Maybe One Day (28 page)

But Olivia didn’t want me to promise her she wasn’t going to die. She wanted something else.

I wrapped a clean tissue around the dirty ones and dumped the whole bundle in the garbage. Then I Purelled my hands and went over to stand by her bed.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay what?”

I spread my hands out in front of me, palms up. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

“Okay,” she said. Then she laughed awkwardly. “I don’t even know what I want to talk about, exactly.” There was a tear on her cheek, and she wiped it away. She looked at me. “What do
you
think happens when you die?”

I remembered being in the bathroom at Mack Wilson’s party. That lonely, disconnected sensation that had felt almost like a premonition.

Which it wasn’t. It was a stupid drunken theory. In driver’s ed, the teacher had made fun of people who claimed to drive better when they were drunk. How much dumber was it to claim to understand the universe when you were chock-full of cherry-infused vodka?

“I don’t know what happens,” I admitted, sitting back down. “But there has to be
something
.” My mind groped for something I could offer up. “What about being a spirit? There are so many stories of that happening. All those people who say their loved ones came back after they died can’t just be
crazy.”

Livvie gave me a look. “Of course they can.”

We were both quiet. What would the opposite of the sensation I’d had at Mack Wilson’s party be? Something warm and beautiful and comforting.

“There could be a heaven,” I offered.

Livvie snorted. “Clouds and angels? I mean, seriously. What am I doing all day? Learning to play the harp?”

“No!” I shook my head emphatically. “It doesn’t have to be all that crap. It could be something totally different. Something amazing. Like . . .” I started to get excited by the idea and leaned forward in my chair. “Like imagine the most amazing moment of your life. Only multiply it by a million. And imagine it goes on forever. It’s the most incredible feeling, only we can’t even imagine what it’s like because we’re still alive. Trying to imagine heaven could be like . . . trying to picture the fourth dimension. We can’t do it. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“Maybe,” said Livvie. She seemed okay with my idea, but then suddenly her face crumpled. “But I feel like I’d just be so lonely there.”

I wanted to say something reassuring, but the thought of Livvie being lonely and dead somewhere was so sad I couldn’t catch my breath. I started to cry, and then I leaned forward and squeezed her hand, crying too hard to say anything. We just sat like that, holding hands and crying for what felt like
a long time. Finally, I reached into the box and gave each of us a tissue. While Livvie blew her nose, I stood up and went outside to the little cart by her door. Below the piles of gloves and surgical masks were paper smocks that we didn’t normally bother to put on. But now I wrapped myself in one.

“Nice dress,” said Livvie as I reentered her room.

“Thanks,” I said. I tied the plastic belt, slipped my shoes off, and lay down on the bed next to her. She rested her head on my shoulder. “I don’t want to die,” she said quietly.

Her voice was calm; she wasn’t crying anymore. I wiped the tears that rolled down my face as surreptitiously as I could. “I don’t
want
you to die.” My voice was squeaky. It was so obvious that I was crying.

“That’s a relief,” she said. There was a pause, and then she gasped.

“What?” I asked, alarmed.

She put her hand over her eyes. “Do you realize I could die a virgin?”

“You are
not
going to die a virgin,” I said firmly.

“I can’t believe it. I might die a virgin.” Her voice was soft with amazement.

“Livs, you’re
not
going to die a virgin,” I repeated.

She ignored me, slowly shaking her head. “I spent all that time having a gay boyfriend. I should have realized this might happen.”

“You should have realized you could get
leukemia
?”

I was being sarcastic, but she nodded. “If you realize life is short, you break up with your gay boyfriend and get a real boyfriend.” She laughed.

So did I. “That’s
exactly
the kind of thing you really wish they’d put on a greeting card but they never do.”

“I know,” she said, leaning back against the pillow and yawning. “My mom says God is love. She says God has a plan for all of us but we just can’t understand it.”

“That sounds nice,” I said, patting her gently on the shoulder.

“Maybe.” Her voice was fuzzy, and she yawned again. “If leukemia is love, who needs it?”

“Good point,” I whispered.

Outside, the rain splattered against the window. Inside, Livvie had her head on my shoulder. After a minute, she began to breathe the slow, steady breath of sleep. I tried as hard as I could to believe in a God who was holding us—all of us—in his arms just like I was holding Livvie. I tried to imagine a God who would never let anything really awful happen to us for no reason.

A God who loved us too much to take us away from each other.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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32

Jake’s cells engrafted on day sixteen, and Dr. Maxwell said she wanted Olivia home no later than day twenty. Once upon a time, she explained, people who had bone marrow transplants would stay in the hospital for twice that long, but now, with all the hospital-borne antibiotic-resistant infections that existed, it was dangerous for Olivia to stay in the hospital any longer than was necessary.

I’d had some idea that Livvie would magically get better as soon as engraftment happened, but she seemed to feel just as crappy on day nineteen as she had on day twelve. By the morning of day twenty—when she was supposed to go home from the hospital—she’d developed some fluid in her gut, and they had to drain it. The day after the procedure she didn’t feel any better. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.

“It’s like they’re
torturing
her,” I said to Mia as I shoved my books into my locker after my last class of the week on Friday. “It’s obscene.”

“See you tomorrow at the rec center!” called Stacy, sailing by with the Bailor twins.

“Oh my fucking God, I can’t believe I have to teach that fucking dance class again tomorrow.” I fell back against my locker. “Those girls hate me. I’m serious.”

Mia laughed. “What’s happening?”

I closed my eyes. “They just don’t care about the class when I’m teaching it.”

“So, they hate you or you hate them?” asked Mia.

I opened one eye. “They’re children. You can’t hate children.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” said Mia, clearly not convinced.

“No. Really. I don’t hate them. I just don’t know how to
talk
to them. I get all jolly and fake with them, and they don’t listen to me. Plus, we’re making zero progress on our dance for the recital. Livvie said last year they’d choreographed half the dance by now.”

“What’s the dance?”

“That’s the thing. There
is
no dance. I wanted it to come from them and their ideas, but every time I ask them what they want to do, they just say, ‘We don’t know.’ And when I try to teach them steps that I’ve worked on, they get all . . . squirrelly and distracted.” I closed my eyes again. “You’re right.
I do hate them.”

“Maybe you just have to show them who’s the alpha dog,” Mia suggested. “Maybe they’re waiting for you to take control of the class.”

“But I don’t want them to hate me!”

“I don’t think that can be your priority,” said Mia. “You have to get them to take you seriously, and if they hate you . . . well, too bad.”

I thought about that. Maybe I
was
being too easy on the girls. I kept asking them what they wanted to do. Letting them goof off. When Olivia ran the class, she didn’t do that. She was firm with them. Maybe that was what I needed: to be firm with them. I turned around, shut my locker, and jammed the lock onto it.

“Okay,” I said to Mia. “No more Mr. Nice Guy”

Saturday morning, I was like a drill sergeant, and the girls seemed to be responding. When I told them to line up, they lined up. When they started giggling about something, I told them to stop it
immediately
, and they did. Twenty minutes into class, we’d gotten through more than we normally got through in the whole hour. I made a promise to myself: today, they’d either learn the steps I’d come up with or they’d come up with their own. No excuses.

Just as I had that thought, Charlotte ran into the room. She was often late, but she’d never been
this
late before.

“Why are you late?” I demanded.

“It’s not my fault,” she said. “The bus was late.”

I thought about Mia’s saying the class needed an alpha dog. Maybe accepting Charlotte’s lame excuses for her lateness was just one more way I’d been too easy on everyone.

“Look, Charlotte,” I said, giving her my hardest stare, “you need to leave your house earlier. Because the bus being late is not an acceptable excuse for
you
being late.”

Charlotte looked at me for a long minute. I waited for her to say something snotty or defensive or mean, so I could show her that I wasn’t going to take that kind of talk anymore. But she didn’t say a word. Instead, she did the one thing I never in a million years would have expected.

She turned and ran out of the dance studio.

When Mrs. Jones called me into her office as I was walking out of the building, I’d actually forgotten all about what had happened with Charlotte. I figured the director wanted to know how Olivia was doing, so that was the first thing I told her about when she closed the door behind me.

“Olivia’s supposed to come home tomorrow, but I don’t know if it’s really going to happen. It’s like something always goes wrong.”

“Yes.” She settled into her chair and gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs facing her desk. “I spoke to Olivia’s mother earlier this week. I understand the bone marrow transplant
has been a very frightening procedure.”

“Oh,” I said, sitting down, “I didn’t realize you were in touch with her.”

“Yes, I am,” Mrs. Jones said. “I actually called you in here on another matter entirely today.” She folded her hands on the desk in front of her

“Okay,” I said. I still wasn’t worried. After Charlotte had left, we’d actually had a really productive class. Maybe not the happiest dance class in the history of the world, but a productive one.

“How much do you know about Charlotte Bradley?” asked Mrs. Jones quietly.

“Charlotte Bradley?” When she said the name, I had no idea who she was talking about at first. Then I realized. “Oh, Charlotte. I don’t . . . I didn’t know that was her last name.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Mrs. Jones made a tent with her fingers and rested her chin on them. “I spoke to Charlotte earlier today as she was leaving the building. I gather she was late to your class and you chastised her?”

“That’s right.” I leaned forward. I felt bad about how Charlotte had run off, but I wanted Mrs. Jones to understand that it wasn’t like she’d been late once and
bam!
I’d come down on her like a ton of bricks. “I didn’t mean to frighten her away from class or anything like that, but she’s late a lot, and, I mean, I think it’s important for the girls to be on time. I’m trying to get things a little more . . . organized.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Jones. Her tone didn’t indicate whether she thought my plan to get organized was a good one. “Did you know Charlotte is nine years old?”

“
Nine?
” I couldn’t believe it. She was taller than the twins. “I thought she was at least . . . I don’t know, twelve or thirteen.”

“No, she’s nine, all right.” Mrs. Jones’s expression didn’t change. We could have been talking about the weather. “She’s nine years old, and she’s got two younger sisters. Two sisters who she’s often made to babysit.”

“You can’t babysit when you’re nine,” I informed Mrs. Jones. “That’s, like, not even legal. Once, when I was ten and I was sick, my dad wanted to go out and get me juice, but he said he couldn’t leave me alone, so he waited until my mother got home.”

Mrs. Jones was giving me a certain look. At first I wasn’t able to place it, but then I realized she was looking at me the way I generally looked at Stacy Shaw. She was looking at me like,
You are the stupidest person in the entire world
.

“Look, Zoe,” Mrs. Jones said, leaning back in her chair, “that is a beautiful story about your parents, whose every waking moment is no doubt given over to your happiness and comfort. But Charlotte’s mother does not see the world that way. She does not particularly see herself as
obligated
to look after her daughters, do you understand what I am saying? She drinks too much and she smokes too much and it is my firm belief that before too much more time passes, those three
beautiful little girls are going to be taken away from their mother, which, it is sad to say, is no doubt going to be the best thing that could happen to them, and that is definitely not saying much.

“But that little Charlotte is so strong and so brave that every Saturday morning she manages to get here to come to your dance class.” Mrs. Jones got to her feet and walked slowly around the desk. “She takes the bus
by herself
. And sometimes she first has to find someone to leave her sisters with, because she feels more of an obligation to those little girls than anyone has ever felt for her. And she comes because she has made a commitment to this class.” She was standing directly in front of me, and she put her hands on the arms of my chair. “So when you complain about her being
late
, why don’t you take a minute and think about what it takes for her to get here
at all
?”

There was a pause. Then, without my responding, Mrs. Jones stood back up. “Now, I know you are feeling bad about what I’ve just told you, and I’m sorry for that. Sometimes it’s hard to hear when we’ve done something wrong. But we can learn from our mistakes. And I sincerely hope you will learn from this one.” She’d made her way back to the other side of her desk. “You may go now.”