by R. C. Martin
That’s another thing he’s got going for him—all the muscle. Owen is ripped, a result of too much time in the weight room, and an obsession with soccer. He’s in, like, three different leagues. Indoor, outdoor, intramural, club—whatever, he’s in it, and he’s good; good enough that he should play for the school, but he doesn’t. He always says to play at that level would take the fun out of it.
“Oh, my god—what I wouldn’t give to be someplace exotic and warm right now!” cries Brooke as she bursts into the apartment. “It’s so fucking cold!”
She slams the door shut with her foot before leaning her back against it, letting out a relieved sigh, as if she had to walk all the way to the store instead of drive there. Owen stares at her, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. I watch Owen stare, fighting my own amusement.
“Oh! Owen, hey. ‘Sup, babe? Are you here to help me cheer our girl up? I am all for reinforcements,” she starts to say, making her way to the kitchen. “Though, I probably didn’t get enough popcorn for all three of us. Damn. Oh!” she snaps her fingers as she disappears from view. “We’ll just order pizza when we get hungry.”
“Uh, yeah. Pizza sounds great,” he calls out, loud enough for her to hear. Under his breath, he mumbles, “It’s good to see you, too.”
I pretend not to hear him, just like I pretend I don’t notice each and every lingering stare he throws at Brooke; or how he’ll go out of his way to open doors for her; or how he’ll offer to help her with anything should she need it. I pretend I don’t know that he is totally in love with her—and he pretends that he doesn’t know that I know he is.
It’s all very silly, but I get it. For the sake of his pride, I play along.
“So, what’d I miss?” asks Brooke as she returns, slipping out of her coat. “By the way, I’m feeling sort of torn as to whether or not I want to know. If you were talking about Christmas at the beach, I’m bitch enough to admit that I don’t want to hear that. Envy isn’t good for my skin,” she says with a giggle as she goes to hang up her coat.
A crooked smile crosses my face as Owen smacks his hand over his.
“God—you’re something else, you know that?” he chuckles.
“As a matter of fact…” She lets her sentence trail off, grinning over at us before she tosses me a wink. “I’m going to go change. Be right back. Hey, Owen, could you start heating up the milk for cocoa?”
“Sure, yeah,” he agrees, standing to his feet without hesitation.
I watch him go, almost feeling sort of bad for him. Almost. Honestly, if he wants an in, he’s going to have to try a lot harder. Brooke is completely oblivious when it comes to Owen. He’s been friend-zoned. It’s not even that she did it on purpose. Not really. The truth is, she’s one of those girls. She gets so much attention she doesn’t even realize that she gets attention. It’s her reality. Her normal. Guys flock. When she sees something she likes, she goes after it. Nine times out of ten, she gets what she wants—as she expects she should. Again, that’s her normal. It’s the Brooke way. Needless to say, it’s definitely not the Kenzie way.
But why would it be? I’m nothing like her.
When she comes from her room, I notice that her long legs are now covered in a pair of peach, flannel leggings. She’s got on an old, white hoodie, with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, the faded emblem on the front announcing—or perhaps, more accurately—whispering that my girl Brooke was once a national champion for her high school cheerleading squad. If that’s not proof enough that she’s always been part of the it crowd—and let’s not pretend that there isn’t, and always will be, an it crowd—then her body is proof enough that she doesn’t need any crowd to make herself stand out. She’s gorgeous and athletic and curvy; not to mention, she’s sassy and bubbly and borderline bitchy, but in that way that somehow reminds you that she’s loyal, through and through.
Me, on the other hand? If I wore that sweatshirt, you’d wonder if I even had boobs. My curves laugh at being called as such. I’m not funny or spirited or boisterous; I’m quiet and shy and studious. I spend my weekends with sick kids, and my week nights doing homework or working as a part-time cashier at the drug store.
Not that our differences really matter. It’s not a competition between Brooke and me. I don’t want Owen, or anyone else that might fall at her feet. In fact, I don’t really date much at all. I’m too busy studying. Studying to be a doctor.
A doctor who—
I stifle a groan, easing myself onto my side as I curl up into a ball, trying to ignore the pressure that seems to be building inside of my chest, demanding that I deal with my feelings—feelings about Timothy, about cancer, about life and what the hell I’m supposed to do with mine. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to deal with my feelings right now. I just want to be.
“Uh oh,” Brooke mutters, her eyes meeting mine before she races into the kitchen. “Owen, our girl needs chocolate. Stat!”
It’s on my third cup of cocoa that I zone out completely, my mind leaving the room as I get sucked into my thoughts. I wonder how Timothy’s parents are doing; and then I berate myself for questioning such a thing. Of course they probably feel awful. Inconsolable. Broken. God—I can’t even imagine.
One would think, after almost five years of seeing kids come and go, that it would get easier; that, as callous and horrible as it might be, I would become desensitized to it—or maybe not even that, but perhaps simply that I would come to accept the fact that kids die from cancer all the time. Kids, parents, grandparents. It happens to loads of people. Good people, bad people, young people, old people, it doesn’t matter. I hate it for anyone. More than that, I’m not used to it.
Tonight, it feels like the exact opposite. Tonight, I feel as though I’ve been pushed to my breaking point—a breaking point I didn’t even know that I had.
Kids sometimes get better. The kids that I read to—the children that become my friends—sometimes they kick cancer and they leave the hospital. They leave me behind. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, better than saying goodbye to a sweet little one who parts with a big hug and a smile. I don’t miss those ones. Or, at least, I try not to. That might sound cold, but I don’t want to miss them. I simply desire to wish them well and to pray for their continued health, with hopes that I’ll never, ever see them again. At least not as patients.
But saying a final goodbye—or more often, missing my chance to say goodbye…
I set aside my mug, grabbing a throw pillow and wrapping it in my arms as I curl myself around it. I think of Timothy. Of Abigale. Ethan. Malik. Christian. Pearl. Hanna. Richard. Gabbie. Maria. I think of the children I never got the chance to say goodbye to; the children who were there one day and gone the next—their absence a puncture to the heart.
Then I think of God.
Right now, I cannot decide whether or not I’m mad at Him. It’s ridiculous. I know. What’s the point in being mad at God? He’s God! The creator of the universe—the lover of my soul. He’s everywhere, all the time. He sees everything. He knows everything. And while I wholeheartedly believe that Timothy was—is—loved by Him, I can’t wrap my head around why He would let this happen.
Of course, I understand that there is a reason for everything; that all things work together for the good of those who love Him. I understand that bad things happen, and that’s the way of the world. I honestly believe that in the midst of it all, God is still good because He’s God! He doesn’t know how to be any other way. And yet, at the very same time, I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what I’ve been taught about God my whole life.
I’m angry. Furthermore, I’m exhausted.
For years, I’ve been channeling my anger to one purpose, one cause. I needed it to funnel somewhere, and just as mom advised, I was determined to use it for good. I’m smart. Like, really smart. My decision to be a doctor isn’t a foolish one or a far fetched dream. I can do it. But tonight, my anger has shifted, and I’m beginning to question
if I want to. I’m beginning to question why I’m allowed to be healthy and alive. I’m beginning to question God.
I’m tired of directing my anger at a goal—a goal that seems way, far out of reach.
“Kenz?”
I barely hear my name before I feel Owen scoop me up off of the couch and into his arms, cradling me against his chest as he stands to his feet. It’s only when my face is buried in his neck that I realize I’m crying again.
“I think she’s had enough chocolate,” I hear Brooke say just as I feel her delicate touch on my arm. “Let’s get her to bed.”
I don’t say a word as Owen carries me to my room, gently depositing me into my unmade bed. I don’t listen as he and Brooke murmur to each other. Instead, when I feel the pull of slumber, I let my sorrow and confusion lead me there. By the time Brooke crawls into bed beside me, pulling the covers over us both, I’m fast asleep.
I close the book quietly, admiring her sleeping face, praying that while she dreams, she rests in a rejuvenating place. Lena has been in the hospital since just before Halloween. She’s five. Her cancer started in her stomach. After they began treating it, it started spreading. No one has given up, but it seems as though the fight against the disease is just as aggressive as the disease itself.
“Hi, Kenzie. How’s our girl?”
I turn to see Maribel, Lena’s mom, enter the room. The smile that curves her lips doesn’t light up her eyes, and I know she’s tired. Lena is her youngest daughter, and she has two more at home. Weekends are the hardest for her and her husband George, since the girls aren’t in school. They bring them to visit their sister often, but they’re working so hard to make sure that not all of their daughters are forced to live in a hospital. I admire and respect them—as I do so many parents who find themselves in this horrible situation. Just looking at Maribel, I’m reminded why I love doing what I do. Reading to Lena for just an hour is something. It might not fix anything. It might not seem like much. But it’s something.
“She’s tired today,” I murmur, looking back at Lena.
“It’s been a long week,” says Maribel as she rounds the bed. I watch as she leans over the guardrail to press a kiss against her daughter’s smooth head. Suddenly, I feel guilty that when I arrived at the hospital earlier this morning, I thought the very same thing.
It’s been a long week.
My head has been all over the place since last Saturday. After waking up in bed with Brooke on Sunday, I made myself go to church. It was there that I decided I really am mad at God. I can’t shake it, and I’m too frustrated by all the other things that I’m feeling to even try. Not entirely sure where I’m to go from here, I’ve pushed that issue aside, leaving it to be dealt with later.
Other than my relationship issues with the Lord, my first week back in classes was mundane, at best. The thrill of a new semester, new professors, new classes—it just wasn’t there. And the couple shifts I had at the drug store were even worse. I’m just sad and confused and angry. So—yeah, it’s been a long week.
Then I come here, I look at Lena, I imagine the week she’s been through, and I immediately feel like crap for complaining.
“George is going to bring the girls by in a couple of hours. If you’re still here, I’m sure he’d be happy to see you. Seems like Christmas break took you away from us forever.”
I smile, knowing that the expression doesn’t reach my eyes anymore than it reached hers, and then I stand to my feet. “I, um—I might be,” I lie. With Timothy gone, I only have one more hour of reading time left today. “If I miss him, tell him I said hello.”
“I will.”
I sling my purse over my shoulder, the bag heavy with my collection of children’s picture books, and then take one last lingering look at Lena—hoping that I’ll see her again. She looks so much more fragile now than she did before the holidays.
“When she wakes, tell her I’ll be back next week to finish The Princess and the Pea. I know how much she hates to miss the ending.”
“I’m sure she’ll love to hear that.”
“Bye,” I say with a wave. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
She smiles knowingly, offering me a small nod as she whispers, “You too, sweetheart.”
I step into the hallway and move away from the door before I stop and press my back against the wall. I pull in a calming breath, willing myself to muster more enthusiasm and hope. I’m on my way to visit Zoe next, and the last thing I need to bring into her room are my problems. She’s got plenty of her own to deal with, and she’s three.
God—she’s three!
I shake my head and roll my shoulders back, reminding myself that I’m not speaking to God right now, and then I start down the hallway.
“Kenzie!”
I stop when I hear my name being called through an open door. My heart starts beating faster when I realize that I recognize that voice. I take a step back and peek my head into the doorway I just passed. What I see sends another crack through my heart. He looks better than the last time I saw him, just before I left for summer break at the end of my freshman year. He’s older. He seems stronger. And yet, he’s here.
Nevertheless, I plaster on a smile as I enter the room.
“Sheamus, hi—what—what are you doing here?” I stutter, looking from him—covered in a hospital gown, with tubes coming from his arm—to his father, Lance.
Lance forces a smile to match mine as he says, “Hi, Kenzie. It’s good to see you.” I shake my head ever so slightly, silently expressing that he’s wrong. He’s so, so, so wrong. He notices, his false smile falling a smidge before he nods subtly. “I’m glad to see you’re still hanging around,” he amends.
“What’s happening?”
“There’s another tumor in my brain,” Sheamus declares in his little boy voice. “But I’m going to get better. Dr. Churchill says he’s going to take it out.”
I stifle a gasp as my eyes begin to sting, and I try to remember that God is good and that He’s way bigger than cancer; He’s way more powerful than death; He’s God—which means I cannot kick Him in the shin. Not literally. Not figuratively. Not at all.
But I want to. So bad. This is so freaking unfair. Sheamus has already been here. He’s already fought this battle. He’s already won the war—dammit!
“I started kindergarten, Kenzie. Now, when you come, I can read to you,” he announces, beaming at me.
I smile, a real one this time, and I take a step closer to him. “That would be awesome!”
“Yes!” he hisses, holding out his S as he pumps his fist in the air.
“I guess I’ll have to make a special trip to see you soon, huh? You probably won’t be around for too long after Dr. Churchill takes out that tumor.”
“Yeah, exactly. He’s gonna take it out, and I’m gonna go back to school.”
“One day at a time, buddy,” says Lance, reaching out to pat Sheamus’s leg. “Let’s just get you better first, all right? Then we’ll talk about school.”
Sheamus visibly deflates, sinking back against his pillows as he mutters, “Okay, dad.”
“Well, I have to run, Sheamus, but I’ll be back.”
“Promise?” he asks, his eyes lighting up once more.
I narrow my gaze playfully before I hold out my hand and proclaim, “I promise to be here if you do.”
“Ye—”
I snatch my hand out of reach, turning my head to give him the side-eye before I ask him, “Do you remember how this works?”
“Kenzie!” he groans, rolling his eyes as if I’m being ridiculous. “I know,” he continues, dragging out the word. “We fight to keep our promises. Now, give me your hand.”
I smother a smile, trying to keep my face serious as I offer him my hand. He wraps his little fingers around mine, squeezing tight as he shakes, and I can no longer hide my grin. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Yup!”
As I begin to make my way out of the room, I wave at Lance, who smiles h
is own farewell. Then, when my back is turned, I look up toward the sky and make another promise.
God—if you take him, I’ll never forgive you.
“Merry Christmas, Happy New Year—you’re going to look hot as shit in this tonight!” Brooke declares as she bursts into my room.
I push myself up onto my elbows, still stretched out across my bed. I have my earbuds in, but I don’t bother taking them out, hoping that if I scowl hard enough, she’ll get the hint and leave me alone. Then again, why I would think that is beyond me. My closed bedroom door didn’t stop her.
“If you want to have time to do your hair, you better hop in the shower now. I know it takes you nearly an hour. God—I don’t know how you do it, but—”
“Brooke,” I grumble, yanking my earbuds out. “What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Of course you are. We leave at nine, and you’re not allowed to smell like hospital, so—shower. Now. Chop, chop,” she says, snapping her fingers at me as she hangs an outfit on my closet door.
I see something covered in sequins, and I squint at her before I ask, “Are you insane? You must be insane. I’m not wearing that. I’m also not going anywhere. I’m perfectly content right here,” I declare.
With no intention of arguing, I drop back down onto my back, grabbing my earbuds so that I can go back to what I was doing—which was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Unless you count laying here in the stillness, my music playing in my ears as I try and drown out the sound of my thoughts.
“Oh, no you don’t,” says Brooke, snatching my phone from off of the bed. She unplugs my cord and I scowl at her, but she isn’t fazed. “I just went shopping and bought you a kickass outfit—an outfit you will wear tonight—an outfit that will look totally hot on you. Now, get up and get your little ass in the shower. Capisce?”
“No. No, capisce, Brooke. I don’t—”
“I know,” she says softly, sitting beside my hip. She leans over me, propping herself up with her hand on the opposite side of my waist. “I know you don’t want to go anywhere. I know you want to stay in bed and be sad, and I get it. I get it, babe, I do. But it’s been a week.”
