Empty Promises (The Promises Series Book 3) (5 page)

Until that moment.

He was slouched into the chair with his shoulders rounded, looking half his normal size. I felt my stomach squeeze as I took in the grey pallor of his skin and his disheveled hair, which like he’d spent all day and night clutching at it. I stood still in the doorway, not knowing whether to go to him or give him his moment. I’ve only seen my dad cry maybe three times my whole life.

He made the decision for me, ushering me inside and making me a cup of hot milk. He hasn’t done that since I was at least seven. I reveled in his tenderness as he pulled me down onto his lap and cuddled me until I’d finished it. We didn’t speak, not a single word. It felt like it used to do when I’d have a bad dream and he’d stay with me snuggled into his chest until I felt safe enough to fall back to sleep. It was comforting until I noticed his breathing stutter, like he was trying to swallow a sob. Then it felt like a goodbye.

I’m not sure how long we were in the kitchen, but I remember waking as he carried me back to my room and tucked me safely into my bed.

I don’t know why I’m documenting this, but I just can’t stop thinking about it. Dad, if you ever find yourself reading this—I love you. All the years I’ve spent with you and Mom are worth all the years that I’ll have to spend without you. Like you’ve always said: If you count all the waves in all the oceans, that’s how much I love you.

I MADE A list—a bucket list, I guess you could call it.

I decided shorty after my first diagnosis that there were certain things that I wanted to achieve. Not grand or necessarily even important accomplishments that would garner any accolades, but things that were significant to me. I didn’t devise it with the morbid thought that I was going to die; it was more of a reminder to actually live my life and make use of my time.

If there is such a thing as a positive side to Leukemia, it’s that it makes you slow down and evaluate your existence. You begin to notice the little things and stop taking everything for granted. Take the smell of fresh air: I know it sounds dumb, but after my first six-week stint in the hospital at the beginning of my treatment, I couldn’t even leave the unit. I was weak; the asparaginase shots had rendered me fit for a wheelchair, and the rest of the chemo cocktail had my mouth so sore that it hurt to talk. I was at a whole new level of depressed that I didn’t even know existed. The day I was told I could go home, I almost didn’t want to.
What was the point?

Blair and my mom wheeled me outside as Dad pulled the car around. When we passed the double doors of the hospital entrance, a breeze caught me and I swear the world had never smelled so good. I’d forgotten what the outdoors smelled like, and it was at that moment, as the wind skimmed across my bald head, making me shiver, that I realized how much I loved life.

So yeah, I made a list.

I’m searching my Mac for it now so I can add it into my diary. I click onto the little manila file icon marked ‘misc’ and up it pops, mocking me with all the empty checkboxes. I’ve been slowly working to fulfill each point without anyone knowing of its existence. Keeping something like this under wraps is actually a whole lot harder than you would think. I’ve had to censor myself at times, to make sure I didn’t spill and tell anyone. Keeping it from Blair has been the hardest. At first, its anonymity was because it made me somewhat embarrassed. I try and steer clear of anything too cliché, and the cancer patient and her bucket list are the epitome of cliché, but whatever. It has slowly transformed; I’m no longer embarrassed by my pursuit to place a check in each of the checkboxes. It’s evolved, and I’m not sure when it happened, but now it’s more of a challenge—not physically, but mentally. I wanted something that was just for me; my own achievement, I guess.

I started to feel weighed down with this overwhelming urge to complete the tasks on my own. I don’t mean with solitude; in fact, I didn’t want help making them happen. I’m sure there would be no shortage of
wish factories
willing to grant me a few, but the rush of making something happen myself is a heady one, and I like the feeling. I suppose that sounds horribly selfish. I’d never really noticed until now.

I press the cursor and read each point, letting the taste of the words linger on my tongue before speaking them aloud. Why does it feel like I’m announcing all my secrets?

I copy and paste the list into today’s diary entry.

July 28
th
, 2013

Dear Diary…

When I wrote this list a couple of years back, I didn’t contemplate that it would actually have an expiration date. I’m a positive person, and I saw no reason to believe that I wouldn’t beat this disease and live to be a hundred years old. But life, fate, destiny or however you want to term it, had other plans.

I’m sitting here now, staring at quite a few empty boxes on a not very long list and wondering how in the hell I’m going to get it all finished. It has taken the best part of two years to get through half of it, and now I have somewhere around six months to complete the rest. Maybe I need to admit defeat and enlist some help.

Maybe it’s time to call Blair.

I do call Blair, but in the time it takes her to answer the phone, I’ve talked myself out of fessing up about the list. It can wait. Actually, in the cold reality of day, it probably can’t, but to hell with it. I owe it to myself to give it one last push. Instead, I tell her about the shopping trip with my mom over the weekend, and how I’d seen at the mall the most beautiful dress ever created. It’s a midnight blue, strapless fitted floor-length creation—magnificence born from its simplicity.

I already found a cute, bright-yellow sundress to wear for the Kickstart gig. It was one of Mom’s picks. When she handed it to me in the store to try on, I frowned and held it out in front of me in an unimpressed inspection. Don’t get me wrong; it looked cute with its thin spaghetti straps and fifties-style cinched waist and flared skirt. But it looked like something you would pair with a cardigan and wear to church on Sundays. I decided that I’d try it on just to appease her hopeful expression. I pulled it over my head in the small cubicle and turned to the mirror to confirm my contempt, but was immediately taken back by my reflection. The color warmed my ever-paling skin tone, and magically gifted me back some of its luminosity. The cut on me was perfect; it created curves where mine once where, and for a second, I felt like the old me. I took in the length of the skirt as it skimmed mid-thigh and smiled. It seemed considerably longer on the hanger. I stared at my reflection, musing at how good the dress was making me feel. I decided that if I teamed it with my black leather jacket and biker boots, it would give it an edge. Plus, together with my cropped hair and some smoky eye makeup, it should hopefully mimic the
Heroine Chic,
European look that British models seem to pull off so effortlessly. Not that I think I look remotely like a model. Or British. I do have the heroine addict look down pat, though.

I grinned at myself as I undressed, thinking about how appearances can be so deceptive. Two minutes earlier I thought this was an outfit for church; now I’m planning to wear it for worshipping someone
entirely
different.

I arranged to meet Blair at her house to get ready for Ethan’s show on Friday night. I’ve already made the conscious decision to cross at least one item off of my list. I figure, where better to get completely trashed for the fist time than at a gig? Alcohol is supposed to lower your inhibitions and give you a heightened state of self-confidence,
right?
If I ply myself with enough of the stuff, I may just have the courage to make my play; plus, the alcohol will surely soften the blow. I know my logic is less than sound, but I’m desperate, and apparently shameless.

Ugh.

Friday rolls around at a glacial pace and I wake in the morning feeling like crap. My newfound get up and go, got up and fucking went. I’m not a huge cusser, but…

FUCK, FUCK, FUCKETY-FUCK!

This is just so typical. I’ve been so excited about today and now that it’s here, all I can concentrate on is the pounding in my head and the invisible weights that have seemingly attached to all of my limbs.