Six Months to Live (10 page)

At home, that afternoon, there was another letter from Sandy.

Dear Dawn,.

As you can tell by the postmark, I’m writing you from Mexico. I was real scared at first. But my daddy is sure he’s doing the right thing. Not even Mama could talk him out of bringing me down here. And you know how persuasive my mama can be!

My doctor is Dr. Sanchez. He’s a nice little man with a moustache. His accent is soft and cute. I think his clinic is real nice, too. It’s light and airy with red tiles and murals all over the place. There’s a real nice garden with fountains, cactus and strange looking trees. I can see the mountains from the window in my room. They’re all purple and hazy, real different from the Alleghenys.

There’s no chemotherapy either, just lots of fresh food, vitamins and sunshine. I declare, here it is nearly October and

it’s hotter than a West Virginia summer! I’m tired a lot, but I don’t hurt. And I still have my hair! It’s growing back real nice with some curl. I figure that by Christmas, I’ll be able to use my combs again.

You can write me here at the clinic in Mexico City. Please write soon.

Love, Sandy.

P.S. I’m learning Spanish. Mi amiga means “My friend.”

The October air was crisp and brilliant on the Saturday of the Adams Junior High Fall Carnival. Booths were set up throughout the halls of the school and on the Physical Education field. Dawn felt invigorated by the smell of the autumn afternoon and the general excitement of the day.

The trees were hung with the bright colors of fall-red, gold and mottled shades of brown and orange. A small midway attracted kids and families to roller coaster and Perris wheel rides. Dawn took her turn in the cheerleaders’ booth, selling tickets for the baseball pitch. It was the most popular booth at the Carnival.

The principal had agreed to sit above a tank of

water. A bull’s-eye meant a dunk in the chilling water below. Ticket buyers got three tries. Dawn was doing landslide business and the money that the booth earned would go toward uniforms and traveling expenses.

“I’ll take two dollars’ worth,” the boy’s voice said.

Dawn looked up at Jake Macka. Her heart did its now familiar staccato beat. “Only two dollars?” she teased.

“Hey, I don’t want to drown the man!” Jake countered.

Egged on by his friends, Jake scored four perfect pitches out of six. The shivering, water-soaked principal hauled himself out of the tank for the last time and held his hands up in a sign of surrender. “Mercy! Mercy!” he pleaded.

“You’re ruining our business,” Dawn told Jake with a chiding tone. “Now who’s going to take his place?”

“Not me!” Jake said, backing off from the group that surrounded him.

“Why not?” Todd called. “Chicken?”

Good-natured jeers and cheers caused Jake to finally surrender. He stripped off his shirt and sneakers and crawled up onto the platform above the water tank. A flurry of ticket buying followed. Dawn watched, giggling each time the baseball struck its mark.

In a half-hour, Jake was thoroughly soaked and he, too, abandoned the platform. Dawn

brought a towel to him.

He shivered. “T-Thanks,” he said and wrapped the towel around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” she told him. “You didn’t have to do that. But it raised a lot of money for us. Thanks for doing it.” She felt her cheeks flush slightly. Jake looked at her as if he might say something.

Self-consciously, Dawn reached up and touched her hair. It had grown longer and was fashioned in a cute pixy style, but she wished she had long hair right now. She knew Jake liked long hair.

“It was fun,” Jake told her with a shrug. Then he left with a group of his friends.

One week later, she got another letter from Sandy.

Dear Dawn, (Mi amiga).

I sure enjoyed your last letter. It must be fun to be in school and all. I sure hope you and Jake become special friends. If you like him more than Greg, then he must be something special! Stop thinking so much about him being normal and you being sick. You’re not sick! You’re in remission. I’m sick!

Just teasing. But I have been feeling poorly more and more. Dr. Sanchez is very kind. He gives me lots of support and I’m not scared anymore of what

might happen to me. At least I don’t hurt all the time. That pleases my daddy ‘cause he can’t stand to see me hurting.

Sometimes I don’t think I’m getting well. Sometimes I wish I was back with Dr. Sinclair. But I’m here and the days are so bright and sunny and nice. Say Buenos dias (Good day) to all your family for me. I’ll sign this off with more Spanish that I’ve learned. Buenos noches, mi amiga. Vaya con Dios. It means: Good night, my friend. Go with God.

Love, Sandy.

The doorbell rang and Dawn called from the crest of the stairs, “I’ll get it!” She bounded down the staircase from her bedroom and flung open the front door. A man in a uniform was standing on her porch.

“Telegram,” he said, holding out a clipboard and a yellow envelope. Suddenly, Dawn’s whole body began to shake. Who would send us a telegram? she wondered. She grew cold.

“Who is it?” her mom asked, walking to the open door from the kitchen. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and signed for the telegram. Grimly, she closed the door and stood looking at the envelope.

“Do you want me to open it?” she asked Dawn softly.

Dawn nodded, too numb to speak. Her heart hammered. The aroma of her mom’s baking apple pie filled the house.

The air stood still. The sound of the grandfather clock kept its rhythm. Her mom’s voice trembled as she read aloud:

“We lost our beloved Sandy yesterday, 10 A.M. Stop. She died peacefully—no pain. Stop. We’re flying her home to West Virginia for burial. Stop. Package for Dawn to follow. Stop. The Chandlers.”

Somehow Dawn made it up the stairs to her bedroom. She never remembered going. She only remembered being there. She only remembered sitting on her bed and staring into space. She remembered feeling cold, so cold.

“Honey,” her mother said, sitting next to her on her bed. “Dawn,” she said as she touched her daughter’s thin shoulder.

“She’s gone. Oh, Mom, Sandy’s really gone,” Dawn cried.

“She’ll never be gone, Honey,” her mom said, “not as long as you remember her. She’ll always live in your memory, in your heart.”

Dawn turned her eyes, still bright and stinging with prickly tears, toward her mother. “It hurts, Mom,” she whispered. “It hurts.” She looked up at her bedroom wall. The poster was still there, the poster Sandy had drawn. Mr. Ruggers sat valiantly astride his big white horse. Beneath his hooves, piles of attacking green globs snapped and snarled.

“All that they did to me in the hospital…” Dawn continued quietly. “All the needles and tests and hurting… None of it hurt like this.” The tears came then, a flood of tears. They were tears with big wracking sobs that shook her body, sobs from the core of her being, tears from the pit of her anguish.

Dawn’s mom held her crying daughter. Dawn cried for all the times she’d never cried, for all the pain, for all the children, for Sandy, Mike, and Greg and for herself, too. She cried until she gagged, until she felt like she would turn inside out. She was so empty, void and spent that she couldn’t move, and then she slept.

Dawn didn’t go to school for two days. She lay red-eyed and silent, alone in her room. She ate. She took her medications. She did all the mechanical things that her parents made her do. When Dr. Sinclair called her, she knew that her parents had called him about her. She told him she’d be all right.

“Your tests are good, Dawn,” he told her on the phone.

“I’m not worried about me,” she told him. “I know I’m in remission and I plan to stay in remission. Really, it’s okay.”

Her friends called. But she didn’t want to talk to any of them, yet. Some sent her cards in the mail. They all had known about her friend Sandy. They were all sorry. She got one mystery card. It had a picture of a Koala bear on the front with a

bandage across his forehead. Inside it read: “I can’t bear to see you hurt!” It was unsigned.

One week later the package came. Dawn opened it in her room alone with Mr. Ruggers looking down from his shelf. She tore off the paper and lifted the lid. A note rested on top. Mrs. Chandler’s flowing scroll had written:

Dear Dawn,

These are the special items that Sandy asked us to forward to you. She cared about you very much, often calling you her very best friend. Please keep in touch with us. We want to know when you make that five year mark. Do it for Sandy.

The Chandlers.

The first thing Dawn opened was the box of hair combs. She ran her fingers over all the brightly colored hair decorations and smiled inwardly. “I’ll grow my hair long again,” she said aloud.

Next, she lifted out a popcorn necklace. It looked slightly shriveled and the glitter flaked off in her hands. But it, too, caused her to smile. She remembered the day Sandy had made it.

She found the matchbox full of ashes from camp. A lump swelled in her throat. She’d put it with her own box and take them both to camp

with her next year. ‘I’ll write Mike,” she said in to the stillness of her room, as if someone besides Mr. Ruggers would hear her.

She found Mike’s picture in Sandy’s diary, marking one special page. It was dated the last night of camp in August.

Mike kissed me tonight. How wonderful it was! I’ve never been kissed like that! Wow! ‘Course only Dawn knows that I’ve only been kissed once before anyway! And she won’t tell. I can’t wait ‘til next summer. Then Mike and I can practice some more….

The letters began to squiggle and squirm before Dawn’s eyes. “I’ll have to read this later,” she said, sniffing hard against the threatening wave of nostalgic tears.

The last thing in the box was a page from the Bible. It had been torn out and marked up. But it was obvious that Sandy had read it many times.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;.

3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;.

4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;.

5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;.

6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;.

7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;.

8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

Dawn pondered the page for a long while. It was true. Sandy’s “season” was over. She’d gone home to God. The thought brought Dawn great comfort and made her more determined than ever to live her own “season” to its fullest. She shut the box and put it away on a shelf.

Cheerleading practice was over. Dawn slammed her locker shut and mopped her face with a tissue. It had been a hard workout.

“Want to go over to the Video Shak?” Jill asked. “Kathy, Rhonda, and I are going to get a soda. Boy! Am I whipped!”

“You go on ahead,” Dawn told them, spinning the dial on her combination lock. “I’ll catch up. I have a few things to do.”

“All right,” Jill said. “We’ll meet you there. Hurry!”

Dawn watched the trio of chattering girls head off down the hall. She’d meet up with them later. She glanced down the deserted hall, lingering

casually, waiting for the football team to crash through the gym doors. Their practice was over. Jake might pass her way any minute.

Dawn clutched her hooks to her chest and tried to look preoccupied. But it was hard to do in an empty hall. She grew nervous. He 11 know you hung around waiting! she chided herself. Who do you think you’re kidding, Rochelle?

Finally, after a short internal war, she decided to try and catch her friends and quickly left the hallway. Outside, the blustery November wind blew cold and shivery in her face. She’d forgotten her sweater in her locker. “Great,” she moaned privately.

Overhead, gray clouds scudded across the sky and bare tree branches scraped against each other. Dawn hurried, but she couldn’t see her friends in the distance. Now she’d have to walk alone. Waiting for Jake

dumb idea, she chastised herself.

“Hey, Dawn! Wait up!” Jake’s voice called to her. She stopped dead in her tracks and spun, her heart pounding. She managed a feeble smile, hoping that she looked more casual than she felt.

“Where’re you going?” he asked. The wind blew his dark, freshly washed hair over his forehead. She wanted to reach up and flip it away with her fingers.

“To the Video Shak,” she said.

“Me, too,” he told her after a brief pause. “Can

I walk there with you?” He smiled.

She nodded, and he fell into step beside her. They scuffled along through the dead leaves in awkward silence.

“I-uh, I’m sorry about your friend,” he said.

She shrugged. “A lot of kids are cured,” she said, then felt stupid for saying it.

“Yeah,” he said. “I did some reading about it.” Dawn shivered. “You’re cold!” he added. It was a statement, not a question.

“I forgot my sweater in my locker,” she said.

He stopped, dropped his books to the ground and pulled off his jacket. He draped it over her shoulders. She snuggled against it. It was still warm from his body and smelled faintly of soap and shampoo. He laughed. “It’s about four sizes too big,” he said.

Her cheeks flushed. “Thanks,” she said. “It’s nice and warm.”

Jake bent, scooped up his books and they resumed walking to the Video Shak. “It’s the season,” he said.

“What?” she asked, with a slight gasp.

“The season,” he explained, startled by her response. “You know, the season for Thanksgiving, the season for Christmas, the season for snow.” He laughed slightly and admitted, “Hike the snow. I like ice skating and snowball fights, you know, dumb stuff.”

Dawn smiled at him and nodded. “I like snow,

too,” she said. “And you’re right. It is the season.”