Radiate (19 page)

—Dan Rather

Friday can’t come fast enough.

Not only does Dr. Sampson remove the tube out of my aorta, but Rachel Mary removes the
sixty-three
staples from my leg. Ouch! No wonder my leg hurt so much. I’ll admit, though, it didn’t hurt when she flipped them out; rather, it tickled like all get-out.

I finally get a good glimpse of the slicing and dicing of my leg. The scar runs from next to my kneecap all the way down to my ankle. There are smaller scabby scars where the two drains had been inserted. My calf muscle is about half the size it used to be. Dr. Dkyema had to cut out some muscle along with everything else. The skin is tight and pulls whenever I try to flex, so I guess I won’t do that.

While I’m walking the hallway with Rachel Mary carefully monitoring my progress, I decide to try and put some weight on my left side.

“Son of a—owwww!” Yeah, not a good idea.

My foot touched the ground, but soon the hot, searing pain shot up my leg all the way to my stomach. It feels as if my leg will split open right down the fresh seam.

Rachel Mary steps in. “Oh, honey, now don’t you be putting any weight on that leg until you’re told to. We just need you up and moving in the hallways with your crutches.”

I nod at her words, feeling idiotic for pushing myself too hard. It’ll have to be done one day, though.

When Rachel Mary and I make it back to the room, Mom has my things packed up and Dr. Sampson is there reviewing the chart.

“How’s your groin today?” he asks, in reference to the suture he made.

“Fine, how’s yours?” I ask, not even thinking.

OMG! I totally made this man blush. He pretends not to hear what I said, which is probably better. I don’t know what got into me. Maybe knowing he’s currently filling out my walking (or hobbling, rather) papers has me giddy from head to toe.

I slip back into bed and lift my leg up onto the blanket. Gretchen and Lily redecorated my big toe last night using blue polish and drawing silvery fireworks with sparkly glue-on beads. It’s quite fabulous for a single-toed pedicure.

I dress in the same pair of shorts and T-shirt I wore the day I checked in. My leg is still wrapped in an Ace bandage for protection, and my crutches are more than likely going to be my constant companions for a while. I thank Dr. Sampson and Rachel Mary for all their help and slide into the wheelchair that awaits me.

The orderly wheels me down the corridor and to the elevator. It’s an amazing feeling to be going down into the massive hospital structure instead of to one of the various examining or operating rooms on the higher floors.

Cliff is waiting for us at the patient loading and unloading zone in his Jeep Cherokee. Mom and Gretchen hop in back and let me take the front seat.

“Wow, this is the first time I’ve been out since I went to Birmingham High School’s cheerleader practice.”

“It’s been a while,” Mom says from the back seat.

Cliff pulls off into traffic and turns on to the interstate toward his apartment. I squint up at the bright August sun beating down on us. I feel like I should shield my eyes from it like a vampire who’s been caught in the light after dawn.

Ten minutes later, we’re at Cliff’s apartment, which is fortunately on the first floor. I settle into the couch as Mom, Gretchen, and Cliff bring my stuff in. I hate being this helpless, but there’s not exactly anything I can do about it at this point.

“Why can’t we go home?” I ask.

“Since you start your radiotherapy on Monday, it just made sense to stay in Birmingham,” Mom says. “Your dad’s also on his way up. He’s about an hour away.”

“He must know I-65 by heart now,” Cliff says, handing me my backpack and purse.

I hear my phone beep and see several texts from Lora:

WHAT UP?

SCHOOL STARTS ON MONDAY

MISS U

TXT ME!

My heart sinks to my one painted toe and slowly rises back to pound out my fretfulness. I don’t understand why we couldn’t have gone home to Maxwell even for the weekend. I should just be happy that my brother lives so close to the hospital and we have a free place to stay.

“Hayley, you’ll sleep here on the sofa where you’ll have more room to stretch. Your father and I will take the guest room, if that’s okay.”

“Mom, you’ve been sleeping on a crappy hospital couch for weeks. Of course it’s okay,” I say.

Instead of wallowing in self-pity and thoughts of why couldn’t we do whatever, I nab my phone and text my partner.

OUT OF HOSPITAL FINALLY!

HEY U! CONGRATS!

HOW WUZ CAMP?

2ND PLACE BEHIND JOSIAH HILLCREST

BLECK.

WISH U COULD B @ SKOOL MONDAY

ME 2. RADIATION STARTS THEN

DANIEL ASKED @U

OH YEAH?!?!?!?!

ASKED WHEN U’D B BACK

Y DIDN’T HE TXT ME?

SAID HE DIDN’T WANT 2 BOTHER U

OMG WHAT A DORK

I NO

I’LL TXT HIM.

OK. CALL ME L8R IF U WANT!

HUGS!

I scroll into my address book and find Daniel’s number. I choose Send MMS Message and start typing:

GUESS WHO’S OUT OF THE HOSPITAL? :)

HAYLEY!

DANIEL!

R U HOME?

NOT YET

WHEN R U BACK?

1 MORE WK

R U MISSING THE 1ST GAME?

:(

THAT SUX

:(

HOW WUZ SURGERY?

GOOD. I’M ON THE MEND

AWESUM

HOW’S FOOTBALL PRACTICE

AWESUM. WE’LL KICK ASS THIS YR

CAN’T WAIT!

CAN U CHEER?

TRY TO STOP ME

C U SOON!

CAN’T WAIT

And I can’t! Everything is falling back into place. My leg is on the mend, I’m finishing up my treatment, and I’ll miss only one week of school. Not bad.

“Mom? Can I finally try on my new uniform?”

“I don’t see why not,” she shouts from the kitchen.

“I’ll get it for you,” Gretchen says.

Using my crutches, I swing down the hallway to Mom’s room so I can change in private. Gretchen brings me the white uniform and lays it on the bed. It’s so crisp and fresh and new. Made just for me. I trace my fingers over the double-stitched “PHS” on the front. The blue and red mesh together perfectly, as do the swishes of color trim around the neckline. The skirt is short and has a flair that’s been starched and ironed. My pulse begins to race just thinking of actually performing for the crowd in this outfit.

“How exciting,” my sister says.

“Totally.”

“Listen, Hay,” Gretchen says. “Now that you’re out of the hospital, I’ve got to get back to Boston.”

“Why?” I say in a high-pitched whine.

Gretchen steps toward me. “I’ve got my job. My life. I can’t be gone forever.”

“What do you even do?” I ask, not able to remember what job she has these days. I remember she was a waitress for a while in college, then a bartender in a club. She worked for an airline for a year or two, and for a computer company.

She snickers. “I manage mutual funds for Reliable Financial. We don’t get a lot of vacation time, but my boss understood that I had to be here for you.”

“That was nice of him.”

“Her.”

“Whatever,” I say, hanging my head. I was just getting used to having Gretchen here, and now she’s buzzing off again.

Her finger finds my chin, and I glance up into the face I wish I could see more. “Hey... I’ll be back, okay?”

“When?”

“Thanksgiving. How’s that?”

My eyes widen. “You’re actually going to come to a Matthews’ holiday event?”

“For you, anything,” she says with a glowing smile.

I can’t help but ask. “Are things better with you, Mom, and Dad?”

“We didn’t murder each other.” Her laughter chokes her up.

“That’s a start.”

She spreads her arms. “You know I love you. And you can call me
any
time—day or night—seriously.”

Warm in her embrace, I merely shake my head up and down.

Gretchen kisses me on the head and lets me go. “You’re going to be an awesome cheerleader.”

“Thanks, Gretch. Thanks for being here.”

She blows me a kiss and closes the bedroom door.

It takes a bit of effort on my own, but soon I’m decked out in my PHS Patriots uniform. The top fits me perfectly in the boobage and midriff area. The skirt is a little loose because I’ve lost weight in the hospital. No worries, that bulk package of Snickers bars I’ve been noshing will help take care of that problem.

I glance in the mirror and scrutinize my appearance.

From the knees up, I look perfectly normal. Dark brown eyes staring back at me, long brown hair brushed straight to my elbows, and a smiling face—an excited grin meant for cheerleading. Then my eyes shift—down past my knees, down to the bandage-encased leg that’s seen so much attention these past two months. In my new shoes, courtesy of Lora’s Uncle Ross, I stand tall, putting all of my weight on my right leg and holding my left foot just up off the ground.

I hop.

Once.

I wince.

I try again.

Another wince.

Falling back onto the bed, I rip at the Ace bandage, unwinding it away from me until I can see my left leg in its entirety. It’s scrawny, scarred, scabbed, and I have very little feeling from my ankle to my toes.

“Bleck,” I say to no one. I look horrid, as though I just got out of the hospital. How am I going to cheer like
this?

I sigh and then take a deep breath to calm my frustration. I’ll make this work. I
have
to make it work. I promised the doctor I wouldn’t run or jump on my left leg, so I won’t. That puts the onus on my right side.

What will I do with my crutches?

I suppose I can keep them nearby when I cheer.

I throw my hands up in disgust and stick my tongue out at myself in the mirror. Sure, from the knees up, I look the part of a perky cheerleader. From the knees down...
sigh.

This is a disaster.

I suddenly remember how Lora’s Uncle Ross told me how he took lemons and made lemonade out of his college injury. The guy messed up his knee and now he runs marathons. Thing is, I’m not exactly a lemonade fan.

I don’t know how I’m going to make this work, but I will do my damndest.

Life’s a voyage that’s homeward bound.

—Herman Melville

Dad arrives that night in time for burgers and dogs that Cliff grilled out on the balcony and to say goodbye to my sister. They hug reluctantly, and then she pulls away. With a wave and blown kisses, my sister is gone. I hope it’s not three years before I see her again.

“Something smells delicious,” Dad says to break the silence. He seems overly tired, and the stress lines in his forehead seem a bit deeper. I have to remember that he just put in a three-plus-hour drive, in rush hour.

“Burger or hot dog?” Cliff asks.

“Both,” Dad says.

“Me too,” I echo, knowing it will be a miracle if I can eat anything. The chemo really nauseates me beyond belief. Very little seems appetizing except the chocolate bars from Dad. Even though the smell of most things now makes me gag, I reach for a grilled wiener and put it on a bun. I pour some ketchup on and then layer on some mayonnaise to make it just right.