by Aven Ellis
I’m tired of everyone worrying about me. I’m tired of everyone trying to protect me from things we have no control over.
Will I always be the wounded bird who needs to be protected and sheltered?
A heaviness settles over my heart. I wish I had the courage to say this, but my illness has inflicted enough pain on my family. I feel immense guilt at the idea of adding more pain on top of it.
I reach for my phone and pull up CP on WhatsApp. I know he’s about to go into a lecture, but even though I know he won’t respond for a while, I find comfort in sending him a message.
I pull the blanket over my head, although Chelsea can sleep through anything, and begin typing to CP:
More crap from me. You’re going to be sorry you ever messaged me because, unluckily for you, I find I can talk so easily to you. I can’t sleep. I found out tonight that my friends have known about my tumor for years and never told me. How? My parents asked them to keep an eye on me and to contact them if I started to present any symptoms. I’m hurt. I’m mad. I feel betrayed, even though I know all parties were acting out of concern for me. Shit, I’m reading back what I wrote, and I sound ungrateful. I’m not. I just hate feeling like no one trusts me to take care of myself, to decide things on my own. I hate feeling like I’m being watched. All I want right now is to go to the mall and work the art exhibits and be normal, instead of the girl who might have a tumor.
P.S. I could really use another puzzle piece right now.
I hit send and put the phone down at my side. I exhale, feeling a bit better for getting that off my chest to someone who won’t judge me for it, someone who truly listens to me and I know will be there for me.
It’s strange to have these feelings for someone I’ve never truly seen, or met, or even know the full name of. If Bryn or Chelsea were talking to a guy like this, I would be warning them that it is nuts.
Maybe that’s why I’ve kept CP to myself. I don’t want to hear all the reasons why this is not normal and how I should be careful.
That, or they would chart it as me presenting the symptom of “irrational behavior” and text my mom.
Ha-ha. Tumor humor.
I think of CP again, the picture of his lips and chin, the sound of his voice.
All I know is that when I talk to him, the world makes sense.
It feels right.
With that thought in my head, I find myself relaxing enough to drift off to sleep.
“It’s time to take off your mask,” I whisper to CP as we dance.
I’m singing. We’re on the stage of a Phantom of the Opera production, and CP is wearing a mask so I can only see part of his face.
“I don’t know if I can,” he sings back to me in a rich baritone, twirling me around.
“Why aren’t we singing songs from the musical?” I ask, pausing before I whirl back in toward him.
My neon green dress is huge, like something from the eighties, with ridiculous poufy sleeves. I don’t know why I’m in neon green; it’s a hideous color on me.
CP draws me to him, and what I can see of his face is perfect.
“Please reveal yourself,” I plead. “I’ve revealed so much to you, more than anyone else.”
“After we sing.”
“Sing what? We have multiple options here.”
He whirls away from me, but his cape gets wind under it and whips around and smacks me in the face.
Why is his cape wet?
And why does it feel like a tongue?
Why doesn’t CP smell like some luxury cologne instead of like a dog that needs to go to the groomer?
I open my eyes. I’m not with a masked CP, but with Bear, who is licking my face as a precursor to my alarm going off.
Oh.
Well, that’s a bit disappointing. Even though the whole Phantom of the Opera thing was odd, CP was a good dancer. He was kind of sexy as the man in black.
However, now he won’t see me in a horrible neon green dress, so that’s good.
“You need to go to the groomer,” I whisper to Bear while affectionately rubbing his head.
I reach for my phone and see CP has returned my message:
I know it feels like you were betrayed, but sometimes a lie of omission is done for the greater good. In this case, to take care of you. I can’t argue with that one because, well, it’s YOU.
I smile as I message him back:
I know you’re right. I’m calmer now. Besides, Bryn barely knew me at the time. What was she going to say? “Screw you, hire someone to monitor her blood pressure, pulse, and chart her reaction to Chips Ahoy because I’m not a nurse!” And then flip them off?
I see CP is typing me back. His reply drops in:
You just made me choke on my water. What are Chips Ahoy? Is that a version of french fries at sea?
Now I burst out laughing. I type a response:
OMG no. They are chocolate chip cookies. My favorite are the s’mores-flavored ones.
Now the conversation is going back and forth:
Isn’t a s’more some other American thing?
I text my reply:
Yes. It’s combining two desserts in one. Rather handy. So, you were in my dream last night. Very odd. You were the Phantom of the Opera, with the mask and everything. Except you didn’t kidnap me and hold me against my will in your lair. Because, you know, that would have been creepy.
To my surprise, CP bypasses texting and calls me. My heart does a happy little dance, and I answer it, as Chelsea has already gotten up and is out of her bed.
“Hello?”
“Clementine. Do you actually think I’m disfigured?” CP asks, his deep voice full of surprise. “Like the Phantom?”
“Well, maybe,” I admit. “I mean, why else would you hide your face?”
“I promise you I’m not.”
“Your looks don’t matter to me, CP.”
“No, I’m not hideous,” he says. He pauses. “I promise you; I’m just a bloke.”
I furrow my brow. “If you’re just a bloke, why not show me your bloke-like face?”
CP is silent for a moment. “I will. I had to be sure about you first. And now I’ve made all these puzzle pieces, so it would be a pity not to use them.”
“Sure of what?” I ask, backtracking to that comment.
“You’ll understand when you put together the puzzle.”
I groan aloud. “You’re maddening.”
“Part of the charm.”
“Ordinary blokes wouldn’t put a girl through this.”
“Then consider it a bonus: an ordinary-looking bloke with an exceptional personality.”
I start laughing. “You’re weird, in the best way possible.”
“Hmm. I think that is a compliment.”
“Absolutely it is,” I say, sitting up. “What are you doing now?”
“Playing a round of study-avoidance by watching The Chase online. It’s a quiz show, and it’s brilliant.”
“Your guilty pleasure TV is a quiz show? This is as bad as your microwaving.”
CP laughs, and a happy tingle flows through me from the sound of his deep, reverberating chuckle.
“All right, since I’m so boring with the quiz show, what should I be watching whilst I burn my dinner with the wrong time and power level?”
I laugh. “Hold on, I’ll need to research what is available in the UK. I’ll message you a more suitable mental cleanser.”
“Mental cleanser? You aren’t CIA, are you? Trying to reprogram my brain to reveal the secrets of the UK?”
“Yes. I am. And I’ll do it through trashy reality show programming.”
He laughs again.
I glance at the clock, regretting that I have to get off the phone.
“CP, I have to get ready for class,” I say, hearing the regret resonate in my voice. “But I want to thank you for something.”
“What?”
“You didn’t bring up the test. You didn’t say everything will be fine. You treated me
like everything was normal. I feel like you understand.”
“I do, Clementine,” he says softly.
There’s a little silence between us, and I get the feeling he doesn’t want to get off the phone, either.
He clears his throat. “Well, right. You’d better get on with it.”
“Okay. I’ll message you later.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Ace.”
Then he hangs up.
A happy sigh escapes my lips. Now I’m more curious about him than ever, knowing that he’s not disfigured.
I think on this as I throw on some clothing so I can take Bear out before I get ready. This time, I don a gray Stanford hoodie and ripped jeans. After I shove my feet into my slip-on Converse, I’m ready. I open the door and see Chelsea is already gone. Bryn’s door is shut, so she must still be sleeping. I’ll talk to both of them tonight and apologize for my overreaction.
I hook the leash to Bear’s collar and head outside. The air is cool, and the sun is shining brightly. It’s going to be another beautiful day in Palo Alto.
I yawn as Bear heads out to take care of his business. I am staring blankly at the green grass when my phone goes off.
I flip it over and glance down at the screen. CP has messaged me again, this time, another piece of the puzzle.
It’s his nose, his absolutely perfect nose.
I can put the two pieces together in my head, his full lips and perfect nose, and he’s already looking rather handsome, much to my delight.
Then he sends me the day’s pub quiz question, another flipping anagram. I study the words, my brain trying to sort them out to make sense:
Ye Gout I
Why is it I can remember all the details of the Edgar Degas painting The Dance Class, but I can’t unscramble these words? My brain can be such a freakishly weird place.
Bear finishes, and we head back up the stairs as my brain continues working on the puzzle. Suddenly, as if everything fell into place, I see it:
I get you
Butterflies take off in force.
I have no idea what’s going to happen between us. He’s at Cambridge. I’m in Palo Alto. Common sense says nothing.
But my heart says something.
And for the first time in my life, I choose to listen to my heart.
Chapter 5
Valley of the Sun
I draw a breath of air as I sit in the sterile waiting room of Dr. Choi’s neurosurgery office. Cheesy, soft pop songs fill the air, which has a temperature of “this close to freezing.” I think I might see an air puff as I exhale. Then I’ll fall asleep due to hypothermia.
“You okay?” Paisley asks, leaning across my mom, who is doing a needlepoint of Tom Hiddleston’s face. Mom says one of us can have the Tom throw pillow when she’s done. Paisley, the ever-generous soul, has decided I can have it.
“I don’t know. That breath could have been one of my last,” I snip.
Paisley’s brown eyes widen. I know I’ve hurt her with that, and worse, I almost don’t care.
Almost.
“I’m sorry,” I say, picking up my phone and messaging CP. “I’m anxious, that’s all.”
“It will be fine,” Mom says, her fingers moving the needle up and down. “Just fine.”
Anger surges through me from her words. How does she know that? Does she have ESP? If so, then why are we waiting in this room with magazines from six months ago and chairs that have the comfort of sitting on cold concrete slabs?
“Everyone, relax,” Dad says, flicking a page in Woman’s Day, one of the few available choices for him to read. “We’ll know how to tackle everything very soon.”
I wish CP could be here. He would make me laugh. He’d let me talk about how I am processing everything and tell me a steak pie and stupid anagram would be waiting when I was done.
I glance at my family. How can the people I’ve grown up with not know what I need, but a man in the UK who I have been talking to for two months does?
It’s now four o’clock his time, and CP has been texting me all morning. I decide to try and take the edge off by continuing our conversation:
Waiting now. Mom is doing a Tom Hiddleston needlepoint cushion cover to settle her nerves, Dad is reading a women’s magazine, and Paisley is watching every breath I take. Good times. You should totally be jealous you aren’t here to sit next to me in a very orange, uncomfortable plastic chair.
CP is typing …
Why on earth is your mom needlepointing (is that a word?) Tom Hiddleston’s face? Was Benedict Cumberbatch not available?
I grin. This is what I mean. CP knows what I need, without me even telling him. I text back:
Well, the Golden Prince was on back order, so she had to settle for Hiddles.
I hit send.
CP is typing …
Do tell. Does the Golden Prince pattern include piles of rubbish and curry takeaway tubs? You know what the tabloids say about him.
I burst out laughing.
I feel everyone in my family stare at me, as if there is no reason in the world I should be laughing right now.
“Sorry,” I say, going back to my typing:
Please. No. I don’t believe that for one second. Besides, the prince has PEOPLE. He would never live in a hot mess. They would be in there with shovels and dumpsters before letting him live like a hoarder. Have you ever seen the show called Hoarders? Sad and fascinating at the same time. If I stumble on it while flipping channels, I stop and watch. Very motivating for cleaning the apartment, I must say.
CP is typing …
Ha, you might be surprised. You never know how people live behind closed doors. I don’t have time for Hoarders; I’m too busy watching your prescribed viewing of The Real Housewives of Cheshire.
Right on cue, the door to the waiting room opens. A nurse is holding a chart in her hands, and my stomach fills with dread. It’s the moment you want, and don’t want, at the same time. You want to get it over with, but you might also receive news that is shattering.
“Clementine Jones?” she asks.
I stand up, and so does my family. We all follow her back to Dr. Choi’s office. Nerves come up full force. Nobody in my family is talking. I take the chair across from his desk, and my dad sits next to me. Mom and Paisley take the two chairs against the back wall.
I study all of Dr. Choi’s diplomas on the walls, knowing I’m in good hands with one of the best neurosurgeons in the United States. Even if they find something, I know he’ll have a plan to treat me. We’ll discuss the options: surgery, chemo, radiation. I go through everything like a checklist for my survival.
I swallow hard. Dr. Choi’s treatment will possibly give me more time to live if the results are bad.
I blink back tears. Please, God, I feel as if I’m finally starting to live now. I’m finishing Stanford. I want to pursue a career with antiques. I’ve met CP, and I’d love the opportunity to meet him in person someday. Please let me be okay, I pray. I’ll find ways to do good with my life, to serve others, if I’m given another chance.
I know I’m bargaining. I know God is listening.
In this moment, I turn it all over to Him.
There’s a brisk knock on the door, and then it clicks open.
I want to throw up.
“Hello,” Dr. Choi says, smiling at all of us. “I see the whole crew is here today. Nice to see you all again.”
I nod. Dr. Choi is a slender man in his fifties, and he has been my neurosurgeon since I was fourteen. He’s grown older, and I’ve grown up, in our years together.
He shakes all our hands and takes a seat behind his desk, placing his laptop in front of him.
“Clementine,” he says, addressing me directly, “I’ve had a chance to review your scans, along with your blood work.”
I bite my lip, nodding. Praying. Preparing.
He smiles gently at me. “Your scans are negative. Your blood cells look fantastic. Clementine, you look absolutely fine.”
&n
bsp; I hear my mom gasp, and Paisley lets out a cry. Dad exhales.
“I-I’m okay?” I ask, getting choked up.
“Whatever is causing your headaches, it’s not a tumor.”
I choke back tears. Thank you, God. Thank you. I promise I’ll keep my word to You.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod.
“But what could be causing her headaches?” my dad asks.
“It could be any number of things,” Dr. Choi says. “Vision. Stress. Inflammation. Tension. An allergic reaction. It’s a long list, but we can el—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, something clicking into place for me. “Could an essential oil cause me to have headaches?”
Dr. Choi nods. “Absolutely.”
I exhale loudly. “I’m an idiot,” I say.
Dad glances at me. “Why do you say that?”
“Chelsea put in a new essential oil diffuser in our room. She fills it with lavender. I started getting headaches around the same time, but I always thought lavender was good for headaches, so I didn’t connect it.”
“Let’s discontinue that and see if your headaches improve,” Dr. Choi says, typing some notes into his laptop. “It’s possible you might have an allergy to lavender.”
The feeling of relief is overwhelming. I want to cry. Laugh manically. Jump for joy. While I’m not a doctor, I’m pretty damn sure it’s the lavender that’s causing my headaches.
We say goodbye to Dr. Choi, and I feel nothing but gratitude for my clean bill of health. As soon as we’re out of the office, Paisley throws her arms around me.
“I love you,” she says, her voice thick. “My prayers have been answered.”
My heart swells with love for my sister. “I love you, too.”
Mom reaches for both of us, and I hear her stifle a sob. “I’m so grateful. So, so grateful.”
Mom releases us and nods as if she’s trying to regain her composure. We walk toward the exit of the medical plaza, the doors automatically opening for us.
“But I always knew you’d be fine,” Mom says, her eyes sparkling as we walk out into the bright Arizona sunshine. “I knew it!”
