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CHAPTER 11

STELLA

I slam open the door to my room, Abby’s drawings all blurring together in front of me as all the pain and the guilt I’ve been pushing further and further down rears its ugly head, making my knees buckle under me. I crumple onto the ground, my fingers clutching at the cold linoleum floor as I hear my mom’s scream ringing in my head just like it did that morning.

I was supposed to be with her that weekend in Arizona, but I was struggling so hard to breathe the night before our flight that I had to stay behind. I apologized over and over again. It was supposed to be her birthday gift. Our first trip, just the two of us. But Abby waved it off, hugging me tight and telling me that she’d be back in a few days with enough pictures and stories to make me feel like I’d been there with her all along.

But she never came back.

I remember hearing the phone ring downstairs. My mom sobbing, my dad knocking on my door and telling me to sit down. Something had happened.

I didn’t believe him.

I shook my head, and laughed. This was an Abby prank. It had to be. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. I was the one who was supposed to die, long before all of them. Abby was practically the definition of alive.

It took three full days for the grief to hit me. It was only when our flight back was supposed to land that I realized Abby really wasn’t coming home. Then I was blindsided. I lay in bed for two weeks straight, ignoring my AffloVest and my regimen, and when I got up, it wasn’t just my lungs that were a mess. My parents couldn’t talk to each other. Couldn’t even look at each other.

I’d seen it coming long before it happened. I’d prepared Abby for what to do to keep them together after I was gone. But I hadn’t expected to be the one doing it.

I tried so hard. I planned family outings; I made dinner for them when they couldn’t do anything but stare off into space. But it was all for nothing. If Abby came up, a fight always followed. If she didn’t, her presence suffocated the silence. They were separated after three months. Divorced in six. Putting as much distance between each other as possible, leaving me straddling the in-between.

But it hasn’t helped. Ever since then it’s like I’ve been living a dream, every day focused on keeping myself alive to keep them both afloat. I make to-do lists and check them off, trying to keep myself busy, swallowing my grief and pain so my parents don’t get consumed by theirs.

Now on top of all that, Will, of all people, is trying to tell me what I should be doing. As if he has any concept of what living actually means.

And the worst part is that the only person I want to talk to about it is Abby.

I angrily wipe away my tears with the back of my hand, pulling my phone out of my pocket and texting the only other person I know who will understand.

Multipurpose lounge. Now.

I think of all the drawings around my room. Each one a separate trip to the hospital with Abby there to hold my hand. And now there are three trips. Three whole trips without a drawing to go with them.

I remember the first day I came to Saint Grace’s. If I hadn’t been afraid before, the size of this place was enough to make a six-year-old feel overwhelmed. The big windows, the machinery, the loud noises. I walked through the lobby, clutching Abby’s hand for dear life and trying so hard to be brave.

My parents talked to Barb and Dr. Hamid. Even before they knew me, they did their very best to help me feel like Saint Grace’s Hospital was my second home from the moment I got there.

But, of everyone, it was Abby who really did that. She gave me three invaluable gifts that day.

The first was my stuffed panda bear, Patches, carefully hand-selected from the hospital gift shop.

The second was my first of many drawings, the tornado of stars. The first piece of “wallpaper” I’d collect from her.

And while my parents talked to Barb about the state-of-the-art facility, Abby ran off and found me the final gift of that day.

The best I’d ever receive in all my years at Saint Grace’s.

“It’s impressive, for sure,” my mom said, while I watched Abby trot away down the brightly colored hallway of the children’s ward, disappearing around a corner.

“Stella’s going to be right at home here!” Barb said, giving me a warm smile. I remember clutching Patches, trying to find the courage to smile back at her.

Abby rounded the corner, nearly running smack into a nurse as she sprinted back over to us, a very small, very thin, brown-haired boy wearing an oversize Colombian national team jersey trailing behind her.

“Look! There are other kids here!”

I waved at the boy before Barb stepped in between us, colorful scrubs putting up a wall between the two of us.

“Poe, you know better,” she said, scolding the small boy as Abby took my hand in hers.

But Abby had already set it in motion. Even from six feet away Poe became my best friend. Which is why he’s the only person to talk me through this.

I pace back and forth, the lounge a blur in front of me. I try to focus on the fish tank or the TV or the refrigerator humming in the corner, but I’m still livid over my fight with Will.

“You knew he had boundary issues,” Poe says from behind me, watching me intently from the edge of the love seat. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he meant to hurt you.” I spin around to face him, clutching at the counter of the kitchenette. “When he said ‘Abby’ and ‘dead,’ ”—my voice cracks, and I dig my fingers into the cool marble of the counter—“like it was no big deal, I just . . .” Poe shakes his head, his eyes sad.

“I should have been with her, Poe,” I choke out, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. She was always there. To stand by me when I needed her. And I wasn’t there when she needed me most.

“Don’t. Not again. It’s not your fault. She’d tell you it’s not your fault.” “Was she in pain? What if she was scared?” I gasp, the air catching in my chest. I keep seeing my sister plummeting down, like she did in the GoPro video and a million times before, bungee jumping and cliff diving with reckless abandon.

Only, this time there’s no wild whoop of joy and excitement. She hits the water and doesn’t resurface.

She wasn’t supposed to die.

She was supposed to be the one to live.

“Hey! Stop. Look at me.”

I stare at him, tears pouring from my eyes.

“You have to stop,” he says, his fingers clutching the armrest of the couch, his knuckles turning white. “You can’t know. You just . . . can’t. You’ll drive yourself crazy.” I take a deep breath, shaking my head. He stands up, stepping toward me and groaning in frustration. “This disease is a fucking prison! I want to hug you.” I sniff, nodding in agreement.

“Pretend I did, okay?” he says. I see he’s blinking back tears too. “And know that I love you. More than food! More than the Colombian national team!” I crack a smile, nodding. “I love you, too, Poe.” He pretends to blow me a kiss, without actually breathing my way.

I slump down onto the mint-green love seat sitting vacant across from Poe’s, immediately gasping in pain as my vision doubles. I sit bolt upright and clutch at my side, my G-tube burning like absolute fire.

Poe’s face turns white. “Stella! Is everything okay?”

“My G-tube,” I say, the pain subsiding. I sit up, shaking my head and gasping for breath. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” I take a deep breath and lift my shirt and see that the infection has only gotten way worse, the skin red and puffy, the G-tube and the area around it oozing. My eyes widen in surprise. It’s only been eight days here. How have I not noticed how bad it’s gotten?

Poe winces, shaking his head. “Let’s get you back to your room. Now.” * * *

Fifteen minutes later Dr. Hamid gently touches the infected skin around my G-tube, and I grimace as pain radiates across my stomach and chest. She takes her hand away, shaking her head as she pulls her gloves off and carefully puts them in a trash can by the door.

“We need to take care of this. It’s too far gone. We have to excoriate the skin and replace your G-tube to purge the infection.” I immediately feel woozy, my insides turning cold. It’s the words I’ve been afraid of since it first started looking infected. I put my shirt back down, trying not to let the fabric rub against the area.

“But—”

She cuts me off. “No buts. It has to be done. We are risking sepsis here. If this gets any worse, the infection can get into your bloodstream.” We’re both silent, knowing how big the risk is here. If I get sepsis, I’ll definitely die. But if I get put under for surgery, my lungs might not be strong enough to pull me through to the other side.

She sits down next to me, bumping my shoulder and smiling at me. “It’ll be okay.” “You don’t know that,” I say, swallowing nervously.

She nods, her face thoughtful. “You’re right. I don’t.” She takes a deep breath, meeting my anxious gaze. “It’s risky. I won’t say it’s not. But sepsis is a far bigger and far more likely monster.” Fear creeps up my neck and wraps itself around my entire body. But she’s right.

Dr. Hamid picks up the panda sitting next to me, looking at it and smiling faintly. “You’re a fighter, Stella. You always have been.” Holding out the bear to me, she looks into my eyes. “Tomorrow morning, then?” I reach out, taking the panda, nodding. “Tomorrow morning.”

“I’m going to call your parents and let them know,” she says, and I freeze, a wave of dread hitting me.

“Can you give it a few minutes so I can break the news to them? It’ll be easier coming from me.” She nods, giving my shoulder a tight squeeze before leaving. I lie back, clinging to Patches, anxiety filling me as I think about the calls I have to make. I keep hearing my mom in the cafeteria, her voice weaving circles around my head.

I don’t know what I’d do without you.

I don’t know what I’d do without you.

I don’t know what I’d do without you.

I hear a noise outside my door and turn my head to see an envelope sliding underneath. I watch the light trickling in from under the door as a pair of feet stand there for a moment before slowly turning and walking away.

I stand carefully and bend down to pick up the envelope. Opening it, I pull out a cartoon drawing, the colors sad and dull. It’s a picture of a frowning Will, a wilted bouquet of flowers in his hand, a bubble caption underneath it reading “Sorry.” I lie back down on my bed, holding the drawing to my chest and closing my eyes tightly.

Dr. Hamid said I was a fighter.

But I really don’t know that I am anymore.