again.
The whole group seemed to interpret my struggle as being part of my grieving over Dana. It made me feel even more of a hypocrite. But I used it. I looked up and brushed away at make-believe tears. I let my voice drop low and broken and said, “It’s … it’s so hard to explain. I can’t even put it into words.”
The words were true. The message was not. Girls started to cry and boys shifted uneasily. Graham even crossed over beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. It wasn’t really a boy-girl hug—just the comfort of a friend. Still, it was heady. I was very conscious of the fact that he was pulling me up close against his side while the whole youth group looked on in silent sympathy. They started to pray again, and this time I was mentioned in their prayers just as much as Dana. I took a deep breath. It was going to be one long, long night.
Mom and Dad left for the cancer treatment center with Dana. Grandma Walsh—no, Grandma Paulsen, I needed to remember—came to stay with us. Of course she brought her new husband with her. They were staying in my parents’ room. He was very nice to us—but mostly he just sort of stayed out of the way.
Dad kept us in touch through phone calls. Mom even talked with us a few times. Dana was not doing well. The scans and probes and all the stuff they were doing to her already had her sick. I didn’t ask any questions. I really didn’t want to know.
The only thing that really kept me going was the fact that school was almost over and summer break was ahead. I knew Mom would be busy and that my summer activities would have to be accomplished without her available to drive me anywhere. I also knew that Brett would virtually disappear again, especially once he’d graduated from high school. But Corey and I could enjoy each other. I determined in my heart not to think about the cancer treatments this time.
On the day of Brett’s eighteenth birthday, Dana, Mom, and Dad were all away. I quizzed Corey about what Brett might like to do, and we decided to take him miniature golfing. We secretly invited Travis and Graham to meet us at the little golf course at seven in the evening. I had to tell Brett part of our plans to be sure he’d be there. In fact, I reminded him twice. His reply was barely audible.
We waited for him for half an hour before accepting the fact that he hadn’t bothered to come. Corey wanted to wait longer, but I knew in my heart the whole idea had flopped. Travis and Graham gamely tried to cover the awkwardness and offered to do a round anyway, but my heart wasn’t in it. I tried to imagine whether or not I’d have done the same thing in his place. But I don’t think I would have been able to disappoint Corey. His tears nearly broke my heart.
I listened only halfheartedly when Dad called to update us about Dana’s condition. She had stayed longer at the treatment center this time—there being some kind of complications. Mom had quit trying to explain it all to me, and Dad seemed resigned to let me back away.
Just before Dana’s expected arrival home, Dad rearranged some of the rooms. Her bed was placed in the bedroom of Grandma’s former suite and a futon was purchased for the sitting room. I presumed that this was for Mom to use on the nights she was needed near Dana. I wondered if anyone knew that Dana requested to stay with me. I chose not to offer the information. Even though I felt bad about reneging on my promise, I was grateful that another arrangement had been made.
Brett helped Dad move the furniture, but he didn’t talk much. I figured he had hoped the suite would be given to him. They were huffing and puffing to get the futon frame through the doorway when it occurred to me that I could make an offer.
“Dad, what if Corey moved in with me, and then Brett could have his old room back.”
The furniture paused midair, but Brett’s answer came immediately from where he was hidden behind it. “No.”
“But then you wouldn’t have to be in the basement anymore. Why not … ?”
“No.” The frame lurched a little as Brett gave it another tug. I turned to Dad. “Don’t you think … ?”
My words were cut short by Dad’s voice. “The decision is Brett’s to make.” I could read the uncertainty in his eyes. “Thanks for offering, Erin.” Dad picked up his end of the futon and continued to heave it forward.
So I went back upstairs to gather the bedding. Dana’s pretty blue comforter would now be separated from mine. I tried not to let it matter to me, but it didn’t work. Something about the move didn’t feel right.
When Dana finally returned home in July, she was emaciated and slow. Even her bones seemed to have shriveled. I tried not to show any outward emotion, but I’m afraid I cringed more than I wanted to as Dad helped her into the house. She smiled when she saw her new room and didn’t mention the fact that we wouldn’t be sharing. I hoped she didn’t read between the lines and know I felt relieved.
In August, just before school was to begin again, Brett moved out. We’d come home from church, and I’d decided to take care of the stacks of clean laundry from the laundry room. There were only a few items of Brett’s, but the trip downstairs revealed that everything else he owned had been cleared out—and he was gone.
I stared for some time and then put the socks and change of underwear on the empty dresser. My heart sank. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t noticed. I would have to go back upstairs and give the news to Mom. Brett wouldn’t be the one to see the hurt in her eyes that his leaving would cause. No, it would be me. So many things fell to me. It wasn’t fair. I wondered where he would live. And then I just didn’t care.
I tried to hide that fact when I brought the news to Mom. She was seated at the kitchen table thumbing through a recipe book, but she didn’t look as though she were really studying the recipes. She had a far-off look in her eyes and a tired slump to her shoulders. I just hated to add to the burden she already carried.
“Mom,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice even. “Brett’s gone.”
By the panic that came quickly to Mom’s eyes, I knew I hadn’t chosen my words too well. “What do you mean?”
“All his stuff is gone.”
She was up off her chair and down to the basement before I could even turn around. I didn’t know whether to follow or to stay put. Before I could make up my mind, Dad came in, the newspaper in his hand.
“Where’s Mom?” he asked, noticing the open recipe book on the table. I’m sure he thought it must be something to do with Dana again.
“In the basement.” I wondered if I should say more. At length I did. I figured Dad could handle it. “Brett’s gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?” For just a second Dad’s face reminded me of Corey when he came to our room in a thunderstorm.
I shrugged my shoulders, but I don’t think he saw it. He was already heading for the stairs.
As I stood alone in t
he kitchen, I labored through all the ways Brett’s leaving would affect us. Then I found myself thinking of Corey. He would be devastated. He would take it as personal rejection. I allowed myself to loathe Brett for his selfishness, even while I knew I was becoming increasingly tempted to follow him away from the gloom and chaos and pain of our home.
They were gone for a long time. When they did reappear, I could tell that Mom had been crying and Dad didn’t look much better. It made my anger at Brett even more intense. Why did he do this to them? Why now?
I was about to blurt out something about Brett’s selfishness, which I’m sure would not have helped the situation, when I noticed Mom was carrying a rather crumpled bit of paper. She lowered herself slowly into the kitchen chair again and pushed the recipe book aside. “He left a note,” she said, seeming to imply that it was terribly considerate of him. “He’s found a little apartment in town. Closer to his work.”
I wondered momentarily if my parents were buying that excuse. I certainly wasn’t.
“It’s on Maple Street—in that little apartment block.”
I knew the building. It wasn’t the fanciest place in town. But I sensed that Mom was pleased Brett had chosen to go back to our old neighborhood.
“Number 112,” Mom went on. All the time she talked, her fingers kept smoothing out the piece of paper. “He doesn’t have a phone yet, but he’ll let us know. …”
“You gonna let him stay?”
Dad had just been sitting in the chair beside Mom rubbing his two palms together. He was staring at his hands, but his eyes weren’t really focused on them. His head came up when I spoke. He just nodded. It was Mom who answered me.
