Radiate (12 page)

Mom hugs me to her side and kisses my temple. “I was so proud of you today, Hayley. You blended in with those girls perfectly and were practically one of them.”

“They made me feel needed,” I say, rounding the corner on my floor. I nod at Ginger and Rochelle and the other nurses as we pass by their station on the way to my room.

“Ms. Matthews,” Rochelle calls out. “Y’all had a visitor a few minutes ago. Good-lookin’ young man here to see your daughter.”

I thought Daniel texted me that he
couldn’t
come see me. But maybe he made it so.

“I don’t know his name, but he’s still here,” Rochelle says, clicking her ballpoint pen rapidly with her thumb. “He either went down the hall for a soda or he’s in your room.”

Moving as fast as I can with one leg up off the floor, I propel myself down the hall and push open the door to room 211, expecting to see Daniel’s smiling face.

Instead I see a welcome, friendly face.

“Hey, Gabriel. What are you doing here?”

He knows he’s not the one I was hoping to see, although he’s kind enough to smile through the awkwardness we’re both sensing.

“My dad had to come up for a business meeting, and I asked him if I could ride along so I could check on you.”

Disappointment melts away into complete appreciation for my old friend—my once-again friend. “That’s so sweet of you, Gabriel.”

I scoot past him on the crutches and flop up onto the bed, being careful not to hit my leg against anything. He moves to take the supports from me and then leans them against the wall just within my reach.

“Hello, Gabriel,” Mom says when she enters the room. “What a nice surprise.”

“Hey, Mrs. M.,” he says, and then reiterates to her why he’s in town. “So, I had to stop by.”

Mom eyes a bundle wrapped in tissue paper on the table. “What do we have here?”

“Oh, right.” Gabriel stands, crosses the room, and then brings the package to me. “I picked these at my grandfather’s farm.”

I unwrap the paper to see a couple of fistfuls of wildflowers in pink, red, yellow, and a lot of green. Honeysuckle permeates the room, and I breathe in the fragrance of... home.

“Thanks so much,” I manage to say. “Mom, can you put them in water?”

She takes the flowers and nods at me, as if that was some sort of secret code. So not! “I’ll be back. You kids chat.”

I roll my eyes at her. Honestly, could she be a bit more obvious?

“Sit, sit, sit,” I say to Gabriel.

He does, on the edge of my bed toward the end. I finger the TV remote next to me, but decide to leave the set off so we can just talk.

“How’s the food here?” he asks.

“Meh. The meat loaf was really gross the other night. But the breakfasts are good. They give me these awesome, buttery grits every morning.”

His eyes meet mine and he chuckles. “Remember that time your grandmother made cowboy grits for us?”

I screw up my face and cock my head to the side. “Um... no . . .”

“Sure you do,” he says. “We were in the yard playing and were, like, eating sand, pretending they were grits.”

“Oh yeah! I remember now,” I say, laughing at the silly memory. “You dared me, if I remember correctly.”

“Probably,” he says with a shrug. “Sounds like something I’d do. Your grandmother found us and washed our mouths out. We thought we were in such big trouble!”

“Oh, for sure! It wasn’t as if we were doing anything horrid or immoral, like playing doctor.”

Gabriel slices his eyes over to me and suddenly I’m hot with embarrassment. Fortunately, he steps around my verbal mess and continues down memory lane.

“Yeah, right. Instead of yelling at us or punishing us for being stupid kids, she made us some cowboy grits.”

I bob my head up and down. “Grits, milk, butter, cheddar cheese, and Worcestershire sauce all baked together.”

Now he turns his head. “Seriously? Worcestershire sauce? That’s her big secret?”

“The one and only,” I verify.

He laughs deep. “I just remember it was the best thing I’d ever had in my life. I don’t know if it’s because I was so hungry from eating dirt or if it was because I was with—” The sentence hangs between us like leftover Mardi Gras parade beads in the trees. I breathe. He does, too. He shakes out of the thought and then continues. “You know, having a good time with my friend Hayley,” he finishes.

I smile and glance down at my leg. “We had a lot of fun growing up. Lots of running and biking and just being goofy. I hope I can run, bike, and be goofy when all of this is done.”

“You will. I know it,” he says with more confidence than the group of interns that corral in my room daily.

I think back to the fun times we shared being silly little kids. My lungs tighten when I remember the day I took my new radio-controlled car down to his house and not only saw the For Sale sign in the lawn, but discovered that the Tremblay family was... gone.

Swallowing hard at the car wreck of emotions zuzzing through me, I ask, “Why did you just move?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he says softly.

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I know. I’m sorry about that.” Silence surrounds us momentarily. Then he says, “But I’m back, and I’m here for you, Hayley.”

My chest feels heavy and my body feels weak. Maybe I exerted myself too much today. Or, perhaps I’m merely gloomy for the lost innocence of children who used to think you could eat dirt and that was fine. Or “swim” in the monkey grass that surrounded the tree in our front yard. Now, I’m faced with... reality.

“Thanks, Gabriel,” I manage to say in a whisper.

“You can beat this, Hay. I know you can,” he says firmly. “You
will
beat this. Believe in yourself, hang in there, be tough, and above all, keep a positive attitude.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” I ask him.

His back straightens. “I’ve never had cancer.”

I press. “But you’ve had a challenge?”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just saying, Hayley. Be true to yourself.”

“That’s all I can do.”

Something tells me there’s a lot more to Gabriel Tremblay than what’s on the surface. I won’t press him... not now.

He stands and steps forward. “I’d better go. Dad’s meeting will be done soon.”

I sit up and stretch my arms out. It just feels like the right thing to do. Gabriel hugs me like the long-lost friend I am, and then he messes my hair when we pull apart.

“Thanks again for coming. And for bringing the flowers.”

He winks at me as he heads toward the door. “Give ’em hell, Matthews.”

After the day I’ve had, I honestly think I can.

***

Opening my eyelids is like passing an act of Congress.

I force them up with all the strength I can muster, which isn’t saying much.

Where am I?

What day is this?

The sound of my own heart beeping across the monitor next to me knocks me in the brain.

Right . . .

It’s Wednesday.

Second biopsy.

My teeth chatter together and my face feels wet.

I’m crying?

Yes. Wet, salty tears flow down my cheeks, pooling on the . . .

Oxygen mask?

I’m in recovery. Recovering. This was not how I saw my summer unfolding when Mrs. Ingram announced that I’d placed on the PHS squad. Lying helplessly flat on my back while people hack away at my limb isn’t what I’d call the ideal.

“Hayley? Can you hear me?” a female voice asks from above.

I squeeze my eyes shut in a halfhearted response.

“I’m Rayanne,” she says. “Can you talk to me?”

“I hurt,” I say through the annoying oxygen mask.

“Where?” she asks me. She must be a nurse or something.

I think to say, “All over more than any place else,” a favorite expression of my dad’s. Instead, I muster up all the fortitude I have to lift my right arm out from under the covers and push the oxygen mask away from my face. Away from my tears.

Rayanne’s wearing pink scrubs with pictures of bunnies all over the front. Her smile is bright and friendly, even though she’s missing two teeth on the side. I’m not judging her by that; I’m just noting it. Details matter now to help me climb back to consciousness.

“Hurt,” I repeat.

“It’s going to hurt, darlin’,” she says while making notes on a chart. “The doctors had to dig a little deeper into that tumor of yours to get the samples they wanted.”

Interesting choice of words. “Tumor of yours.” Like it’s a pet I went and picked out especially for myself at the shelter. I shudder at the thought.

The woman replaces the oxygen mask on my face. “Now, darlin’, you have to leave this on.”

“Don’t want to,” I mutter, and the tears continue, flowing all by themselves. I have no control over them. The fiery pain in my left leg must be triggering them.

“Now, now. Be a good girl,” she coos to me as though I’m six again.

“No,” I say in a moan, not even knowing why. I shove the oxygen mask away a second time.

Rayanne’s by my side to retrieve it once again. “There, there. I know this is all foreign to you, but with each step, things are only going to get better.”

My eyes close at the thought, and I have to wonder if that’s really, honestly, true.

It is in moments of illness that we are compelled to recognize that we live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom, whole worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body.

—Marcel Proust

Look who decided to wake up,” Dad says when our eyes meet. He’s standing over me, watching me sleep. There’s stubble on his face, and I can see he hasn’t been sleeping well.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I manage to eke out.

“For what, Little Kid?”

“All of this.” I gulp down a dry lump in the back of my throat. “You’re missing work. This is costing money.”

He sets his index finger on my mouth. “Shhh . . .”

His smile says one thing, but I know my dad. Dark shadows pool underneath his eyes. There’s a sadness in his face that’s, of course, understandable. However, it pains me that I’m the cause of his concern and worry.

“How long can you stay?” I ask.

“Only a little while longer. I have a lot going on at the store tomorrow.”

My head throbs at the thought of what my medical bills must be racking up to be. I’m sure my parents have some sort of supplemental health insurance or what have you... who knows these days? It’s not exactly something they discuss with me over dinner. Does insurance even cover what’s going on with me? Is a private room more expensive?

I burp rudely and expel some of the gas that was used on me during my three-hour surgery.

Dad makes a joke out of it and waves the air around him. “Give me a little warning next time.”

I try to giggle, but the movement shakes me infinitesimally and my leg cries out from the newly stitched area. “Sorry.” My eyes close again. “So sorry,” I mutter.

Dad’s strong fingers find their way onto my forehead and he rubs, smoothing back my in-need-of-washing hair. “You have nothing to apologize for, Hayley. Your mother and I are making sure you have the best possible care. So is your Uncle Roger. He’s watching every move from San Francisco, talking to the doctors, and getting detailed reports on you. We’re fighting this all the way, baby.”

“Will I be able to cheer?”

“You’ll be able to do anything you want to do.”

Eyes still closed, I can barely hear the words I’m asking. “How did I get cancer, Dad?”

His hand strokes even more gently. “We don’t know, Little Kid. It really doesn’t matter. We just have to figure out how to get rid of it.”

I lick my dry lips and then tug my eyes open. “I hope it doesn’t take much longer.”

***

I don’t have to wait very long.

After a heated canasta battle with Mom Friday afternoon (which she won in the end, mostly because I wasn’t paying attention due to texting with Daniel), Dr. Dykema enters my room with his team of interns and a sullen look.

Seriously... do they teach them that facial expression in medical school?

Dr. Tanner Dykema pulls an empty chair up next to my bed and stretches out in it. He’s quite tall, and his legs seem to go on forever.

I try to lighten the energy in the room. “Why so gloomy, Doc?”

For a moment, I think I see a crinkle of laughter in the corner of his goatee’d mouth. Not really, though. He’s all business.

“Is everyone here at UAB treating you well, Hayley?”

“Yes, sir,” I say politely. See, I was raised right.

“You have an excellent staff here, Dr. Dykema,” Mom says. “It’s one of the reasons that my brother, Dr. Roger Swonsky, sent us here.”

The doctor nods. “That makes me happy.”

“So, do you have news for us?” I ask before Mom can.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He removes my thick file out from under his arm and spreads it out on the bed next to me. “You see, Hayley, I don’t like to jump to rash judgments about what’s ailing my patients. I prefer that we explore all avenues, do the proper tests, and make sure we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Haven’t we been doing that?” I ask.

“Yes, we have,” he assures me.

Good. I thought he was going to say something like we had to start from scratch. I would not like that.

“Cancer is a stubborn competitor,” he starts. “In order for us to win the war, we have to also win the battles along the way. We have to understand our opponent, what it’s made of, and how we can defeat it.”

I want to roll my eyes at the military references. Can’t he just spit it out?

Instead, I nod and pay rapt attention.

“Hayley, from our first operation on your leg, we discovered that the cancerous cells around your left fibula were benign.”

Mom puts her hand to her chest and lets out a sigh. “Benign. That’s good.”

“Yes, Mrs. Matthews. It’s a good start.” He turns his eyes to me. “Benign means the cells lack the ability to metastasize. However . . .” He pauses for emphasis, and that one word—
however
—hangs there like a white flag of surrender (to use his military reference).