Radiate (39 page)

Are they all complete jerks?

***

Saturday morning, my parents and I drive to Birmingham for my first checkup. I rudely wear my earbuds the whole way up with the newest Ministry of Sound CD blaring so I don’t have to answer any questions about my hasty flight to my room last night.

I never thought that Gabriel would flake, too. Just goes to show what I know.

The hell with boys. I need to focus on what the doctors have to say.

I’m quickly X-rayed and scurry off to Dr. Dykema’s office to wait to see him.

“Hayley, look at you!” he says cheerfully when I step into the examining room.

“I told you I’d walk again, Doc.”

He flips through my chart and the notes that I’d given to his nurse about my physical therapy and exercise routine. “I’m very, very pleased with your progress. You responded well to the chemo and radiation, and, from the films we took today, there’s no trace of the tumor or the cancer cells.”

I let out a long sigh of relief that only lasts a split second longer than those my parents release.

Dr. Dykema peers down at me. “I’m most impressed with your attitude and your motivation to get back on your feet. I wish all of my patients were as positive as you are.”

“I had no other choice.”

“You’ve been cheering?”

“Every game since she came home,” Mom answers.

“No running or jumping?”

I try not to lie. “Not really. But I let my leg guide me.”

Dad interjects. “She doesn’t take any unnecessary risks, Doctor.”

The doctor moves his reading glasses to the end of his nose, and then he peers over a report in my chart. “Interestingly enough, I wanted to share this with you folks. I sent the resected bone and tumor off to the pathology department for further research. UAB is a teaching hospital, after all, so anything we can learn from your case that can help others is very important to us.”

“Of course,” Mom says.

There seems to be a proverbial other shoe to drop here, so I listen up.

Dr. Dykema continues. “The pathology indicated what we discovered from your biopsies that the lesion was malignant toward the tibia, but benign toward the surface. What I found fascinating about the report was there were slight traces of the varicella zoster virus in the tumor.”

“What is that?” Dad and I ask at the same time.

The doctor glimpses over his glasses. “You would know it better as chickenpox. Didn’t you tell me you had a serious bout with chickenpox last October?”

A gasp leaves my chest and my pulse picks up to space shuttle speed. “The chickenpox gave me cancer?”

“We can’t prove it, Hayley. It’s just a theory. We don’t always know what causes the white blood cells to divide and multiply out of control. However, with the severity of your varicella zoster last fall, it would stand to reason that your body went into overdrive to fight off the virus and simply overdid its job.”

I don’t hear any of the medical mumbo jumbo he tosses out at me.

All I know is Chloe Bradenton is responsible for my cancer.

***

“I hate her,” I say in the truck on the way home to Maxwell.

“Hayley, you can’t be like that,” Mom fusses.

I can be, though. Chloe Bradenton has had it out for me since the moment the judges gave me the twelfth spot on the varsity cheerleader roster. She has never seen me as an equal or someone who even deserved to be on the squad. And
she’s
who I have to thank for getting fucking cancer?

Utter hatred for her flows through my central nervous system, sparking every emotion known to God and man. “I want to get even with her.” I want her to suffer. I want to shave her head and let her see what it’s like to walk around with no hair. I want her to feel what it’s like to be self-conscious every time you walk into a room, classroom, or the football field, knowing that people are watching, questioning, judging.

Mom swivels in her seat. “You can’t be like that, Hayley. Chloe was your computer partner, and you had a lot of interaction last year when her little brother came down with the illness.”

“I don’t care.”

“Hayley Ann Matthews, you listen to me. God did not bring you through cancer to have you bitter and full of vengeful venom.”

“Listen to your mother, Little Kid,” Dad says firmly.

I roll my eyes, not wanting to hear this, but knowing she’s right. Tears sting the corner, and I shift my eyes to the window to watch the highway sail by.

Mom continues. “Chloe did not give you chickenpox intentionally with the hope that it would give you cancer. It just happened, sweetie.”

“I know,” I say meekly.

“Hating her is not the Christian thing.”

“I know.”

“You have to be grateful that you found that lump in time and it didn’t move to your tibia. Your father and I had to sign a form . . .” Mom trails off as her voice catches. Dad reaches over, but she holds him off. “We had to sign a form allowing them to take your leg if things were too bad. That didn’t happen, though. If we hadn’t caught this in time, it could have spread to other parts of your body. It could have consumed you, Hayley. Because you were a cheerleader and working out so intensely, you
found
the tumor. Chloe pushed you to work hard, and that’s what allowed you to discover the lump.”

I hope Mom doesn’t tell me that I have Chloe to thank, although I see the point she’s trying to make. Still, the irony doesn’t escape me, and it’s something I’ll have to get past.

I take a deep, cleansing breath.

One that calms and relaxes. One that encourages me to forgive.

Chloe’s just a kid like me, trying to make it in this world. Someone who probably couldn’t have handled what I went through.

I’m blessed in so many ways. I need to realize that and stop fighting... everything.

I have two legs.

I can walk.

I can cheer.

And one day soon, I’ll be able to run, jump... leap!

Most of all, I’m cancer free.

I’m alive.

No one can take that from me.

“You’re right, Mom. Cheerleading saved my life.”

A dollar is not worth as much as you think it is. Your honesty is worth much more.

—T. Boone Pickens

Sunday afternoon after church, I stop in at Maxwell Memorial Hospital to see Ross.

I push open the door and give him my best smile. “What up, dawg?”

Ross laughs when he sees me and then breaks into a cough. “Sorry. The medicine really makes me sick as hell. Sit, sit... Tell me what’s going on with you.”

His skin is even pastier than before and more of his hair has come out. I don’t recognize the virile man who visited me in the hospital this summer.

Pulling up the visitor’s chair, I regale him on the latest 411 and the chickenpox connection to Chloe.

“Your mom is right,” he says when I’m done. “You have to forgive Chloe.”

“I know,” I reply.

Ross folds up the
Wall Street Journal
he’d been reading and sets it aside. “Chloe Bradenton is a stupid teenage girl filled with delusions of grandeur. She’s had everything handed to her. She knows nothing of true strength, character, challenges, or triumphing. Like you, Hayley.”

“Thanks for that, Ross.”

He snickers. “I’m not trying to blow sunshine up your ass. It’s the truth. There aren’t many kids who could have handled what you did... and with such a great attitude. I don’t think my own niece could have handled it with the aplomb you did. Remember, it was you who told me to get over myself and the self-pity. I don’t like it any better than you liked your cancer. The thing is, we’re dealing with it. Facing the challenge. It’s making us better people. You’re the one who told me that.”

I sit back in the chair. “Wow. I really said all of that?”

“Something to that effect. At least, it’s what I heard.”

We laugh together, and I hand him the fresh box of Snickers bars I brought for him.

“The hospital pudding seems to help me, but these are the ambrosia.”

I don’t like the way he appears. He seems to be shriveling up lying in this hospital bed. The medication is really taking a toll on him. Or, perhaps, it’s the leukemia itself. Acute leukemia can attack fast, from what I’ve read on the Internet. I just hope Ross’s treatment makes him better. I so want to go with him to the rainforest of Costa Rica or zip lining in Barbados.

“How much longer on the chemo?” I ask.

Ross shakes his head. “The doctor isn’t sure. It’s not taking as well as he’d like, and my white blood cell count is totally fucked.” He lifts his eyes. “Sorry for the language.”

“I’ve heard the word before,” I say with a small smile. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

He snorts laughter. “Wanna run my company?”

“Wish I could.” I grasp his hand.

Ross thinks for a second. “I really need someone smart, and driven, and local, with an MBA to help out while I’m stuck in here. Your father has one, right?”

“One what?”

“An MBA.”

“Yeah, from Bama,” I say.

Ross nods. “Maybe I’ll give him a call.”

Right now, I can’t think about spreadsheets, bottom lines, and sales reports. My friend is sick and isn’t looking any better. “I’m so worried about you, Ross.”

“Shhh . . .” he says. “I appreciate the concern, but don’t freak out. I’m following the doctor’s orders... and yours. Positive mental attitude. Everything happens for a reason.”

Words I sort of remember saying. Questions I still have that apply to myself.

Ross wiggles our hands. “It gives me strength to see you and know how you’re doing. Just promise you’ll keep coming to see me, Hayley.”

“I promise.”

I just hope he’s here when I come to visit.

***

“The bank approved our mortgage refinance,” Dad is saying to Mom when I walk in the back door. “We can use the equity to pay off some of the bills that—”

They both turn and stare at me like children who’ve been caught eating cookies before dinner.

“Are we going to lose the house?” I ask.

“No, dear,” Mom says. “We’re just rearranging some of our finances.”

“Because of me and my medical bills,” I say.

Dad holds up his hands to wave me off. “Due to a lot of things, Hayley. You don’t need to concern yourself with this.”

I won’t let him do this. I’m about to be eighteen, and I deserve to be treated like an adult. “If it concerns the family, it concerns me.” Looking between the two of them, I put my hands on my hips. “Seriously... spill it.”

My parents relent, and the three of us sit down for a financial state of the Matthews union. I had no idea how bad things are. My medical expenses are astronomical, and the insurance company is delaying payment on several claims. On top of that, the college fund my parents had saved has been depleted to pay for bills, inventory for the store, and to keep the house payments current. Homestead Hardware’s new super center is killing Matthews Hardware, and Dad doesn’t know how much longer he can keep the doors open.

“A master’s degree in business and I can’t compete with the big boys,” Dad says, rubbing his eyes with his thumbs.

“Dad, it’s a corporate beast. There’s nothing you could have done,” I say. My AP Economics class has taught me enough to know that Dad isn’t a bad businessman. He’s in the wrong business. “So... not to make it all about me, but do I even bother applying for college?”

“Of course you do,” Mom says. “There are all sorts of financial aid and scholarships you can apply for. A lot of foundations and organizations out there will help provide college tuition to cancer survivors. All we need to do is fill out the paperwork.”

The last thing I want is someone feeling sorry for me and giving me a free ride to college. The dam of anger and resentment toward my sister and her actions years ago completely overflows, and I have to excuse myself.

“Hayley, where are you going?” Mom asks.

“I need some air.”

“Let her go, Nan.”

I trudge around the house and down the road. At the end of the street, past Gabriel’s house—he’s still on my shitlist—there’s a small park with a tiny brook that runs through it. I need some Mother Nature therapy to help ease my anxiety over so many things I can’t control.

There’s only one person who can make all of this right.

I tug my cell phone out of my jeans pocket and dial Gretchen’s number in Boston. She answers on the third ring.

“Gretchen Matthews,” she says in a very businesslike manner... on a Sunday.

“This is your sister,” I say flatly.

“Hayley! Hey hon! I’ve been meaning to call and check on you—”

“Whatever, Gretchen. You haven’t. I haven’t heard from you since the obligatory Thanksgiving call that went straight to voice mail.”

My sister pauses. “Are you mad at me?”

I grip the phone so tightly to my head that I fear I’ll burst the components apart. All of my pent-up resentment toward her, toward Chloe, toward Gabriel—even toward Daniel still—to the universe for what I had to go through, and for what Ross is now going through. I brace myself for the can of whoop ass I’m about to unload on my sister.

“You know... Mom and Dad are struggling financially. Dad’s going to lose the business, Mom’s going to have to get a job, the house has a second mortgage, and I might not get to go to college thanks to you. You
stole
a shitload of money from them, and you’ve never offered to pay it back! Instead, you move off to the other end of the country, you never call or visit, and then you just pop up when I’m in the hospital to tell me you’re there for me, only to disappear back into your world.”

“Hayley, I don’t know what—”

“This isn’t a discussion!” I snap. “Look, Gretchen. You had your chance. Mom and Dad scrimped and saved to take care of us, and you ripped them off. I don’t care whatever you were on or what you were doing, but you took advantage of them, and now we’re screwed. They don’t deserve this. They’re good people. You wouldn’t know that, though, since you’ve disconnected from the family. Cliff had to pay his way through college with loans and scholarships. I’m prepared to do that, too, if I have to, but, dammit, Gretchen, you had your turn and mucked it up. This is my turn!”