by J. B. McGee
Dad clears his throat. “Did you find something out?”
I open my lids to find the nurse has returned. “She’s in the ICU. Do you know how to get there from here?”
“Yeah,” Dad says.
They turn and start to walk. I follow, assuming it’s okay to go with them. I’m sure as hell not staying here. But why didn’t they ask if she was awake? What are we going to be walking blindly into? I’m not ready, not prepared, for anything other than her looking like she did Friday morning when she was hogging the bathroom like she always does. Or when I came home and she was lying on the hardwood floor listening to pop music while wearing my white button-up shirt she cut off two weeks ago, her hair splayed in soft curls around her. I need her to be okay so I can continue to educate her on how not to be so annoying. The first step is how to appreciate Bon Iver instead of the hip hop junk she listens to.
She has to be okay. She hasn’t accepted my apology. She thinks I don’t care about her. I need her to take back her words, to tell me she loves me instead of hates me. She. Has. To. Get. Better.
When we made it upstairs to the ICU, Mom and Dad checked in with the nurse. I stood behind them like a lost, tagalong puppy. Instead of granting us entry, a doctor came through the double doors and escorted us to a small room with no windows and only a few chairs. That’s where I am right now. Sitting in one of the three chairs with my parents while a fairly young doctor stands over us.
“Mr. and Mrs. Masters.” He nods at them before giving me a tilt of his head. It seems like an apology for not knowing who I am or how to address me. I stare at him, hunched forward in my chair with my forearms resting on my legs. “Your daughter, Violet, had no pulse when the paramedics arrived. The good news is she was not alone when she went into cardiac arrest. The dispatcher assisted the caller in making sure CPR was initiated and continued until help arrived at which time a defibrillator was used to restart her heart.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “If that had not happened, we’d be having a little different conversation than we are.”
Mom still holds her chest and tears are constantly streaming down her cheeks. Dad’s rubbing circles on her back.
I, however, am sitting here thankful she wasn’t home because I would have left her. And why do I feel like there’s a “but” coming?
“Upon arrival, she underwent extensive testing, including an ultrasound of her heart and abdomen. It was at that time, unfortunately, we discovered two tumors. One in her stomach…”
The tears I’ve managed to keep at bay start spilling over the rims of my lids despite my efforts to keep them in. I try to tune him out, but I can’t. Did he just say, “And it appears to have metastasized to her heart?” How is that even possible? My chest burns and aches. She wasn’t lying. She really hasn’t been feeling well. She has fucking cancer, not an eating disorder.
This is all my fault.
I’ve been convinced she was making herself sick because of what the doctors have always said about how she was predisposed to having an eating disorder. If I hadn’t told Mom she was making herself sick, if I’d just told her she was vomiting, would we have known this sooner? And even though I always think Mom sides with her, in this case, Mom sided with me.
The one time she shouldn’t have.
Everything in my stomach starts to curdle, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to vomit.
Mom sucks in a deep breath. “What are you saying, exactly?”
The doctor hangs his head down, and it confirms everything I already have figured out on my own. I don’t need clarification. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. If you don’t say it, maybe it won’t be true.
“While she’s stable for now, her prognosis is grave. Early indicators suggest the cancer has spread to her lymph nodes, as well.”
Mom buries her face in Dad’s chest, which muffles her sobs.
“What about surgery? Chemo?” Dad asks, his voice cracking.
“The only treatment method is surgical resection, but because of the substantial involvement of the intracardiac structures and her current condition, she is not a candidate for surgical intervention.” He shakes his head. I have no idea what any of that meant except that it sure as hell sounded like hope shattering all around us. “I’m so sorry. I’ll give you a moment.” He turns to walk out of this room. Maybe when he opens the door I’ll be able to breathe again. Maybe air will rush in here to fill my lungs.
“Wait,” Mom says.
He turns around, his hand still on the door. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Is she conscious?”
He nods. “She’s extremely fatigued and having trouble keeping her oxygen saturations up because of the poor blood circulation. She’s passed her neurologic examinations. She didn’t suffer any brain damage because of the quick initiation of CPR as I spoke of earlier.”
Mom’s eyes close tightly, and she sighs. “Thank you.”
Vi must be terrified. I’ve been here. I could have been with her, but they wouldn’t let me. She shouldn’t be alone.
“You’re welcome. If you’re ready to see her, I can take you to her room. Or would you like a few minutes?”
“I want to go,” I say.
Dad stands, offering Mom a hand. “C’mon, Georgette. Let’s go see our baby. She needs us to be strong.”
We follow the doctor through two large, double, automatic doors and down a sterile hall lined with sliding glass doors. Other than our steps against the linoleum floor, the only sounds are babies crying, beeps, and machines puffing air in and out.
A door is open, and he motions for us to go in. Unlike most of the rooms, the lights are on in hers. There’s a nurse by her side checking her vitals. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”
Mom goes to the free side of the bed, the side without the nurse and a panel of LCD screens with lines and numbers. “Vi, baby. It’s Mama. You rest. We’re here. Daddy and Holden too.”
Her lids flutter, but she can’t keep them open. Mom takes her hand into hers and rubs it. Violet’s lips have a blue tinge against her skin that’s as white as the sheet covering her.
I can’t stand being here another minute. Rushing out of the room, I run down the hall, out of the ICU, and to the nearest bathroom. Thankfully, it’s a single stall. I slam the door and lock it before hurling in the commode, then bracing myself against the sink. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, tears start blurring my vision as a choked sob escapes.
She beats odds. After everything she’s been through, she gets a cancer I didn’t even know was possible. I’ve never heard of anyone even having a tumor in their heart. How does that even happen? The more I think about it, the harder it gets to breathe.
The tears spill down my face, and as I look at myself completely falling apart, I see her at our vanity in our bathroom as I steal her toothbrush. Then, anguish twists my face as I hear her telling me she hates me. Please don’t let that be the last thing she says to me.
I’m so sorry, Vi. I’m so sorry. I should have believed you. We all should have. Shit. This hurts so bad.
After getting a grip on my emotions, I dry my tears, and splash some water on my face before walking out of the bathroom.
“Holden,” a familiar voice says as I’m making my way back to the ICU entrance. Mr. Spencer. My thoughts immediately go to Cammie. Is she in the ICU too? No. Cammie was fine. He’s clearly coming to check on us.
“Yes, sir,” I reply as I pivot and face him.
“Let’s go for a walk and talk a second.”
I’m not really sure why I would want to do that. It’s pretty rude and inconsiderate for him to want to have a chitchat at this particular moment in my life. Then again, he probably has no idea how horrible this situation is. He should, though. Wouldn’t my parents have been told, while they were with him, that Violet was unconscious and without a pulse waiting on an ambulance? Maybe they didn’t tell my parents any details, just to get here as soon as possible. Maybe he’s completely clueless.
I open my mouth
to try to reply, to ask about Cammie, but my throat starts to constrict, and I know if I try to utter a word, I’m going to lose it again. So, instead, I just nod and shove my shaky hands into my pockets.
“I know what you did earlier.”
That stops me in my tracks. I tilt my head and study him a little more closely. Yeah. The lines on his forehead are crinkled, his brows furrowed, and his jaw tight. Does he think I hurt Cammie? I would never.
“I’ve always thought you had magma under that cool exterior just like your father, Holden. Just waiting to erupt like a volcano.”
I’m not sure where this is coming from. My heart is racing, and I can barely form thoughts, let alone sentences. I swallow and try to catch my breath, but it’s all too much. What the hell did I do to make him think I’m like a fucking volcano?
“You know what volcanoes do, Holden?”
I shake my head.
“They leave ash and soot for miles and miles, which dulls everything that once shined. They’re these magnificent landforms. They don’t self-destruct. It’s everyone and everything else they destroy.”
Any other time, I’d tell him to go to hell, to explain why he thinks this about me or my father. But he’s like a towering bully. I’m small and weak. I’m at his mercy. He’s one to talk about destruction and devastation.
“Stay away from my daughter, Holden, do you understand me?”
Maybe he’s right. The only thing I’m seeing is red lava spilling over my edges. I have to get away from him before I make his nose look like Brody’s. And the very fact I’m having these thoughts confuses the hell out of me. I walk away without agreeing. Or disagreeing.
Returning to the bathroom, I kick the door. I’m not stupid enough to hit a wooden surface with my bare knuckles. They’re still sore from what I did to Brody earlier. I want to scream, but I can’t. That’d probably get me kicked out of the ICU, the hospital. Of course, that’d just give Mr. Spencer more ammunition to justify his stance on my involvement in Cammie’s life. I want to see her, to know she’s okay, but I need to get back to Vi’s room. Mom and Dad have enough worries. What I really need to do is be strong for them, not destructive like Mr. Spencer described me as just a few minutes ago. They don’t need to be worried about Violet and me.
I wonder how much Vi knows about what’s going on with her. Did they tell her what they told us? I am pretty sure that doctor just told us she’s dying, but he didn’t tell us how long she has. Then again, do any of us know how long we have?
I want to tell her I’m sorry, that I love her. Please don’t let it be too late for that. When I enter her room, she’s groggy, but awake. “Holden,” Violet whispers, like she can’t get enough oxygen to fill her lungs despite that thing being in her nose. Her voice is weak and frail.
“Yeah, I’m here, Vi.” I rush to her side, effectively pushing Mom and Dad out of the way. “I’m here.” Grabbing her hand, I bring it to my lips and kiss it. “I’m sorry for using your toothbrush. I’m a moron. No, actually, I’m a dick.”
Mom scolds me. “Holden.”
But Dad interjects, “Not now, Georgie. Let’s give them some time.”
Violet’s lips curve up a smidge. A strained little laugh escapes, but she coughs. “They say the first step to acceptance is admitting you have a problem.” She sucks in air like she’s been under water for too long. “Isn’t that how it goes?”
“Fuck, Vi.”
Her eyes widen. “You know if Mom hears you saying that you’re going to lose your car for months.”
I nod. “I’ll tell her I learned it from you.” I smile for the first time since this nightmare started. I’m still waiting to wake up. “This is so messed up.”
“Holden.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
Shit. She knows. She knows this is bad.
“No, you don’t. You hate me. I need you to hate me.”
She shakes her head.
“Because I love you, and we can’t actually feel the same way. We can’t agree on anything.” I rub her hand with my thumb. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“I’m not sure it would have made a difference.”
I shrug. “It would have.”
“I’m too tired to argue with you, Holden. Could you let me have the last word for once?”
I nod.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference. I need you to know that. And that it’s not your fault.”
Tucking my head down, I sniff back the tears that are once again threatening to break free. I will not cry in front of my baby sister who’s dying and acting like she’s made of fucking steel. “Okay.”
“And one more thing.”
“Anything, Vi. Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll always remember what a pain in the ass I’ve been to you. Promise me you won’t forget me. Promise me you’ll take care of Mom.” Her voice has gotten weaker with each request. She’s killing me. My chest feels like it’s being split apart. “Promise me you’ll live for the both of us, Holden. Promise you’ll love for both of us.”
And that one’s like the knife twisting into my own heart. “I promise, Vi.”
That day when I was at the hospital, initially to support Cammie, and then to have my whole world crumble, she threw me under the bus to her father. She snitched on me. Fucking ironic how what goes around comes around.
In her defense, she wasn’t with us in the car when we made up the lies we’d tell our parents about how Brody’s nose got broken. Or why I was with them to begin with when I was grounded.
There’s no such thing as a perfect crime. And even though I hate to call it that, because looking back it wasn’t even a fight, it was still wrong of me to hit him. I know now there’s no covering up something like that. Lies always lead to devastation.
Boy, has my father ever proven that.
Amie, Brody, Eddie, and I should have known the truth would come out. We just never imagined it’d be Cammie that’d do it. At least, I never imagined it’d be her. That’s stupid and fucking naïve, though, because even if she’d been in on it, she was a horrible liar back then. Not sure about now. Everything she’s said to me has seemed genuine. Real.
And that’s why I can’t, for the life of me, seem to make my feet walk out of this apartment right now as pissed as I am at her.
Not even an hour ago, her father threw my entire past in my face as if I’m not already painfully aware of how my actions have robbed me of a relationship with her of any kind for the past nine years. As if I’m the same person I was back then with zero personal growth or reflection. As if I’ve not lost everything that mattered to me because of it. Almost. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit back and let him rob me of another minute with Cammie because of his preconceived notions on limited data as to what makes me tick, what makes me who I am, what makes me five fucking million times more worthy of her than Oliver.
Even if it means I get hurt.
Nothing will be more painful than walking away from her again.
I promised my sister I’d live for both of us, that I’d love for both of us, and I’ve done a really horrible job of upholding her wishes. I thought suggesting Mom take over the annual Magnolia Grove fundraiser, changing it to benefit the cancer ward, would be a step in the right direction toward keeping me from feeling like shit, a step in helping me heal. But every year it’s just been a reminder of what I’ve lost.
Then, this year, I realized I hadn’t really lost everything.
Not yet.
Even if I’d not won Cammie’s auction, I would have made a sizeable donation. I always do. Every year, I anonymously donate an assload of money to the hospital that couldn’t save my sister in hopes it prevents another family from suffering the way we did, have, and continue to.
Cammie’s date isn’t the prize. It’s her heart, and that’s not something I can put a paddle in the air to win, toss some cash at, and claim. I thought that day when I hit Brody I was fighting for her,
but it’s the way we go about things. Fighting for her heart is standing, feet firmly planted, and letting her know I’m not going anywhere this time.
Fighting for her is fulfilling the promise I made to my sister on her death bed.
That’s why, this time, when Mr. Spencer threatened me in Rind ‘N Grind after basically telling Cammie he’d disown her if she left with me, I told him to go to hell. And I meant it.
One of the biggest regrets I have from that hot summer day in that ice cold hospital was not standing up for myself, not defending my actions, actions I did on behalf of his daughter. No amount of social standing was or is worthy of me sitting by idly while someone hurts her. That much hasn’t changed in the last nine years. It’s exactly why I’m standing here right now as Oliver tries to do the same fucking thing her father did to us nine years ago—plant doubt and project their feelings as truth on me, on her.
Even if she doesn’t stand up for me, I’m not backing down. I’m not walking out of her life again because someone thinks I’m inferior, unworthy of her love. I don’t care if it’s only temporary.
I’m her fucking Romeo.
She takes a step closer to me, filling our distance. She snakes her arms around my waist, but I don’t budge, don’t even move, waiting to hear what she says next. Because even though I just talked myself up, she has the power to still crush my hopes the way the doctor did that day in that tiny consultation room.
She isn’t the only one who’s afraid to let her hopes fly high.
Her eyes gleam as she stares at me. “No, I won’t ask him where he was last night, Oliver.”
Does she seriously believe this son of a bitch who’s been lying and cheating on her?
“I don’t need to. We were together all night,” she says.
Well, hell.
Maybe I don’t know how this ends.
“I’ll leave your ring and key on the counter. If you want me to keep your secret, then you need to tell my parents that you cheated on me and get the hell out of their place. After that, I never want to see or hear from you again.”
