It’s back.
If it hadn’t been clear from his insistence that she come in, the softness in Dr. Harmon’s voice and his choice of words left her no doubt. After five years of remission, she had cancer again, just a different kind.
Amy hugged her free arm over her chest. Traitorous, stupid boobs. She wanted to laugh, but it wasn’t funny. Her breasts barely grew until the end of high school, after she went into remission and had gained some weight. It was like going through a super delayed puberty. Talk about a late bloomer.
Now she wished they hadn’t bloomed at all. But the cancer would have just found another place to nestle into her body. She was sure of it.
“Amy? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Is nine o’clock good?”
Like there was a good time to go in and find out you had cancer. “As long as traffic isn’t too terrible. See you then.”
Amy hung up the phone and lay back in her bed. Tears pooled in her eyes, overflowing and rolling down her cheeks, over her neck and into her hair.
This was a moment she had always expected. Maybe she even willed the cancer into existence, being so sure it would return. It blossomed, feeding on her faith in it.
Or perhaps it came back because she was finally happy. Her dreams of being with Sy, which had seemed like a reality only twelve hours ago, now seemed completely impossible. A tiny corner of her heart had found hope, allowing it to grow like a tiny plant in the cracks of a sidewalk. And cancer wasn’t going to let her have any of that happiness.
These thoughts were superstitious and dumb. They weren’t biblically or theologically sound. Amy knew that.
But part of her really did believe that it was her happiness that somehow called the cancer back. Amy preferred thinking about the cancer like this to recognizing that God had any hand in it. She had finally gotten to the point where she didn’t feel bitter sitting in church, but that might change.
She’d heard all the verses people liked to quote when their lives were fine and yours sucked: God gives us trials to grow our faith; he works all things for his good; we can do all things through Jesus. It’s not that Amy didn’t believe those things. She did. But having those kinds of promises tossed at you from people living out a different reality just felt … painful. It made her feel worse, not better.
Amy sighed, sitting up in bed. If she was going to get to the hospital by nine, she really needed to get going. Especially if she didn’t want to see Sy before she left, which she most definitely did not.
Because one way or another, she had to let him go. Or, rather, make him go.
Unbelievable as it was to Amy, he really did seem to like her. Not that they had spoken about a commitment or stated expectations. The kiss had been a promise, one she felt down in her bones.
It was a promise she would now have to break. She wouldn’t subject him to what she knew would be coming. And she knew he would stay. He already walked with her through it back in high school. Maybe he didn’t realize it, but seeing Sy was one of the things that kept her going in those days. He was a bright spot in her life when she was feeling like death after chemo. He always made her laugh, always made her feel special, and never out of pity.
If she told him now about whatever diagnosis she was about to get, Sy wouldn’t leave. And that was just it—Amy would never know if he stayed because of the cancer, or because of her. Things between them were too new, too fresh to have the weight of cancer pressed on them.
What they just started had to end now.
Cancer was demanding. It wanted every part of you. She had gotten away once, but twice? It reminded her of that movie where all the people were supposed to die, but didn’t, so death followed them around, seeking its due.
The house was still quiet after Amy took a quick shower and scribbled a note for Sy. Tiptoeing around the creaks in the stairs, she taped the note to his door.
Something came up, and I’ve got to go out for the morning. Sorry I’m failing at the breakfast part of the B&B today. Help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen. Be back after lunch. -A
The note didn’t have the word “goodbye,” but Amy knew that’s what she really meant. Even if Sy didn’t know it yet.
“This is my recommended treatment plan. What questions do you have?”
Dr. Morgan took off his glasses and leaned across the desk, trying to meet her gaze.
Dr. Harmon patted her arm from his seat next to her. “Amy?”
“Give me a minute,” she muttered. As if stalling would do anything to change the facts that Dr. Morgan had just laid out for her.
Amy didn’t look up, eyes fixed on the informational packet in her lap. She had ignored a lot of what he said, hearing only the important parts: chemo and radiation, then a double mastectomy, more chemo and radiation. Reconstruction surgery, if she chose.
No man had ever seen her breasts, much less touched them. She’d never nursed a baby with them, and now never would.
These things were small in the grand scheme of life and death. But sitting with these two older doctors in this impersonal hospital office, Amy felt keenly betrayed by her own body. And utterly devastated by what she was going to miss out on.
She cleared her throat. “Success rate?”
“Very good. I’d say upwards of seventy percent for people with a similar growth.”
“Seventy percent success for how many years? What’s the life expectancy after?”
“You can really never say definitively ...” Dr. Morgan hedged.
“Seventy percent for what life expectancy?” Her voice was unrelenting.
Dr. Morgan sighed. “Five years. Ten. Perhaps longer.”
From beside her, Dr. Harmon spoke again. “These are good odds, Amy. You already beat this once. I know you’re a fighter. There’s hope.”
I hate hope.
Amy licked her lips, then made eye contact with both doctors. “I used to be a fighter. I’m not sure that’s who I am anymore.”
She stood. Dr. Harmon got to his feet beside her, but she gave his arm a quick squeeze, shaking her head to cut off whatever he had opened his mouth to say. She suspected he saw her as something of a daughter. She was his miracle patient. Articles had been written about his successful treatment of her childhood cancer. She wondered if he took its return as some kind of personal failure.
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Amy held up her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I know the drill. I’ll make an appointment at the desk. Merry Christmas to you both.”
Amy slammed the door behind her and walked out of the office. Straight past the front desk where Dr. Morgan’s secretary was on the phone, twirling her hair around a red and green holiday pen. Taking the elevator down to the third floor, Amy walked to the open area near the gift shop and the food court.
This was one of the top cancer hospitals in the country, and the lobby looked like it was for a swanky hotel. The ceilings soared overhead with giant windows looking out over Houston. Atriums held climbing vines and blooming flowers. Leather couches and armchairs were scattered around the room.
Amy sank into one of the couches, staring across at the giant fish tank stretching up from the floor. When she was younger, she loved to come down and see the fish. A vivid memory struck her: standing next to the tank with one hand pressed to the glass, the other clutching an IV stand.
A few of the brightly colored tropical fish had gone by, looking like they were trying to nibble on her palm through the glass. She remembered wondering what the fish saw when they looked out.
Did they feel trapped in their watery glass box? Did their life seem small to them? Or full, because it was all they had ever known?
She had envied them then, and still did. Their world might be small, but they had no worries. They didn’t know about the life outside that they were missing.
While Amy, on the outside looking in, had a whole host of things she was missing in her life. She saw them al
l around her, all the time. Healthy people, living normal, healthy lives. The fish might not know, but Amy did. She could look outside of her own invisible box and see the life she wouldn’t get to live because cancer consumed it all.
Remembering, Amy hung her head and tried to hold back another round of tears. Silently, she prayed.
I know I said I should stop praying just when I’m desperate. But, God, I really am desperate. I don’t think that I can do this again.
Chapter Fifteen
Amy
Unexpected traffic on the way home gave Amy a lot of time to think. Too much time, really. Because her thinking turned dark fast. Worries, doubts, and negative thoughts took over, when what she needed to do was focus on tasks. She needed to call Dr. Morgan’s office and set up appointments. As much as she didn’t want to do that, it was better than the other big thing she needed to do, which was break the news to everyone.
As her car inched forward, Amy made a mental list. First, she should call her mom. Honestly, she should have done so before now. But she hadn’t mentioned the biopsy to anyone. No one could be mad now. People weren’t allowed to be angry with you when you had cancer. Those were the rules.
But Amy didn’t want to tell her mom. Or Delia. Not just because the conversations would suck, but because that made this all more real. As though keeping it to herself held the cancer cells at bay. Again, she was being ridiculous and superstitious in her thoughts. She needed to be mature, do what Dr. Morgan and Dr. Harmon said. She couldn’t pretend her cancer away.
But it was Christmas! No one wanted to hear about cancer ever, but especially not during the holidays.
Maybe she could save the news until after the holidays. It was hard enough, especially being reminded of her father’s absence. Her mom kept good cheer up, but last year, Amy heard her crying behind her locked bedroom door after they’d all gone to bed.
No, she wouldn’t add to the emotional weight of Christmas with this. Amy snorted, imagining putting notes in her mom and Delia’s stockings: Merry Christmas! I’ve got cancer. It would be worse than coal.
Dr. Morgan wanted to start treatment the next week. Amy hadn’t scheduled her blood work or anything else, but she knew he would keep calling and hounding her once he realized she left without making any appointments. Or he would have Dr. Harmon keep calling her.
The big question, the one she wanted to avoid the most was: What should she do about Sy?
Her car inched forward as her thoughts rolled around in her head. Sy had texted and called a few times that morning, making jokes about giving her low reviews on Yelp for not providing breakfast. He still thought they were going out later today and asked in several texts when she would be back. Reading his messages physically hurt.
Amy had to tell him that there would be no more dates. No more kissing. Especially no more kissing, because if his lips touched hers again, she might lose all resolve.
Whatever new thing was budding between them had to stop. Now.
While a part of her wanted to be selfish, to tell him and let him decide, she couldn’t put Sy in that position. A seventy percent survival rate was high, but Amy couldn’t turn off the part of her brain that did numbers. It meant that thirty people out of one hundred wouldn’t make it. And, even if she was one of the ones who did, Dr. Morgan didn’t even give her a great time period.
Could be five or ten years. Maybe a full life. Maybe.
It also could not work at all. Or give her one or two miserable years.
Back in the day, Amy met a few people during chemo who ended up stopping treatment. Usually because it didn’t work. Quality of life on chemo wasn’t good. A few rare people hardly seemed to get sick. Amy met one woman in her twenties who never even lost her hair. But Amy could still remember the bone-deep weariness after treatment and how she couldn’t keep food down. The way her brain felt foggy.
Just thinking about it made her feel nauseated. Was she ready to go back to that life? The cancer life?
Do I have any other choice?
Up ahead on the highway, Amy saw flashing lights, the cause of all this traffic. It looked like a wreck taking up a few lanes. Everyone was merging left. She joined her lane in flicking on her blinker, searching for an opening between cars. People kept moving by, closing up the space and refusing to let her over.
Her phone began to ring, the Bluetooth system alerting her to a call from Delia. Amy hesitated. She wasn’t ready to share the news yet. It was too raw. She had no plan, no prepared speech. And she knew she couldn’t talk about it yet without crying hysterically. Plus, she was still trying to merge.
But she’d texted Delia before she left, telling her to cancel the dates with the two guys from the dating app. That’s probably what she was calling about.
Sighing heavily, Amy pressed the button to answer the call just as a space opened up, finally allowing her to move over. “Hey, D.”
“Really? Hey? That’s what you have to say?” Delia’s voice was charged with anger and accusation.
Amy stiffened. She definitely shouldn’t have answered the phone. Before she could even respond, Delia started in on her again.
“When were you going to tell me?”
Panic clawed through her. How did Delia know about the cancer? Amy gripped the wheel, blinking back hot tears. “How did you find out?”
“The internet, where the rest of the world found out. I’m your sister, Amy. I expected more from you.”
Amy frowned, trying to follow what Delia was saying. None of it made sense. They were clearly not talking about the same thing.
“Pretend I have no idea what you’re talking about. What, exactly, did you find out about from the internet?”
Delia made a sound of disgust. “Only that you’re dating the Perpetual Bachelor, aka Sy LaMarque. Which is funny, because as of a few nights ago, I thought he and I were dating. But according to all the pictures of you two getting cozy on your date, I was wrong.”
Amy wanted to bang her head on the wheel. Apparently, Sy hadn’t ever had the conversation he said he would with Delia. Fantastic. And strangers had been taking photos of them while she and Sy were out together? The thought made Amy’s skin crawl. The last thing she wanted was to have her sister angry and be the center of media attention.
Maybe this would make it easier to pull away from Sy.
“I guess Sy didn’t talk to you?”
“What I want to know is why my sister didn’t talk to me first.”
“I planned to talk to you. Things happened really quickly. And honestly, Delia, I didn’t think you were interested in him. Not really.”
“You saw me with him the other night! How could you do this to me?”
Something that had been tightly wound in Amy for a long time suddenly snapped. “Yeah, and you saw how in love with him I was. For years. That never mattered to you. Then or now.”
“You were too young for him, Amy. Get serious.”
“I’m only two years younger than you! Did you ever think about him after prom? You came home with another boyfriend that same night. A crown on your head and a new guy. While the one guy I wanted—always wanted—sat in jail. You never really liked him. You didn’t even care what happened to him then. I always cared. I still do.”
There was silence on the line. Over the years, she and Delia had argued, but this was the first time Amy had ever snapped. It felt uncomfortable, but she didn’t regret being honest, finally. Even though, when it came down to it, there was no reason to fight over Sy. She still had to let him go.
Amy inched closer to the accident involving multiple cars and an eighteen-wheeler that looked like it had been carrying chickens. Feathers were all over the road.
Delia’s voice grated on her ears, making Amy’s head pound. “Prom is old news. Let’s talk about how you saw me stake my claim and then you went out with Sy anyway. You have what I worked so hard for and couldn’t get. Sy could give me what I need—the edge to make it. It's my dream, Ames. Mine. And you took
it.”
Amy swallowed. There it was. This wasn’t about Sy. Not at all. It was, like everything with Delia, all about Delia.
“Everything is always about you. Once, one time, I wanted something. I wanted Sy. Not because of what he can get me, but because I like him. I’ve liked him for years. And you won’t even let me have that.”
“One time? Wow.” Delia gave a grating, humorless laugh. “So, you’re just forgetting all about those years when you had cancer and every single moment was about you? Nothing in my life mattered. Because any decision, any award, any good thing I did wasn’t life or death. Compared to brave Amy, selfless Amy, fighting-for-her-life Amy, nothing I did was ever enough.”
Amy’s tears made it hard to see the road. In front of the big truck, a policeman was waving traffic past the accident. He frowned at her and waved Amy in another direction, onto the shoulder instead of following all the other cars. She knew that the conversation with Delia had distracted her. Was she going too fast or slow? Had she not followed directions somehow? Amy pulled over where he had indicated and put the car in park. The cop held up a finger for her to wait and kept waving on the other cars.
Though Delia was undeniably selfish, Amy had never thought about what it must have been like for her, living with a little sister who had cancer and basically slept at death’s door. Delia was self-absorbed, but Amy understood her more now. She could picture it from Delia’s perspective. Amy had only ever thought of it from her own.
Everything did revolve around Amy for years. Vacations became a thing of the past. Their money was too tight to buy Delia a car when she turned sixteen, like her parents had always promised. Amy’s treatments came first, which meant sometimes her parents missed Delia’s cheer competitions and events.
But it’s not like Amy wanted any of it. She didn’t choose cancer or how it invaded all their lives. They had to adjust simply to keep her alive. Still. For the first time, she realized that she and her sister had both been victims of cancer. Her parents too. Knowing she was about to thrust them back into that life made her stomach churn.
Stealing the Bad Boy Page 13
