فصل دوازدهم

CHAPTER 12

WILL

I messed up bad. I know that.

I sneak out of our wing and around the east lobby of the hospital after dropping off the drawing, my phone clutched in my hand as I wait for something. A text, a FaceTime call, anything.

She must have seen the drawing by now, right? Her light was on. But it’s been radio silence since our fight.

What should I do? She won’t even talk to me, I text Jason, grimacing at myself. I can see him getting a real kick over me hung up on someone enough to ask his advice.

Just give her some time, man, he replies.

I sigh loudly, frustrated. Time. All this waiting is agony.

I plop down on a bench, watching people pass by as they go through the sliding doors of the hospital. Young kids, nervously clutching the hands of their parents. Nurses, rubbing their eyes sleepily as they finally get to leave. Visitors, eagerly pulling on their jackets as they head home for the night. For the first time in a few days I wish I were one of them.

My stomach growls noisily and I decide to head to the cafeteria to distract myself with some food. Walking toward the elevator, I freeze when I hear a familiar voice pouring out of a room nearby.

“No envíe dinero, no puede pagarlo,” the voice says, the tone somber, sad. Dinero. Money. I took two years of Spanish in high school and can say only a handful of phrases, but I recognize that word. I peek my head inside to see it’s a chapel, with big stained-glass windows and classic wooden pews. The old, churchy look is so different from the rest of the hospital’s modern, sleek design.

My eyes land on Poe, sitting in the front row, his elbows resting on his knees as he talks to someone over FaceTime.

“Yo también te extraño,” he says. “Lo sé. Te amo, Mamá.”

He hangs up the phone, putting his head in his hands. I pull the heavy door open a bit wider, the hinges creaking loudly as I do.

He turns around in surprise.

“The chapel?” I ask, my voice echoing too loud off the walls of the wide space as I make my way down the aisle toward him.

He looks around, smiling faintly. “My mom likes to see me in here. I’m Catholic, but she’s Catholic.” He sighs, leaning his head against the pew. “I haven’t seen her in two years. She wants me to come visit her.” My eyes widen in surprise and I sit down across the aisle, a safe distance away. That’s a really long time. “You haven’t seen your mom in two years? What did she do to you?” He shakes his head, his dark eyes filled with sadness. “It’s not like that. They got deported back to Colombia. But I was born here and they didn’t want to take me away from my doctors. I’m a ‘ward of the state’ until I’m eighteen.” Shit. I can’t even imagine what that was like. How could they deport the parents of someone with CF? The parents of someone terminal.

“That’s fucked up,” I say.

Poe nods. “I miss them. So much.”

I frown, running my fingers through my hair. “Poe, you have to go! You have to visit them.” He sighs, fixing his eyes on the large wooden cross sitting behind the pulpit, and I remember what I overheard. Dinero. “It’s pricey. She wants to send money, but she can’t really afford it. And I’m certainly not going to take food off her table—” “Listen, if it’s money, I can help. Seriously. I’m not trying to be a privileged dick, but it’s not an issue—” But before I even finish, I know it’s a no go.

“Come on. Stop.” He turns his head to give me a look, before his face softens. “I’ll . . . I’ll figure it out.” A silence falls over us, the quiet, open air of the big room making my ears ring. This isn’t just about money. Besides, I know more than anyone that money can’t fix everything. Maybe someday my mom will catch on.

“Thanks, though,” Poe says finally, smiling at me. “I mean it.”

I nod as we fall silent again. How is it fair that my mom can hover over me, while someone else has his just ripped away from him? Here I am, counting down to eighteen, while Poe is trying to slow time down, wishing for more of it.

More time.

For me, it was easy to give up. It was easy to fight my treatments and focus on the time I do have. Stop working so damn hard for just a few seconds more. But Stella and Poe are making me want every second more that I can get.

And that terrifies me more than anything else.

That evening I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling as I do my nebulizer treatment without Stella.

Anything? Jason texts me, which doesn’t help, since the answer is a resounding no.

Still nothing from her. Not even a note. But I can’t stop thinking about her. And the longer she’s silent, the worse it gets. I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to be close to her, to reach out and actually touch her, to make her feel better after I screwed up.

I can feel something reaching from deep in my chest, in the tips of my fingers and the pit of my stomach. Reaching out to feel the smooth skin of her arm, the raised scars I’m sure are on her body.

But I’ll never be able to. The distance between us will never go away or change.

Six feet forever.

My phone pings and I grab it, hopeful, but it’s just a notification from Twitter. I throw my phone down on my bed, frustrated.

What the hell, Stella? She can’t stay mad forever.

Can she?

I need to make this right.

I switch off the nebulizer and throw my legs over the bed, sliding into my shoes and peering into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear. I see Julie sliding into a room farther down the hall with an IV drip, and I quickly slip out of my room, knowing I have time. Walking quietly down the hallway, I pass the empty nurses’ station and freeze in front of her door, hearing music softly playing on the other side.

She’s in there.

Taking a deep breath, I knock, the sound of my knuckles reverberating off the worn wood.

I hear the music shut off and then her footsteps as she comes closer and closer, stopping in front of the door, hesitating. Finally it opens, her hazel eyes making my heart pound heavily in my chest.

It’s so good to see her.

“You’re here,” I say softly.

“I’m here,” she says coolly, leaning against the doorframe and acting like she didn’t just ignore me for the whole day. “I got your cartoon. You’re forgiven. Back up.” I quickly step all the way back to the far wall, putting the six frustrating feet between us. We stare at each other, and she blinks, looking away to check the hall for nurses before looking down at the tile floor.

“You missed our treatment.”

She looks impressed that I actually remembered but stays silent. I notice her eyes are red, like she’s been crying. And I don’t think it’s from what I said.

“What’s going on?”

She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks, I can hear the nerves lacing her words. “The skin around my G-tube is pretty badly infected. Dr. Hamid’s worried about sepsis. She’s going to purge my infected skin and replace my G-tube in the morning.” When I look in her eyes, I see it’s way more than nerves. She’s afraid. I want to reach out and take her hand in mine. I want to tell her that everything will be okay and that this shouldn’t be a bad one.

“I’m going under general.”

What? General anesthesia? With her lungs at 35 percent? Is Dr. Hamid out of her mind?

I grip the railing on the wall to keep myself in place. “Shit. Are your lungs up for that?” We stare at each other for a moment, the open air between us feeling like miles and miles.

She looks away, ignoring the question. “Remember to take your bedtime meds and then set up your G-tube feeding for the night, okay?” Without giving me time to respond, she closes the door.

I walk slowly to it, reaching out to lay my hand flat against it, knowing she’s on the other side. I take a deep breath, resting my head on the door, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s going to be okay, Stella.” My fingers land on a sign hanging on her door. I look up, reading it: NOTHING TO EAT OR DRINK AFTER MIDNIGHT. SURGERY 6 A.M.

I pull my hand away before I get busted by one of the nurses and walk down the hallway to my room, plopping down on my bed. Stella is normally so in control. Why is this time so different? Is it because of her parents? Because of how low her lung function is?

I roll over on my side, my eyes landing on my own lung drawing, making me remember the drawing in her room.

Abby.

Of course that’s why she’s so freaked out. This is her first surgery without Abby.

I still need to make things right. An idea pops into my head and I sit bolt upright. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I set an alarm for 5:00 a.m., for the first time maybe ever. Then I take my box of art supplies off my shelf and get planning.