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CHAPTER 9

STELLA

Dr. Hamid frowns as I lift up my shirt, her dark eyebrows knitting together as she looks at the infected skin around my G-tube. I wince as she gently touches the inflamed red skin, and she mumbles an apology at my reaction.

When I woke up this morning, I noticed the infection had gotten worse. When I saw the discharge oozing around the hole, I called her right away.

After a minute of inspection she finally stands, exhaling. “Let’s try Bactroban and see how it looks in a day or two. Maybe we can clear it up, huh?” I pull my shirt down, shooting her a doubtful look. I’ve already been at the hospital a week, and while my fever is down and my sore throat is gone, this has only gotten worse. She reaches out and gives my arm a comforting squeeze. I hope she’s right, though. Because if she’s not, that means surgery. And that’d be the exact opposite of not worrying Mom and Dad.

My phone begins to chirp away, and I look over, expecting it to be Will, but I see a message from my mom.

Cafeteria for lunch? Meet me in 15?

“Fifteen” means she’s already on her way. I’ve been putting her off all week, telling her things are so routine, she’d be bored, but she’s not taking no for an answer this time. I shoot back a yes and sigh, standing up to get changed. “Thanks, Dr. Hamid.” She smiles at me as she leaves. “Keep me updated, Stella. Barb’ll keep an eye on it too.” I pull on a clean pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, make a note to add Bactroban to the schedule in my app, then head up the elevator and across into Building 2. My mom is already standing outside the cafeteria when I get there, her hair in a messy ponytail, dark circles hanging heavily under her eyes.

She looks thinner than I do.

I give her a big hug, trying not to wince when she rubs against my G-tube. “Everything okay?” she asks, her eyes appraising me.

I nod. “Great! Treatments are a breeze. Breathing better already. Everything okay with you?” I ask, studying her face.

She nods, giving me a big smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yep, everything’s good!” We get in the long line and get our usuals, a Caesar salad for her, a burger and milk shake for me, and a heaping plate of french fries for us to share.

We manage to grab a seat in the corner by the wide glass windows, a comfortable distance away from everyone else. I glance outside as we eat to see that the snow is still gently falling, a blanket of white steadily accumulating on the ground. I hope my mom leaves before it gets too bad out there.

I’ve finished my burger and 75 percent of the fries in the amount of time it takes my mom to eat about three bites of her salad. I watch as she picks at her food, face tired. She looks like she’s been Googling again, up until the early hours of the morning, reading page after page, article after article, on lung transplants.

My dad was the only one who used to be able to keep her calm, pulling her away from her worry spiral with just a look, comforting her in a way nothing else could.

“The Divorce Diet doesn’t look good on you, Mom.”

She looks up at me, surprised. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re too thin. Dad needs a bath. You guys are stealing my look!”

Can’t you see you need each other? I want to say.

She laughs, grabbing my milk shake.

“No!” I shout as she takes a dramatic gulp. I dive across the table, trying to wrestle it back, but the lid flies off, chocolate milk shake absolutely covering the both of us. For the first time in a while, we completely crack up.

My mom takes a pile of napkins, gently wiping the shake off my face, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. I grab her hand, frowning.

“Mom. What?”

“I look at you and think . . . they said you wouldn’t . . .” She shakes her head as she holds my face in both her hands, tears spilling out of her eyes. “But here you are. And you’re grown. And beautiful. You keep proving them wrong.” She grabs a napkin, wiping away the tears. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” My insides turn cold. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

I swallow hard and give her hand a comforting squeeze, but my mind instantly travels to the G-tube. The spreadsheets. The app. A big 35 percent practically sitting on my chest. Until I get the transplant, that number isn’t going back up. Until then, I’m the only one who can keep me alive. And I have to. I have to stay alive.

Because I’m pretty sure keeping me alive is the only thing keeping my parents going.

After my mom leaves, I head straight to the gym with Will, wanting to strengthen my weak lungs as much as I possibly can. I almost tell him not to come so I can think everything over, but I know he probably hasn’t set foot in the gym in ages.

Plus, the combined worry of my parents and that thought would be too much for me to allow me to concentrate on anything else. At least Will going to the gym is a problem I can solve immediately.

I start pedaling on a stationary bike. I haven’t minded my afternoon workouts ever since the gym became one of the nicest places in the entire hospital. They renovated it three years ago and practically quadrupled its size, putting in basketball courts, a saltwater pool, shiny new cardio equipment, and rows and rows of free weights. There is even an entire separate room for yoga and meditating, with wide windows looking out over the courtyard. Before that the gym here had been an old, dingy room, with a handful of mismatched dumbbells and decaying equipment that looked like it was made about a year after the wheel had been invented.

I look over to see Will holding on to a treadmill for dear life, gasping for breath as he power walks. His portable oxygen is slung over his shoulder in that classic, trendy CFer-exercising style.

I practically dragged him here, and I have to admit, it’s fun for me to see him concentrating too hard to be snarky. He couldn’t even use his “banned from leaving the third floor” excuse, because Barb is on the night shift today, and Julie was more than enthusiastic to have Will off doing something that will actually improve his lung function and overall health.

“So, when does this little deal of ours become mutually beneficial?” he manages to get out, looking across the entire room at me while I pedal away. He slows the speed down, gasping out words between breaths. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked with no return on my investment.” “I’m gross. Too sweaty,” I say as a bead of sweat drips down my face.

He slams the stop button on the treadmill, the machine halting abruptly as he spins around to face me, fixing his nose cannula as he struggles to catch his breath. “And my hair is dirty, and I’m too tired, and my med cart is—” “You want to draw me sweaty? Fine! I’ll sweat harder!” I start to pedal like my life depends on it, my RPM quadrupling. My lungs begin to burn and I start coughing, oxygen hissing out of my cannula as I struggle for air. My legs slow down as I go into a coughing fit, before finally catching my breath.

He shakes his head. I immediately look back down at the glaring digital numbers on the bike, trying to ignore the red creeping slowly up my face.

Afterward we both exhaustedly make our way to the empty yoga room, me walking six feet ahead. I sit down against the wide windows, the glass cool from the blanket of white on the other side, covering everything in sight.

“Do I need to pose or anything?” I ask, my hand reaching up as I fix my hair. I strike a dramatic pose, which makes him laugh.

He pulls out his sketchbook and a charcoal pencil, surprising me as he puts on a pair of blue latex gloves. “Nah, just act natural.” Oh, good, yeah. That’ll be easy.

I watch him, his deep-blue eyes focused on the paper, his dark eyebrows furrowing as he concentrates. He looks up, meeting my eyes as he studies me again. I look away quickly, pulling my pocket notebook out and flipping to the page for today.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to the notebook with his pencil.

“My to-do list,” I explain, crossing off number 12, “Work out,” and heading to the very bottom of my list to write “Will drawing.” “A to-do list?” he asks. “Pretty old school for someone who builds apps.” “Yeah, well, the app doesn’t give me the satisfaction of doing this.” I take my pencil and draw a line through “Will drawing.” He fakes a sad face. “Now that really hurts my feelings.”

I duck my head, but he sees the smile I’m trying to hide.

“So, what else is on the list?” he asks, looking back down at the drawing and then back up at me before starting to shade something in.

“Which list?” I ask. “My master list or my daily list?”

He laughs warmly, shaking his head. “Of course you have two lists.”

“Immediate and long-term! It makes sense,” I shoot back, which only makes him smirk.

“Hit me with the master list. That’s the big stuff.”

I flip through the pages, getting to the master list. I haven’t looked at this page in a while. It’s filled with different-colored inks, reds and blues and blacks, and a couple of sparkly fluorescent colors from a gel pen kit I got back in sixth grade.

“Let’s see here.” My finger trails up to the top. “ ’Volunteer for an important political cause.’ Done.” I draw a line through it.

“ ’Study all the works of William Shakespeare.’ Done!”

I draw a line through that one.

“ ’Share everything I know about CF with others.’ I have this, uh, YouTube page . . . .” I draw a line through it and look up at Will to see him not at all surprised. Someone’s been checking up on me.

“So is your plan to die really, really smart so you can join the debate team of the dead?” He points out the window with his pencil. “You ever think about, I don’t know . . . traveling the world or something?” I look back down to see number 27, “Sistine Chapel with Abby.” No line through it.

I clear my throat, moving on. “ ’Learn to play the piano.’ Done! ‘Speak fluent French’—” Will cuts me off. “Seriously, do you ever do anything off list? No offense, but none of that sounds fun.” I close the notebook, and he continues. “You want to hear my list? Take a painting class with Bob Ross. Lots of happy little trees and cadmium yellow that you don’t think will work but then . . .” “He’s dead,” I tell him.

He gives me a lopsided grin. “Ah, well, then I guess I’ll just have to settle for sex in the Vatican!” I roll my eyes at him. “I think you have a better shot at meeting Bob Ross.” He winks but then his face gets serious. More serious than I’ve ever seen it. “Okay, okay. I’d like to travel the world and really get to see it, you know? Not just the inside of hospitals.” He looks back down and keeps sketching. “They’re kind of all the same. Same generic rooms. Same tile floors. Same sterile smell. I’ve been everywhere without actually seeing anything.” I look at him, really look, watching the way his hair falls into his eyes when he draws, the look of concentration on his face, no more smirking expression. I wonder what it would be like to go all around the world but never be able to get outside the walls of the hospital. I don’t mind being in the hospital. I feel safe here. Comfortable. But I’ve been coming to the same one pretty much my whole life. It’s home.

If I were in Cabo this past week but stuck inside a hospital, I wouldn’t just be bummed. I’d be miserable.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?” he asks, looking up to meet my eyes.

“For saying something real.”

He watches me a second before running his fingers through his hair. He’s the one who’s uncomfortable for a change. “Your eyes are hazel,” he says, pointing at the sunlight trickling in through the glass all around me. “I didn’t know that until I saw them in the sunlight. I thought they were brown.” My heart thumps loudly in my chest at his words, and the warm way he’s looking at me.

“They’re really nice eyes,” he says a second later, a faint red creeping onto his cheeks. He looks down, scribbling away and clearing his throat. “I mean to, like, draw.” I bite on my lower lip to hide my smile.

For the first time I feel the weight of every single inch, every millimeter, of the six feet between us. I pull my sweatshirt closer to my body, looking away at the pile of yoga mats in the corner, trying to ignore the fact that that open space? It will always be there.

That evening I scroll through Facebook for the first time all day, looking at all the pictures my friends are posting from Cabo. I throw a heart onto Camila’s new profile picture. She’s standing on a surfboard in her striped bikini, a big goofy smile on her face, her shoulders burnt to a crisp, all my SPF warnings utterly ignored. But Mya sent me a behind-the-scenes Snap video earlier this afternoon, taken seconds after this picture, which revealed that Camila still has no clue how to surf. She maybe balanced for about three and a half seconds, shooting the camera a big smile before flailing off the surfboard a second later.

I do a little victory dance when I scroll to a picture Mason posted, his tan arm slung around Mya’s shoulder. I almost fall out of my chair when I see the caption. “Cabo Cutie.” Grinning, I give it a quick like before closing the app to send her a text.

Way to go, Mya!!! With heart eye emojis for days.

I glance over to see my pocket notebook still open to my master list. My eyes are pulled back to number 27, “Sistine Chapel with Abby.” I open my laptop and my mouse hovers over a blue folder labeled “Abs.” I hesitate for a second before clicking on it, a sea of pictures and videos and artwork from my sister filling my screen. I click on a GoPro video she sent me two years ago, her balancing on top of a high, rickety bridge. The screen is filled with the dizzying image of the distance from where she’s sitting to the river below, the water underneath her strong enough to overtake anything in its path.

“Pretty crazy, huh, Stella?” she says as the camera swings back to her and she adjusts her harness one more time. “I thought you might like to see how this feels!” She clicks her helmet in place, the GoPro view shifting back to show the edge of the bridge and the long, long way down. “And I brought my jumping buddy!” She holds up my stuffed panda, the one right next to me now, giving him a big squeeze.

“I’ll hold him tight, don’t worry!” Then, without even a second thought, she launches herself off the bridge. I fly through the air with her, her delighted whoops echoing loudly through the speakers.

Then comes the bounce. We fly back up, the panda’s face coming onto the screen, Abby’s voice, breathless and giddy as she grips the panda tightly, screaming out, “Happy birthday, Stella!” Swallowing hard, I slam the laptop shut, knocking over a can of soda on the side table. The bubbling cola spills out all over the table and the floor. Great.

I reach down to pick up the can, hopping over the puddle, and toss it into the trash bin on my way out into the hall. As I walk around the nurses’ station, I notice Barb dozing off in a chair, her head lolling to one side, her mouth slightly open. Carefully, I open the door to the janitor’s closet, grabbing the paper towels from a packed shelf of cleaning supplies and trying not to wake her.

She hears me, though, and looks up, her eyes sleepy.

“You work too hard,” I say when she sees me.

She smiles and opens her arms like she used to when I was younger and having a rough day at the hospital.

I climb onto her lap, like a child, and wrap my arms around her neck, smelling the familiar, safe, vanilla scent of her perfume. Resting my head on her shoulder, I close my eyes and pretend.