“Maybe I should crawl now.”
“You'd hate it as much now as you did then.” She reaches over and squeezes my arm.
“Things would go faster if it weren't for the chemo.”
“I know, but we've got to kill the cancer.”
This protocol is worse than the first and is scheduled to be a whole lot longer. I'm anemic and I've had a kidney infection, which has set me back. I feel dizzy now, and nauseated. “Better pull over,” I say to Mom. “I'm not going to make it home.”
She pulls off on the shoulder of the road and I open the car door and heave. Mom's around the side of the car in a flash, holding my head and wiping me clean with towels she keeps in the backseat. When I'm finished, I fall against the seat. “Sorry.”
“No problem.”
“Did I get any on you?”
“Occupational hazard.”
I'm grateful Mom was with me. Cooper could handle it, but I don't want him to have to. School starts soon, but I won't be returning. “I can't go back to school like this,” I tell Mom after she's cleaned me up.
“I have a tutor lined up. Return whenever you're ready.”
I wonder if I'll ever be ready.
I know what Emily, Darla, and Cooper are doing. They think I don't notice how they're always showing up, never letting me be alone, always making sure Travis is covered. When I get home from treatments, Darla's usually there, and all I can do is stretch out on the sofa and fall asleep. When I wake, my head's in her lap and she's reading a magazine. “You don't have to stay,” I tell her.
“There's no place else I'd rather be.”
I want to believe her, so I do.
After she leaves, Cooper usually shows up. When he does, Mom invites him for dinner and he wolfs it down. I'll bet it's the only good meal he has every day.
The best days are when we all go out to the lake. Sometimes we take the boat out, but most of the time we stay on the shore, off by ourselves, just me and Darla, Cooper and Emily. Being around the water makes me feel good but sad too. I've been told I'll swim again, and maybe I will. But I'll never dive again, at least not for medals.
Sometimes I dream about diving, about feeling the water on my skin as I knife through the surface. I'm happy in the dream, and I can breathe underwater. And then I wake up. When I wake, the den is lit only by a nightlight and someone's covered me with an afghan. Mom's handiwork. Make sure the one-legged boy can find his way to the bathroom in the dark. Make sure the one-legged boy doesn't get cold at night. Make sure the one-legged boy has friends who look out for him, who stand ready to make sure he's busy and not alone.
They all mean well. But they can't know how the dark space inside me is growing. I lie to them. I lie to the shrink. I can't get out of the dark hole. “Peace is here,” it whispers.
Darla
I'm in front of the trophy cases at school getting teary-eyed. The cases take up the greater part of a wall and are filled with memorabilia that goes back to the 1970s.
I see old faded football and basketball jerseys, medals, trophies, and photos of former star graduates and district- and state-winning teams. The last glass case is the newest, and is a mini-monument to Travis. He's perhaps our greatest athlete in ten years, a diver headed for sports immortality. Photos of him grin out at me; medals hang from his neck in a glittering array, like jewelry, like stars that will now go out because their sun no longer burns.
I sniff and hug my stack of books close to my chest, suddenly aware of a group of boys at the other end of the case. One says to me, “Want me to hold those for you, Darla?”
I whip my head in their direction as the others in the group snicker, and see Bud Tucker, quarterback for this year's football team and a former boyfriend. “Drop dead,” I say.
“Hey, no way to talk to an old friend.”
“You're no friend of mine,” I say.
He comes closer, the group moving with him like a pack of jackals. “We were good friends once upon a time.”
He's the main reason my rep is bad. I had sex with him in eighth grade and he spread it all over middle school. He told me he loved me, and like an idiot, I believed him. He told everyone else I was easy but worth the takedown. “Once upon a time is over,” I say.
“I hear your main man is down for the count.”
“Don't talk about Travis.”
“I feel for him. We all do. But that doesn't mean you should be alone. I'll take you back.”
He moves in so close to me I can feel his breath. He makes my skin crawl. Then I say the wrong thing. “You're not worthy to tie his shoes.”
Bud pounces on it. “There's only one shoe to tie now.”
His friends think it's funny and laugh like crazy. If looks could kill, they'd all be lying on the floor. I stare him down. “Get over yourself, Bud. And don't make me compare body parts with your friends standing around. Next to Travis, you come up short in that category by a mile.”
Before he can recover, I stalk off. I round a corner and run smack into Emily. She gives me the once-over.
“What were you talking about with Bud Tucker?”
“Nothing worth repeating.”
She stares hard. “Are you going to dump Travis for Bud?”
I'm so shocked that I can't speak.
“Are you?”
Hot tears sting my eyes. “How can you ask that? I love Travis. I spent the whole summer with him because I love him. I won't leave him.”
She breaks eye contact. “Okay,” she mumbles.
It hits me that she doesn't really like me. I'm not sure why. “I won't bail on Travis. That's not the kind of person I am.”
“Will you come over like you did in the summer?”
I know a lot of responsibility has fallen on Emily's shoulders. Her parents expect her to hustle home so that Travis won't be alone between the time their mother goes to work and their dad comes home. “I'll be there every day. Trust me, no one will miss me at my house.”
She gives me a funny look but doesn't press the issue. “I—I would like some time to do things after school. It's hard when I have to go straight home.”
“Problem solved,” I say cheerfully.
“I won't be busy every day. Just once in a while.”
“No need to explain,” I tell her. “Travis is stuck with me. And so are you.”
I spend as much time as I can with Travis. His tutor comes in the mornings, but the afternoons are ours. I do homework at his house, go home at the last possible minute. When he feels good, we ignore the homework. In his room, we're in our own private world. I sit on the floor with my books spread out and he lounges on his bed with his books.
One afternoon I catch him staring at me. “What's wrong? Is my face on crooked?”
He grins. “I think you're beautiful.”
“And I think you're sweet to say so.”
He's raised up on his side, wearing long flannel pajama bottoms that hide his missing leg. “Why are you on the floor when I'm up here?”
“Can't think of a good reason.” I stand, climb onto the bed, and lie beside him. I snuggle into his bare chest. “You feel good,” I tell him.
“You smell good,” he says, playing with my hair.
“New shampoo.”
“Buy stock in the company.”
He scoots closer until our bodies are molded against each other and I can feel him through the fabric. I stroke his side, run my fingers under the band of his pj's. I hear his breath catch. I love him so much. I wasted myself on Bud Tucker. Travis is worth a hundred of guys like Bud. “How long will we be alone?” I ask.
He looks at the clock on his bedside table. “Maybe another hour.”
“Good. Then we've got time.”
“For?” His voice is soft in my ear and his breath warm against my cheek.
“For whatever happens,” I say. I rise up, pull my shirt over my head.
He gazes at me, touches my skin lightly. I see in his eyes how much he wants me. “Are you sure?” he
asks.
Goose bumps make me shiver. I lower my mouth to his. “Way sure,” I tell him.
Travis
There's a woman in chemo with me, Sally, a single mom with bone cancer after having had breast cancer. We come on the same days and end up in side-by-side reclining chairs for our drip sessions. “How you doing today?” she always asks. “Isn't it a beautiful day?”
It doesn't matter what the day's like. Sally always says it's beautiful. “It's pouring rain,” I tell her.
“Don't matter. So long as we're alive, it's a beautiful day.” She's toothpick thin, and she wears a turban because the treatments have made her bald. Her eyes close and I watch her take deep breaths. Finally her face relaxes. “Yoga,” she says. “Transcendent state. You could try it.”
“I'll stick to morphine.”
Her two little girls, five and seven, sit and color in a corner, watching TV and acting like this is the most ordinary thing in the world, that everybody's mother gets hooked up to chemo. “I signed a DNR today,” she tells me.
“What's that?”
“If I code—die—then I don't want them to bring me back or hook me up to life support.”
“You can do that?” New information for me.
“I don't want to be kept alive if I can't get well. I don't want doctors sticking feeding tubes and breathing tubes into me. And I surely don't want my girls to see me turn into some kind of vegetable they have to take care of all their lives. And they'll have lives because their grandma will finish raising them. It's all arranged.”
“I didn't know you can decide for yourself.”
Sally nods. “Adults do. Kids your age, well, parents decide.”
I look at her girls coloring happily. “What about if it was one of your kids?”
“Oh, now, don't go backing me into a corner.”
“But, what if, you know, what if the doctors wanted one of your girls to go on life support?”
She watches them for a few moments. “Would depend on what kind of life she would live after she came off life support. Being in pain like I am changes you and the way you think. No use hanging around God's good earth if you're a burden to anyone.”
For the rest of the afternoon, all I thought about was what would my mother do if it happened to me?
I'm at home, downstairs in the family room at two in the morning, when I hear rapping on a window. It takes me a minute to find my crutches and hobble over. I look out and see Cooper. I raise the window and cold air slaps me in the face. “What're you doing out there?”
“I need a place to crash.”
He stinks of beer. “You okay?”
“Open the door. I can't get through this window.”
I make my way to the front door and he lurches inside, almost knocks me over, but catches himself with the wall. I steady him with a crutch. “What's going on?”
His eyes are glassy. “The old lady's entertaining. Nowhere else to go.”
I get it. He's crashed here before when he can't go home. “Come in, but be quiet.”
He's in his shirtsleeves. “Too cold to sit in my car all night. I saw your lights were on.”
“It's all right, man. You can have the sofa.”
He makes it there and drops to the cushions. “What are you doing up, anyway?”
“Can't sleep. My days and nights are all turned around.”
“Sorry.” He rests his forehead in his hands. “I feel like crap.”
“You drunk?”
“Not drunk enough.”
“I can make some coffee.”
“No. I want to crash.” He stretches out and pulls our old quilt over himself. “You sure this is okay?”
“I said it was.” I lower myself into Dad's recliner.
“Your mom won't freak when she finds me here?”
“She's never freaked before.”
“Good mom,” Cooper says, his voice slurry and thick.
I'm sorry Cooper doesn't have a mom like mine. I guess it's better that I'm the one with cancer and not him. I push back in the recliner and let Cooper's instant snoring lull me to sleep.
Emily
I bounce into the family room Saturday morning and stop dead in my tracks. Cooper's asleep on our sofa, Grandma's old quilt pulled to his waist. His arm is shielding his eyes. Asleep, he looks like a little boy. My heart trips, and I want to touch him.
“Don't poke the sleeping bear,” Travis says. He's come up behind me on his crutches.
“Why is he here?”
“Got locked out.”
I know he's covering for Cooper, because the smell of stale beer hangs in the room. “You better air out the place before Mom and Dad get up.”
“Mom's still asleep, but Dad's in the kitchen flipping pancakes. Open the window. I'll wake him.”
I do as I'm told, ignoring Cooper's groans while Travis rouses him. Cooper lets go with a stream of swearing, sees me, and stops abruptly. “I've heard worse,” I say over my shoulder.
Travis snorts. “In the movies.”
I shoot him a nasty look.
“My bad,” Cooper says.
Dad comes into the room with a steaming mug of coffee. “Here you go.” He hands it to Cooper, smiling cheerfully. “I know how you feel. I tied one or two on myself when I was in college.”
Cooper groans.
“Want a cup, Em?”
“A cola for me.”
“You should get something in your stomach,” Dad tells Cooper. Minutes later he returns with a plate of griddle cakes in one hand, a cola and a bottle of syrup in the other. “Eat up.”
Travis follows Dad out of the room. I don't know whether to go or stay. I finally decide to stay, and sit on the other side of the coffee table on the floor, facing Cooper and feeling self-conscious.
Cooper soaks the pancakes with syrup. I watch, fascinated, while he cuts the stack with his fork and shovels it into his mouth. “Want some?”
“I'm a cereal person,” I say.
He grins. “Twigs and grass. Yummy.”
I hug my knees. I can't recall a time I've ever been alone with him.
His dark eyes connect with mine and I go hot all over. Cooper leans back without breaking the connection. His dark eyes roam my face and my body. He grins and hands me his plate. “Think your dad has more food ready, little sister?”
I scramble to my feet, breaking the spell he has on me. “Go ask him yourself. And I'm not your sister or your servant.”
His laugh chases me out of the room.
Later I'm in the laundry room sorting dirty clothes with Mom when she says, “Can I ask you something, Em?”
“Sure.” I heave a bundle onto the floor.
“Are you attracted to Cooper?”
My face flames and I stand stock-still. “Mom! I've known him forever.”
“That's not an answer.” She leans against the washer. “I'm not prying.”
“Sounds like you are.” I feel squirmy.
“It's a logical question,” Mom says. “And it wouldn't surprise me. He's familiar. He's always hanging around—”
“Because of Travis.”
“Partly. I—I just don't think he's the best choice for you.”
“You're the one who took him in when he was a kid.” I turn defensive.
“He needed our family at the time, and it was the right thing to do. But I don't want you falling for him. He has … problems.”
An understatement, I think. Cooper's a loner, nobody's friend except Travis's. “I don't think that's going to happen.” I turn so she won't see the lie. I am attracted to Cooper. I think he's exotic and sexy. “He hangs with a different kind of girl,” I tell her. The girls he chooses don't have great reputations, and he never stays with any of them for very long.
I sort dirty clothes silently until Mom says, “Look, I know it's been difficult for you with all the attention going to Travis, what with him being so sick. I'm sorry, but that's the way things are right now. I need to know that I don't have to wo
rry about you, Emily. That you won't divide my loyalties.”
“You don't want me to have a boyfriend. And you really don't want it to be Cooper. I get it, Mom.”
She offers an apologetic smile. “You've always been smart, so maybe that is what I am saying. It won't always be this way.”
I resist the urge to argue.
“When Travis was two, I found him on top of the bookshelves in the living room. On top! He'd climbed up there while I was changing your diaper. He's always been on the edge of life, and now he's really on the edge.”
“He didn't ask to get cancer.”
“That's not the point. It's just that now he's the focus of our family. He has to be. It doesn't mean we love you less. If anything, I'll depend on you more.”
That's me, Emily the Dependable One. Her trust feels like a wool coat in summer. I bend down and pull the light-colored clothes away from the dark ones and put them into a separate pile. “I know how to be good, Mom,” I say.
“You are good, Emily, and this won't go on forever with your brother.”
And then it will be your turn. That's what she's telling me. That's what she means. What I don't say is that I'm not even sure how to take my turn.
COOPER
Travis returns to school in January. He walks in to a hero's welcome, a ceremony in the gym with most of the school attending. The jocks sit in a big group—Coach's idea, to show how much he's been missed. I can tell Travis doesn't want this kind of attention. People are staring at his legs. He's wearing jeans, but the athletic shoe on his prosthetic foot looks new and way too clean.
Coach makes a speech. Then the whole swim team surrounds Travis, and a photographer from the local paper snaps some pictures. Travis looks like he wants to bolt. Finally it's over, and kids file out to classes. I bulldoze my way through the crowd to my friend.
“Get me out of here,” he says under his breath.
“I'm taking him home,” I tell the principal. She looks baffled, as if she can't understand why Travis doesn't want to bask in the glow of the celebration.
Breathless Page 4
