I'm Not Her (6 page)

“I probably deserved it.” He smiles but it fades fast and its absence makes him look kind of sad. We’re both quiet for a moment as we sit on the curb. It’s surprisingly comfortable. I don’t feel the need to get up or escape from him.

“So,” he finally says. “Let me guess why you’re so unhappy. You just got your first period?” His eyebrows wiggle up and down.

A laugh spurts from my mouth like water from an unclogging tap, and I quickly put my hand over my lips. “That’s a totally jerky thing to say.” I try to sound mad, but don’t cut it.

“I know.” He grins and his eyes light up and they’re blue and much nicer when he’s not drunk and smelly. “Okay then. Let me guess. You got an A minus on a test? Or worse, a B plus?”

I turn my head, trying to hide my smile, wondering how he knows I’m a brainiac. And then I look down at my loose jeans and hoodie and remember it’s kind of obvious. Look at me. I ooze geek. It’s not like he’s thought about it before this moment. A sigh slips out again.

He stands then and holds out his hand to pull me up. When we touch, a thrill races through me and my cheeks blaze. Man, what is wrong with me today? I would be a mess if boys talked to me all the time.

“Things aren’t always as bad as they might seem.” He checks his watch. “You are aware, Tess, that you skipped out of school in order to have this near-fatal collision? And that skipping is frowned upon by the faculty?”

Technically, I am skipping, but for once, rules don’t matter. I’m entitled to an emotional health day. Like the days when Mom called in sick for Kristina so they could go to movies or to the spa. They asked me to join them, but I’d always said no. Afraid I’d somehow be caught. I sense those days are over now.

“What about you?” I say. “You’re obviously skipping too.”

He jumps off the curb to the road. “Sort of. I’m heading off for my tee time.”

“Tea or tee?” I make the motions of drinking from a cup and then swinging a club.

He swings at the air. “I get free golf games once in a while, a perk of my job as grounds keeper at Largurt Country Club. I figure it’s like a phys ed class, you know. I should get credit for it.”

“My dad golfs there,” I tell him. The only reason Dad has friends outside work is for golf.

He nods. “I know who your dad is. He’s a gold member. He has killer clubs.” He glances at his watch again. The strap is beat-up and its face looks scratched. It’s funny, not many kids my age actually wear watches. “You want a ride to wherever you’re going?” he asks.

“No.” My voice drops. “I’m heading home. And I have my bike.”

He dangles his car keys around his finger. “I could put your bike in my trunk and give you a lift if you want. I don’t mind.”

“No, it’s okay.” I don’t want him near our stupidly big house. Or Kristina, which I know makes me a really bad sister, but for some reason I want to keep him for myself. I remember what Kristina said about him. That he’s a boy-slut. But he seems pretty nice. And it’s not like he’s about to make any moves on me.

“You’re the boss.” We both walk to my bike on the sidewalk, with my books piled beside it, close to where he’s parked.

In the sunlight his face doesn’t look pimply. He’s got normal teenage skin. He takes a step and bends down to pick up my bike, straightens, and holds it out to me. “You sure you’re okay to ride this crazy pink thing?”

“Fine,” I tell him, and take the bike. “I’m fine.”

We both know I’m lying, but he holds out his hand and takes my books while I climb on my bike. When I’m on, he hands them to me and I tuck them under my arm and grab the handlebar with the other hand.

“See you around, Tess the freshman.”

“Tess the Mess,” I mumble and start to pedal away.

“Hey,” he calls. I look around and he winks at me. “You’re kinda cute when you get all flustered.”

My insides smoosh around. The bike wobbles.

“Well, for a freshman,” he calls.

“My sister told me you were a man-whore,” I yell over my shoulder and then wonder if I’ve lost my mind.

I hear him snort. “See ya around,” he calls. I hide a smile and concentrate on the road so I don’t wipe out in front of him…again. He called me cute! Ha! Even though it’s pretty clear he only said it because he feels sorry for me, it was nice. People surprise me. That much I know.

When I get home, Kristina is locked in her room. I tell Mom she needs to call in sick to the school for me. She gives me a funny look but goes ahead and calls the school.

I go to my room and pull out my sketchbook. Lines and textures flow from me. I’m inspired by images in my head. I’ve decided on a piece that is sort of a volcano landscape but suggests so much more, says something a little deeper. I sketch and know I’m not quite where I want to be, but getting closer. I lose myself in my work and slowly the realities of life disappear.

Escape is one of a million reasons I love art. I want to win this contest so badly I can taste it. The taste is better than warm pecan pie, my favorite dessert in the entire world. Winning would change my life. Change how people see me. How I see myself. It would show everyone who I am. Besides Kristina’s little sister.

Through the walls, Kristina coughs. My concentration broken, I put my pencil down. My giddiness fades. I’m thinking about winning a stupid contest. Kristina is thinking about dying.

My whole family is squeezed into one of a few cubicles in a row at the doctor’s office. A thin curtain shields us from the hallway.

Mom insists we pile inside and wait with Kristina after she changes into a blue paper gown. Kristina is pale, but still looks as pretty as ever. Her hair is pulled up high in a ponytail. It’s shiny and blond. She looks like she should be on a box of hair color.

Dad and I stand, but Mom sits with Kristina on the examining table, their legs pressed together. Kristina looks wrong in the papery gown, with her toned arm muscles, her square shoulders. Her trainer has worked her hard over the months and it shows. Her outfit and her expression don’t suit the image of the high-jumping spiker who makes the opposition quiver on the volleyball court.

Kristina bows her head and closes her eyes. I wonder if she’s praying. We’re not a church family, not like Melissa’s. Dad says he had religion forced down his throat when he was younger and he doesn’t want to do it to us. Mom doesn’t have a strong opinion one way or another. She doesn’t talk about her childhood much, and the last time we saw her parents was over five years ago. Far as I know she hasn’t even told them about Kristina.

We only go to church when someone dies. Not even at Christmas or Easter. Melissa told me once that she thought it would matter. As in after. It was the first time we had a real fight. Well, we’re wimps so it was more that we didn’t talk to each other for a few days. Then we pretended none of it happened. I never learned how to pray. I’ve thought about it and stuff, tried talking to God in my head sometimes, but mostly it makes me nervous and I wonder what he really thinks of me. Like does he think I’m a bad person because I don’t go to church or read the Bible? I don’t really feel like I have the right to ask for anything now. I mean, I really, really want to ask for God to fix Kristina, but I’m afraid it might make things worse. Like instead she might get punished because I’m only praying when I want something.

Dad stares at the wall, no expression on his features, but the blankness doesn’t mask the fear he’s hiding. I wonder if he’s worried he won’t be able to handle it. He’s always been the kind of guy who prefers not to face things head-on. That’s what Mom says anyhow. She says he inherited it from my grandpa, but he died before I was born so who knows if she’s right.

Mom fusses with her purse, pretending to search for something, rooting through her worldly goods to keep her mind busy, focused away from what is happening. She appears to be planted firmly in the soil of denial. Kristina will be fine, just fine.

In the room next to us I hear a woman moving around, probably changing back into her street clothes. I saw her walk to her room alone in her blue gown, following a nurse.

I wish I could ask Kristina if she’s okay, but I stand frozen, barely breathing, barely moving.

“Kristina Smith?” a deep feminine voice calls from the other side of the curtain. The raspy voice sounds like she should be on a morning show on the radio.

“Yes?” Kristina answers, her voice weak, frightened. She looks to Mom for courage.

A nurse pulls back the curtain and the four of us stare at her. She’s short. Her uniform is red with Scottish Terriers on it and it makes her look boxy. She wears a name tag that says “Pamela.”

“The doctor ordered a couple more X-rays, and when those are done, I’ll take you to her office where she’d like to speak with all of you,” she says. Her voice is rich with an accent. Scottish?

The nurse glances at the rest of us. “There’s no one needing this room so you can stay here or wait out in the waiting room where it’s more comfortable until the X-rays are done. You can join Kristina in the doctor’s office afterward.”

Her accent has a slight comforting effect on me.

“Can I go to the X-ray room with her?” Mom asks.

The nurse looks at Kristina for approval and then nods. Mom and Kristina disappear into the hallway, and Dad and I are left alone.

“I’d rather wait here than out there,” he says, and his voice catches. “Jesus Christ, Tess. What am I supposed to do?”

I don’t tell him that he’s the parent, not me. I say nothing. We don’t exchange another word until half an hour or so later when Kristina and Mom return.

“Okay, out,” Mom tells us. “Kristina needs to change into her clothes and then we’re to wait in Dr. Turner’s office. Room 2. The nurse showed me where to go.”

Dad and I stand awkwardly in the hallway. I pull my sketchbook from my backpack to see if I can get down some ideas or make a couple of rough thumbnails. If I’m going to get my entry in on time, I have to start getting inspired, but my brain won’t allow me to work. Dad doesn’t ask what I’m doing or even pretend to be interested. I still haven’t mentioned the Oswald Drawing Prize to him.

Instead of working, I dream of taking Kristina with me to San Francisco. We’d attend the awards ceremony together and then she could go shopping or do something else she likes. Man, I need to get my piece going if that’s going to happen.

Eventually, Kristina and Mom emerge from the changing room and I hurriedly put away my pad. Mom leads the way to the doctor’s office. We follow, quiet and slow, like kids being shuffled off to the principal’s office for doing something wrong.

The doctor’s room is stark. White walls, no examining table. There’s a big desk with a computer and monitor on top and a leather office chair pulled up to it. There are two cheap steel chairs opposite it. Kristina sits right away, her head bent. I lean against the wall close to the door and gnaw on my lip. Dad leans on the opposite wall, staring into space. Mom heads straight for the doctor’s desk and opens a thick medical book sitting on top of it. She starts flipping pages. I think she’s searching for something to tell that her daughter will be okay.

Minutes go by, painfully long quiet minutes. Finally the doctor walks in the room and all of us snap to attention. She looks young. She’s pretty, with wavy brown hair. She’s wearing makeup and jewelry and a blue dress under an open white lab coat. I think how unfair it is that she seems to have been dealt an overabundance of good genes. Brains. Beauty. She got it all.

She touches Kristina’s shoulder as she passes. I have an urge to yell at the doctor, to demand she tell us it’s all been a big mistake.

I glare at her, wanting her to fix my sister with her slender, pretty hands. Make the nightmare go away. Mom closes the book she’s been snooping in and moves back, sitting in the chair beside Kristina. Dad doesn’t budge, but follows the doctor with his eyes. The doctor walks around her desk, clicks a key on the keyboard, and checks the screen for a second before turning her attention to Kristina. My sister stares at her and her eyes fill with tears. When I look at Dr. Turner’s face, I know immediately. The news isn’t good. I feel sick to my stomach.

I blink rapidly, trying to keep my tears inside.

“Kristina,” Dr. Turner says, and shifts her hip against the desk, not sitting yet. She nods at my parents. They’ve already met, formal introductions have been made. She smiles at me. “You must be Tess,” she says, but doesn’t seem to expect an answer, which is good because my throat is so tight, nothing, no sound is capable of coming out.

We all stare at her, holding our breath as a family. Waiting.

She sits in her chair, and leans back. “The tumor is directly above the knee. As expected with this type of cancer, we’re looking at a Stage 2B. The mass is larger than I would like, but despite that, we’re going to do what we can to help you keep your leg, Kristina. Many osteo patients can have limb-saving treatment and that’s what we’ll hope for you.”

Bile boils around my stomach. I swallow a bitter taste, watching the doctor as if she’s insane. Help her keep her leg?

“Stage 2B means it’s a high-grade cancer, very aggressive,” she says as if one of us asked the question.

No one says anything. The doctor waits. Tears stream down my mom’s face. My dad’s face is stony, blank. Kristina stares at her hands, twisting them around and around in her lap.

“I assume you and your family have talked about the possibility of amputation,” the doctor says.

“Not really,” Kristina whispers without looking up.

I have an image in my head of Kristina with a stump at the end of her leg and want to throw up.

The doctor’s lips tighten. I wonder if she wants to give my parents a lecture. They certainly didn’t have a discussion with me about Kristina losing a leg, but not even with her? I want to scream at them. Blame them for what is happening.

“Osteosarcoma can spread quickly to other bones or even to the lungs if we don’t get it fast.”

My mom gasps. “The lungs?”

It’s obvious we’ve all been living in a state of denial. I’ve been busy trying to sketch and trying to study. I’ve even avoided googling osteosarcoma. God knows how my parents have managed to hide from it too, but here’s reality poking its ugly head out and forcing us to deal. Kristina’s cancer is serious. Very serious.

The doctor blinks slowly and stares at Mom. “Worst-case scenario is spreading. We have no way of knowing what will happen at this point, but spreading is, of course, a possibility. We’ll start treatment immediately.” The doctor smiles briefly, but it’s not a happy smile. “Fortunately, we have a team of specialists in our hospital, and we’ll be able to treat you here instead of shipping you off to another part of the country.”

I feel like someone punched me in the stomach and pulled the breath out of my lungs, clamping long fingers around my windpipe. This is the fortunate scenario?

“We’ll start the first round of chemotherapy right away,” the doctor says in a soft but businesslike voice. “The initial MRI doesn’t show any spread beyond the knee yet, but we took more X-rays today and we’ll repeat tests throughout Kristina’s treatment. I expect a few rounds of chemo.”

Although it doesn’t seem possible, my dad stiffens even more. I stare at him. He’s so rigid I imagine if I pushed him with one finger he’d go down like a statue.

“How soon will she start?” my mom asks.

The doctor leans forward. “Like I said, osteosarcoma is aggressive. We’d like to get to it right away and since you’ve indicated that waiting for insurance is not an issue for your family, I had my secretary book her into the hospital…” She clicks the mouse and waits a moment while she reads the monitor. “In four days. September 30. First thing in the morning. Pamela, my nurse, will give you instructions on where to go and what to do before the treatment begins.”

It feels like someone reaches inside with a long vacuum hose to suck out my insides.

“Four days?” my sister asks.

“It’s fast, I know, but we want to go after it right away. It happens like this a lot with bone cancer. I’m sorry there’s not more time to adjust,” Dr. Turner tells her.

“Will her hair fall out?” Mom asks, her voice soft but machinelike.

“Most likely,” the doctor answers and she turns to Kristina and studies her. “Not right away but usually after the first round.”

Kristina makes a tiny sound, like a kitten’s mew. Her face is as pale as the fresh snow that will soon be falling. Kristina stares at her hands, winding them around and around each other. “You should also know that chemo can be very damaging to fertility,” the doctor says.

“I don’t care about that,” Kristina answers and shrinks into herself even more.

Mom makes a sound like a bird in distress.

“Well, it’s a fact that has to be mentioned, but we want to get the chemo started right away.” She pauses, but no one says a thing. “Do you have questions, Kristina?” the doctor asks in a softer, more sympathetic tone. “I want you to feel prepared for what lies ahead.”

I wonder if the doctor has a sister. I wonder if her sister has ever been sick. Really sick. My heart thumps faster. It’s not fair, I think. It’s not fair. How can Kristina look so normal and be so seriously ill?

“How do I take it?” Kristina’s voice cracks. She clears her throat. “I mean the chemo. Is it a pill or, um, a liquid or what?”

My dad opens his mouth to begin speaking but the doctor lifts her hand to cut him off. It’s her specialty after all. His is university stuff. Not cancer treatment.

“Chemo has different forms and different ways of being ingested. It depends on many factors—the type of cancer, and the stage, and so on. We have developed drug protocols for higher response rates.” The doctor pauses and wipes a strand of hair from her eyes. Her eyes look tired. “Your type of cancer requires chemo to be given intravenously via a drip. It’s a fluid. We’ll put it in through a vein up your arm, or in your neck. Before you start chemo you’ll have an intravenous catheter, or a line, inserted into your chest. It threads through to your heart. Scar tissue holds it in place.”

I cringe and force myself to go numb, trying not to register what Kristina will have to go through. The thought of anyone inserting something inside me makes my limbs feel like jelly. I can’t imagine what Kristina must be thinking.

“The insertion will be done under local anesthetic. It isn’t terribly pleasant, to be honest, but once it’s in we’ll leave it there for the duration of chemo, which means you don’t have to keep having needles and lines put in all the time.”

“Great,” Kristina says and drops her head down again. None of us other Smiths manage to say a word. We’re not a chatty bunch today. The doctor glances at each of us as if she expects one of us to speak but when we don’t she reaches a hand out and pats Kristina’s hand. “I expect at least two rounds of chemo. We want to try to shrink your tumor. Save your limb if we can.” Her voice is calm but detached.

If.

My head snaps up. I am so not ready to deal with this. Kristina has squeezed her eyes shut and her face is tighter than the fists I’m making.

“We hope to be able to cut out the diseased bone and replace it with an internal metal prosthesis. You have full access to all available treatments. Financially. You’re lucky for that.”

Thanks, Grandpa Smith. Boo for mean drinking habits but yay for financial wizardry.

Mom nods and draws in a sharp breath, and Dad shifts his weight back and forth, his eyes on the floor.