Better

by Carey Heywood

  Better

  Copyright © 2014 by Carey Heywood

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, (www.okaycreations.com)

  Editor: Yesenia Vargas

  Proofreader and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing (www.unforeseenediting.com)

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Better is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  “A heart-wrenching and romantic exploration into the healing powers of love.”

  —Renee Carlino, USA Today Bestselling Author of Sweet Thing

  “This is a real tearjerking, heartstring pulling, emotion-coaster!”

  —Gothic Angel Book Reviews

  “Carey Heywood spins another gratifyingly emotional yarn. A wonderful, moving, and touching tale that will pound your heart and then waltz you around the world and into the heady rush of falling in love. A captivating read that I highly recommend!”

  —Natasha Boyd, Award-Winning Author of Eversea

  “Love is too weak of a word for what I feel for this book!”

  —For the Love of Books by J Blog

  “Better is a heartbreaking story of loss and sacrifice, a story in a world of emotion all its own.”

  —Melissa Collins, Author of The Love Series

  “Carey Heywood is destined for greatness, and I think she has an amazing talent for writing.”

  —I Heart Books

  “Better is moving, emotional, and immensely uplifting.”

  —J.L. Berg, Author of The Ready Series

  “With Better, you get an emotional, romantic, and tearjerking story that’s set in the most amazing locations.”

  —Nikki Mahood, Author of The Fallen Series

  For Cameron.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Cancer and Harry Potter

  Excerpt from Never Been Ready by J.L. Berg

  Excerpt from Let Love Be by Melissa Collins

  About the Author

  Other Books by Carey Heywood

  Acknowledgments

  “Aubrey, that can’t be comfortable.”

  I blink open my eyes and lift my head, wincing as my neck protests the movement. “Nope, I’m good,” I lie. “You know me. I can sleep anywhere.”

  I stand, unfolding myself from the armchair in my aunt’s room, our old guest room. Discreetly, I stretch as best I can. “How are you? Can I get you something to drink?” Halfheartedly, I add, “Eat?”

  Ally, my aunt, gives me a weak smile. “I’m okay.”

  “Maybe just some water?” I encourage.

  Her appetite, or lack thereof, has been a daily topic of concern over the dinner table. My mom is ignoring it completely. She just shakes her head at my dad and me every time we bring it up. I don’t blame her. Ally is her little sister. My mom hasn’t given up hope yet that Ally will get better.

  I try not to think about it. I feel emotionally wrecked from having my hopes dashed over and over again. Ally just started a new clinical trial that my parents fought so hard to get her into. We all thought that this would be it, her cure. In my opinion, she’s sicker now than before she started these new pills. At least before, she would eat.

  Ally tilts her head at me. “Maybe later, jelly bean.”

  I lean over and kiss her forehead, and she slowly lifts her hand to pat my cheek. I feel like crying, but I don’t want her to see it, so I mumble something about needing to go downstairs. I pause in the doorway and look back at her.

  Six years ago my aunt was diagnosed with leiomyosarcoma. I was seventeen, and I had just gotten accepted to my dream school, Yale. After we found out how sick my aunt was, I opted to stay home and go to the local community college instead. That way, I could help my mom and dad take care of my aunt.

  She moved in with us, taking over the guest bedroom. She had just turned forty when she was diagnosed. She didn’t look it. I used to raid her closet all the time. She was beautiful and full of this pull that made everyone around her gravitate toward her. It’s hard to even recognize her now.

  Other than going to see Dr. Julian and using the portable toilet, she stays in bed. Depending on what treatment she’s on, she has been both skin and bones to so bloated it looked like she was swelling from an allergic reaction to something.

  She notices that I’m lingering in the doorway, so I smile and hurry downstairs.

  Once I’m in the kitchen, I pause. Am I even hungry? Or am I just getting a snack because I don’t know what else to do right now? I look at the clock. We’ll be eating in an hour. I grab a bottle of water and walk into the living room. My dad is at his makeshift desk, mumbling to himself, as he works on his computer. I tilt my head in hello, but he doesn’t even notice that I’ve walked into the room.

  He didn’t use to be like this, so distracted, but my mom was never good at dealing with paperwork or insurance companies, so my dad has taken on that portion of my aunt’s illness. He also still works full time. Before my aunt got sick, my dad was thinking about retiring. Even with good insurance, cancer is not cheap. With all of her medical bills, my dad’s retirement has been put off indefinitely.

  I sit on the sofa and sip my water.

  Minutes later, I jump when my dad says, “Hey, kiddo.”

  He closes his laptop, stands and comes to sit next to me. “I didn’t even see you walk in.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

  “How’s Ally?”

  I shake my head, my eyes stinging. I don’t need to say anything. Leaning back, he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. I look at him, realizing the last six years have altered all of us.

  My father’s hair is full gray now. He’s thinner, and he always looks tired. I know I look different too. My auburn hair reaches just past my chin. If I had known how long it was going to take to grow back, maybe I wouldn’t have shaved it. No, I still would have.

  Four years ago, when my aunt’s hair started to fall out, we all shaved our heads to support her. My dad’s hair came back in gray. There was no change to my mom’s hair, which grew quickly, I might add. My hair, on the other hand, took forever to grow back. I also learned the hard way that I do not have a pretty round head. Some people can rock short hair. I am not one of them. My hair also grew back weird. I had to keep getting the back cut while I waited for the top to catch up. It’s finally approaching shoulder-length.

  My dad puts his glasses back on and stares at the ceiling. He rests his hand on my knee and gives it a squeeze.
He’s never one to get mushy.

  I love my dad. He’s always very supportive of me, just in a standoffish kind of way. My mother, on the other hand, is affectionate to a fault. When I was younger, it embarrassed me. Now, I find it comforting.

  My dad and I both turn our heads at the sound of the front door opening.

  “I got takeout,” my mom sings as she heads toward the kitchen.

  I inhale through my nose, trying to place what kind of food it is. I’m a picky eater. I always have been. Maybe being an only child made my parents more accepting of my refusal to try new dishes. I do not eat any kind of seafood, fish or otherwise. I also don’t eat alfredo sauce, yams (even with marshmallows on top), squash, or cooked fruit. There’s probably more stuff that I don’t eat, but I can’t remember them all.

  Whatever Mom got smells like french fries. I can do french fries. My dad and I follow her toward the kitchen. She’s pulling plates down to serve our fast food. It seems pointless. All the food she bought came in boxes.

  Why dirty plates as well? Maybe I only care because it’s my job to clear the table and load the dishwasher. I still have my water bottle, so I sit right down, popping a french fry into my mouth. They’re still warm. Yum.

  My mom pulls something out of the fridge to make a small plate for my aunt. It’s depressing to see the amount of food. I’m pretty sure a Happy Meal serving is three times what my mom has laid out, even considering that it will be a miracle if Ally eats all of it.

  Plate in hand, my mom leans down to kiss the top of my head as she walks past. For a moment, her perfume invades the space currently reserved in my nose for french fries. She smells nice though. It’s good one of us is holding it together. She probably even showered today. I guess that’s what denial will do for you.

  “Aubrey, thank you for sitting with Ally while I ran out,” my mom says, walking back into the kitchen.

  She’s brought the plate back down with her, food untouched. She sets the plate on the countertop by the stove. Maybe she plans to try to get Ally to eat again later. She sits down and delicately eats her hamburger, filling us in on her day. She has always had this running commentary. It’s like she doesn’t know how to be quiet. It’s not that it’s annoying. I’m used to it. But I’m more like my dad, quiet and reserved.

  “Are you going to reenroll for the fall semester?”

  I look up at my mom, surprised at her question. “I was going to wait until...” I trail off.

  Until what? Ally gets better? Or dies?

  I shake my head, unable to finish my sentence, and I focus on my plate. I finish before either of my parents, and I take Ally’s plate off the counter to go see if she’ll eat anything for me.

  When I get to her room, I pause to make sure she isn’t sleeping. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell.

  She is in Stage IV, which means her original tumor has spread from her thigh to her abdomen through her lymph nodes. At one point, she was seeing a holistic healer, who taught her mind healing. Most times, when she’s just lying in bed, not sleeping, she’s really mentally visualizing herself stripping the cancer away from her lymph nodes and stopping any new tumors. The mind-over-matter technique isn’t working, but old habits die hard. I cringe at the expression die hard.

  I can’t tell if she’s awake or not, so I turn to leave.

  “Aubrey?”

  I swing back around. “Hey, Ally. Are you hungry?” I try to seem excited about the organic mush I’m offering her.

  She crinkles her nose and shakes her head.

  “Ally, you have to eat something.” I feel strange lecturing her, remembering all the times she babysat me and fought my picky-eating habits.

  Seeing my expression, she relents and nods, but not before she rolls her eyes for good measure.

  She could probably feed herself, but her latest tumor is sitting on the bicep of her right arm. It presses uncomfortably if she lifts her arm a lot. For a while, she tried using her left hand, but she ended up wearing her food on more than one occasion. Now, she just lets my mom or me feed her.

  She stops me after two bites, sucking her lips into her mouth. I set down the plate and grab a burp tray. She breathes slowly in and out of her nose until her nausea passes. She refuses any more food.

  I put the burp tray away and sit down next to her, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers are clammy and swollen.

  I’ve held her hand so many times over her illness. When Ally was first diagnosed, her doctors removed the tumor in her leg. That, along with radiation and chemotherapy, was supposed to cure her. When I hold her hand these days, swollen is the new normal. I’ll take swollen forever, as long as it means she’s still here.

  My mom convinced her to move in while she was on chemo. I stayed home to help when Ally was sick from the chemo. What I remember the most from those days is how focused she was on making sure my mom and I were okay.

  She didn’t even blink an eye when her hair started falling out. It was my mom’s idea for us to all shave our heads. It was that night we started the When I Get Better board. It’s a corkboard with pictures of all the places Ally was going to visit when she got better. I glance up at it, still hanging above the dresser. Ally’s eyes follow mine, and I cringe, wishing I hadn’t even looked at it. Her eyes stay on the board, moving from picture to picture. I clear my throat, hoping to distract her. It doesn’t work. Her eyes are transfixed. I give her hand a squeeze and stand, taking her plate with me as I leave her room.

  I carry her plate downstairs to the kitchen. My dad is eating a bowl of ice cream at the kitchen table.

  “How much did she eat?”

  I tilt the plate toward him, and he frowns. I rinse it before putting it in the dishwasher, and then I go to sit next to him. I lean my head on his shoulder. He sets his spoon down and pats my cheek.

  “Are you all right, Aubrey?”

  I sniffle and shake my head. He puts his arm around me, and I cry. He rests his chin on top of my head and rubs my back until I’m done. When I pull back, he passes me a napkin to dry my eyes and wipe my nose.

  “What brought this on, love?”

  I take a shaky breath. “The Better board. She was looking at the Better board.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  “She’ll never get to go to any of those places, Dad. We should just take the board down. It’s not fair for her to have to look at it.”

  “We don’t know that,” he lies. “This new medication might…I don’t know, Aubrey. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I don’t want her to die, Dad. I just don’t want her to die.” I lean back into him.

  He smells like Old Spice and peppermint. He rubs my back and kisses the side of my head, telling me over and over that it will be all right.

  My dad is getting good at lying. My tears stop before I think it’s possible. Now, I feel tired.

  When I sit back up, I see my dad’s neglected bowl of ice cream, and I feel guilty for interrupting him. With everything going on, it’s like I’ve taken a moment of oblivion away from him.

  I stand, apologizing. He tries to tell me not to go, but I continue, fleeing back up the stairs and to my room.

  I have to pass her room on the way to mine. I walk quickly. I don’t want to look inside her doorway. I do anyway, catching a glimpse of my mom sitting with her. Their hands are clasped together, and my mother is leaning in, almost nose-to-nose with her.

  I exhale once I’m in my room. All I want to do is sleep. My breakdown in the kitchen zapped whatever energy my afternoon nap had given me. I change into an old T-shirt and some shorts. I collapse onto my bed and will sleep to take me. It doesn’t. Instead, I lie there with the image of Ally’s eyes as she looked at her Better board burned into me.

  I remember when we made it. I was so sure she would get better. Now, I don’t know how to act or what to do. My mom is still so sure that this trial medication will work. I know my dad. He’s lying when he says he thinks she will get better.

  I don’t re
member falling asleep, but I do remember my dream.

  I’m twelve. I have braces and unfortunate skin. Middle school is my least favorite place. A girl, one of the popular ones, tells our class that I’ll steal their souls because my hair is red. I try to argue that my hair is auburn, but everyone acts scared of me and runs away.

  After riding the bus in a seat all by myself because no one would sit next to me, I’m now home. I don’t go inside my house. I just sit on the front porch steps and cry.

  I look back when I hear the front door open. Aunt Ally comes and sits down next to me. She’s beautiful. She doesn’t say anything. She just puts her arm around me and pulls me close.

  After I’m fully awake, I go to check on my aunt. She’s turned on her left side, facing the chair by her bed. There is a new tumor in her right thigh. Sometimes, it feels better when she’s on her side.

  I sit and reach out my hand to hold hers. She blinks her eyes open, squinting, before she focuses on my face and gives me a weak smile.

  “Morning, jelly bean.”

  “Hey, how are you feeling?” I squeeze her hand.

  She grimaces. “Like shit, kid. Let’s talk about anything else.”

  “Um...”

  “How’s school?”

  “Good,” I lie. I’m not even currently enrolled.

  “Any cute boys?” One side of her mouth pulls up.

  Her lips are dry, almost cracked. I reach for her ChapStick on her bedside table and smooth some on her lips.

  “I guess.”

  “Can’t be very cute if you’re not sure.”

  I suck at lying to Ally. “You must be right.”

  Dr. Julian said the H-word today. My mom has been crying in her room since we got home from Ally’s appointment. Ally cried at first, and then she saw how upset my mom looked, so she stopped.

  Hospice—her doctor recommended we look into hospice.

  It’s still undecided as to whether or not Ally will do the next round of pills in the trial. My impression from the doctor was that she should not continue the trial. Ally has been on the pills for three weeks now, and since there is no improvement in her tumor size, the consensus is that the side effect of her loss of appetite is doing more harm than good.