Читать книгу Maybe One Day - Melissa Kantor - Страница 14

My mom had been right—the main entrance to the hospital was just around the corner. I felt guilty for abandoning her and waited a minute, thinking maybe she’d be right behind me. But she wasn’t, and I couldn’t take standing there. I pushed through the revolving glass door and crossed the lobby, my sandals silent on the white marble floor. There was a sign next to an enormous desk directing visitors to show their ID. I’d left my wallet in the house not thinking I’d need it, but luckily the security guard didn’t ask me for anything except Olivia’s name. He looked her up in a computer and waved me to a bank of elevators off to the right. On the black-and-white visitor’s sticker he’d written ROOM 1238 in blue Sharpie.

When the elevator doors opened on the twelfth floor, I found myself looking at a dark gray sign that read PEDIATRIC ONCOLOGY.

Oncology. The word was like a punch. Oncology. Leukemia was cancer.

Olivia had cancer.

As I stepped out of the elevator, a little boy, maybe three or four, walked toward me down the hallway. He had no hair, and he was holding a stuffed animal, chatting with a woman who looked like she was probably his grandmother. The woman asked him a question and he said, “Of course!” and she laughed.

He has cancer. That little boy has cancer.

They walked by. Had Olivia seen the boy? I wanted Olivia not to have seen him. I had some idea it would be upsetting to her to have seen a little boy with cancer. But of course Livvie had cancer, so maybe seeing a kid with cancer wouldn’t upset her. How can kids get cancer? That is so completely screwed up. I could feel myself getting mad, not at God—who I don’t believe in—but at people who believe in God. Because what kind of a fucked-up God would make a world where kids can get cancer? I headed down the hall in the opposite direction from the boy, but the numbers were going down, not up. The mad feeling was feeding on the tight feeling, and I was actually having trouble catching my breath. I turned around. The boy and his grandmother were gone. I half walked, half ran along the hall back the way I’d come, until I got to room 1238. Next to the room number, a piece of paper had the handwritten words Olivia Greco.

I pushed on the door. It was big and heavy-looking, and I shoved it hard, expecting a lot of resistance, but it shot open. “Sorry,” I said by way of greeting, as everyone in the room jumped at the sound of the door slamming open.

The room was small, maybe half the size of Olivia’s room at home. Livvie, wearing a blue hospital gown and a pair of blue sock-like booties, was sitting on the bed with her mom. Her dad was sitting in a pinkish pleather chair next to the bed, and Jake was sitting on the radiator under the window. There was a gorgeous view of the Hudson River, which looked in the afternoon sun as if someone had painted the surface of the water a vivid, almost neon, orange.

Guess what, kids! The bad news is: You have cancer. But hey, check out these views!

Olivia was pale, like maybe she still had a fever. But except for that and the IV disappearing into the sleeve of her hospital gown, she looked exactly the way she’d looked when I’d left her Sunday morning after our sleepover.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she said.

I felt relieved to be seeing her but also strangely shy. I wasn’t sure if it was okay to go over and sit with her. Not that there was enough room on the bed for me, Olivia, and her mom. And not like I could ask her mom to get off. Unsure of what to do, I just hovered near the door.

“Hi, Zoe,” said Mrs. Greco, giving me a sad smile. “You were so good to come right over.”

Olivia’s mom was always dressed beautifully. She didn’t work, but she did a lot of volunteer stuff—raising money for a wildlife sanctuary near us, serving on the school board. I could picture her getting dressed this morning. She’d chosen a white blouse and pale yellow suit. She’d slipped a string of pearls around her neck and snapped the clasp. Before her committee meeting or her charity lunch, she’d be taking Olivia to the doctor. Brushing her bobbed blond hair, she’d expected to hear her daughter had strep throat or maybe a virus. Nothing out of the ordinary. As she’d slid her feet into her beige suede pumps, could she possibly have imagined that before the day was over, she’d be wearing them while sitting on her daughter’s hospital bed?

“Hey,” said Jake. He came over and gave me a hug.

“Hi,” I said. He was wearing his football uniform, and he looked pale, paler even than Olivia. His pallor inspired an insane fantasy—that Jake was the one who was sick. Without even meaning to, I conjured up the phone call from Olivia that could have been. I have terrible news. My brother has leukemia. I pictured coming to the hospital to see Jake or one of the twins, and as I did, I felt my heart leap with joy. Then I felt awful. I was wishing sickness on a healthy person. But no, it wasn’t like that. This was a trade. A sick person for another sick person. A different sick person. An eye for an eye.

An eye for an eye? Was that even what that saying meant?

And since when did I quote the Bible?

Livvie patted a spot on the bed, but before I could move toward it, her mom stood up, clearly preparing to block my approach. “Zoe, can you clean your hands very carefully?” She nodded at the Purell dispenser on the wall.

I quickly crossed to it and doused my hands, rubbing the Purell in even when it stung my finger where I’d ripped off part of the nail. Then I went over and sat next to Livvie, who shifted to make room for me. I put my arm around her, letting my shoes hang off the edge of the bed, and she laid her head on my shoulder. I wanted to say something. Anything. But everything I thought of saying sounded completely stupid and awful. Of all the bizarre things that had happened today, my being tongue-tied around Olivia might have been the strangest.

“Well, this completely sucks,” she said finally, and then we laughed. The laughter felt a little bit hollow and a little bit forced. Still, it felt good to be sitting next to Olivia and laughing. It felt normal. Olivia looked normal. She sounded normal. Everything about this moment was totally normal.

Except that it wasn’t.

“You are going to be fine,” said Livvie’s mom, patting Olivia’s hand.

“My mom keeps saying that,” Olivia whispered, loud enough for her mother to hear.

Her mother smiled and kept patting. “Because it’s true,” she said.

“Okay,” said Livvie. There was a little frustration in her voice but none of the venom that had been in mine when I was screaming at my mother earlier. Even with cancer, Olivia was a nicer person than I was.

“How are you feeling?” I asked. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel …” She considered the question carefully, then turned her head to face me. “I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Like none of this can really be happening.” Her voice shook a little bit on the word happening.

I squeezed her shoulders, worrying after I did it that I’d somehow mess up her IV.

The door opened less dramatically than it had when I’d entered. I expected it to be my mom, or maybe one of Olivia’s grandparents, but instead Calvin Taylor walked in. He was also in his football uniform. His hair was messy and there was a long scrape on his forearm. In his hands was a cardboard tray with four cups of Starbucks coffee.

“Piping hot,” he said to the room. Then he went over to Olivia’s dad and handed him one of the cups. Without getting off his phone, Mr. Greco nodded his thanks.

“You were so sweet to run out and get these,” said Mrs. Greco as she took a cup from him. “And after you drove Jake all the way here.”

“I didn’t mind,” he said. “Really.” Then he looked at Olivia. “Sure you don’t want one?” He touched her foot gently and smiled at her.

She shook her head. “No, thanks.” I glanced at her, but there was no obvious response to Calvin’s being in her hospital room or touching her.

He thrust his chin vaguely in my direction by way of greeting, then went over to where Jake was sitting and stood beside him. “Hey, man,” he said, handing him one of the two remaining cups. Jake said something to him, and Calvin said, “Sorry,” quietly, and went over to the Purell dispenser.

What was Calvin Taylor doing leaving football practice to drive Jake into the city and go on a coffee run for the Grecos? He wasn’t part of the family. Not that I was part of the family, but I was pretty damned close. Calvin had only lived in Wamasset for a few years. I’d known Olivia for more than a decade.

I felt irritated that the Grecos were asking Calvin to help out and then irritated at myself for being irritated. The Grecos needed support now. If Calvin offered Jake—or any of them, really—that support, I should be happy to see him in Olivia’s hospital room.

Still, I wasn’t. And it wasn’t just because he’d teased me about Jackson. There was something about Calvin—the way every girl at school drooled over him, the way the school newspaper ran his picture on the sports page every five seconds, the way he was too important to bother to acknowledge me. Even his whole I’m-so-helpful-let-me-be-your-chauffeur-and-delivery-boy routine, which the Grecos were clearly falling for, rubbed me the wrong way.

Was I the only one who could see that he was a self-satisfied ass?

The door opened again. This time my mom walked in. “Hi, guys,” she said quietly, and then she used the Purell dispenser. I was surprised that she knew she had to do that.

Olivia’s mom stood up and went over to my mom. They hugged and then started talking quietly, too quietly for me to hear what they were saying. Over by the window, Calvin and Jake talked. Olivia’s dad typed on his BlackBerry. Even though there were almost half a dozen people in the room with us, I felt like we were suddenly alone together.

Olivia must have felt the same way because when she started talking, it was clear that she was talking just to me. “I really think I’m going to be okay,” she said. Her eyes had purplish circles under them. How long had they been there? How had I not noticed? “I was freaking out before, but … I don’t know, I just sense that I’m going to be okay.”

Immediately I said, “Of course you’re going to be okay.” Then I regretted saying it. I hoped I didn’t sound too much like her mom.

The door to the room opened again, and this time a woman in a white lab coat came in. She was short, with gray streaks in her brown curly hair.

“Hello!” She gave a wave to the room, then pressed the Purell dispenser and rubbed her hands together. “I’m glad to see Olivia has so much company.”

“We don’t want to tire her out, Dr. Maxwell,” said Mrs. Greco quickly.

“If you think it’s better for everyone to go, we’ll send them all home,” said Mr. Greco, getting to his feet.

The way Mr. Greco—who was a big partner at his law firm and who talked to pretty much everybody as if they were his employees—spoke to Dr. Maxwell, I could tell she was important.

Dr. Maxwell smiled at Olivia. “Are you tired?”

Olivia gave a little shrug. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” Her round tortoiseshell glasses caught the light and made it seem as if her eyes were sparkling. Under her lab coat she had on a pretty silk blouse. She came over to the bed. “You must be Zoe,” she said, and when I nodded, she went on. “Olivia told me about you. She’s really going to need her friends right now.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, like, Just to be clear, having cancer is not something good.

“Of course,” I said.

Dr. Maxwell slipped up the sleeve of Olivia’s hospital gown, checked something on Olivia’s chest briefly, then nodded. “It all looks good.” She glanced over her shoulder at the IV line hanging from the pole. “How are you feeling? Are you nauseated?” Her tone was the same as it had been when she’d told me Olivia would need her friends, and I started to get the sense she was just matter-of-fact about everything.

Olivia shook her head. “Not yet. I have a funny taste in my mouth.” Livvie ran her tongue along her teeth and made a face. “It’s weird.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t help you with that, but if it’s making you nauseous, let me know. Like I said before, it’s hard to get the horse back in the barn once he’s out.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, but Olivia must have because she nodded. Dr. Maxwell looked around the room. “Everything seems okay for now,” she said. “Olivia’s off to a good start.”

I hadn’t noticed how quiet the room had gotten while Dr. Maxwell was examining Olivia, but as soon as she gave her assessment, the buzz of conversation that started up again made me feel the silence her presence had generated. It reminded me of how it had been in a dance class when Martin Hicks, the NYBC director, would pay one of his occasional visits. You didn’t realize how tightly you’d been holding everything in—how high you’d been lifting your leg, how far you’d extended your arms—until he left and you felt the collective tension seep out of the room as everyone literally gave a sigh of relief.

Now people went back to their conversations. Dr. Maxwell stood next to the bed. “So,” she said, “Olivia and her family and I had a long talk earlier, but she asked me to come back and explain some things about her illness to you.”

I looked at Olivia. “Really? You wanted her to explain everything to me, too?”

Livvie nodded. I loved her so much right at that instant I almost cried.

“Now, what do you know about leukemia?” asked Dr. Maxwell.

“It’s got something to do with Olivia’s blood,” I answered, purposely not using the word cancer.

“Good,” said Dr. Maxwell, and even though we were talking about a deadly disease that my best friend had, I felt glad to have gotten the answer right. “It does have to do with blood. Specifically, it’s a cancer of the blood.”

“Actually, I was trying to avoid the c word,” I explained.

Olivia laughed, and even Dr. Maxwell cracked a smile. “We use the c word a lot around here,” Dr. Maxwell assured me. “Now, there are different types of leukemia. Most children and teens get something called acute lymphoblastic leukemia, or ALL. Olivia has acute myeloid leukemia, or AML. It’s a cancer more commonly associated with males in their sixties.”

Livvie turned to me. “I have old-man cancer. Isn’t that so humiliating?”

“It is, actually. But I won’t tell anyone,” I promised.

Dr. Maxwell was shaking her head. I couldn’t tell if she was amused or irritated by the way we were talking. “In a healthy person,” she went on, “blood is formed inside the soft, spongy part of the big bones in your body, such as your femur. You know what your femur is?” I nodded. Our first year at NYBC, a girl in our class had had a skiing accident and broken her femur. I still remembered when one of the worst dancers in our class had pulled us aside to tell us about the accident. She may never dance again. Her face had been bright pink with the drama of the moment.

“Your femur’s here.” I hit my thigh as I said it.

“Correct,” Dr. Maxwell said. “So blood is born—formed—in the bone marrow. There, immature cells called blasts grow into mature blood cells: white blood cells, red blood cells, or platelets. Think of bone marrow as a school. Or a house. The kids grow up, learn a trade, then leave home and go to work at a job.

“But leukemia stops blood cells from doing that. In a person with AML, instead of making normal blasts, which grow into normal blood cells, the bone marrow starts making cancerous cells. They divide quickly and uncontrollably. They don’t do their jobs. And they fill up the bone marrow so that there’s no room for normal, healthy cells to be made or to grow. The immature cells are strong and hard to kill. They’re like child soldiers.”

Dr. Maxwell pointed behind her at the IV bag hanging on the pole beside Olivia’s bed. “The drugs we’re giving Olivia right now are drugs that target rapidly dividing cells, such as myeloblasts.”

“And hair,” Olivia said. Her voice was quieter than it had been. I patted her arm, not sure what else to do.

“And hair,” Dr. Maxwell said, and now I was grateful for how matter-of-fact she was about everything. “Because chemotherapy targets all rapidly dividing cells, it unfortunately doesn’t only get cancer cells.”

I’d always wondered why people with cancer lost their hair. “Why can’t they invent drugs that target rapidly dividing sick cells only?” I asked.

“Well, we’re working on it,” Dr. Maxwell said. She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “I promise you. We’re all working on it.”

I couldn’t take Dr. Maxwell’s being so nice. It made me want to cry. Instead I asked, “Will she get sick? I mean, will she throw up?” Livvie made a face. She hated throwing up. Not that anyone likes it, but Livvie really really hated it.

“She may experience nausea and vomiting,” Dr. Maxwell said. “Chemotherapy triggers a chemical response in the brain that makes some people sick to their stomach. But the good news is we have a lot of drugs to make Olivia comfortable. Hopefully she’ll only have very mild side effects.”

“That’s kind of lame good news, Dr. Maxwell,” said Olivia.

“It is,” Dr. Maxwell agreed, and she stroked Olivia’s forehead gently. I’d never seen a doctor do something like that.

“When can she come home?” I asked. If she was home by Friday, I could spend the weekend at her house with her. We could watch distracting movies all day.

Dr. Maxwell’s voice was businesslike. “Three to four weeks.”

Three to four weeks? I tried to keep my voice neutral. “I thought … I thought maybe she’d be home this weekend.”

Dr. Maxwell shook her head. “The chemotherapy itself only lasts for about a week, but it destroys so many blood cells that a person is very vulnerable to infection. We keep her here until her blood counts go up.”

My head spun. How could Livvie be in the hospital for an entire month?

They were both staring at me. I had to say something, but my panic had parched my lips and my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. “Well …” I cleared my throat, hoping to make my voice more normal. “And then … that’s it, right? She’s done?”

Livvie shook her head. “That’s just the first round. Then I have to do it three more times.”

“Three more times?” It came out like a wail, which I immediately regretted.

My response triggered something in Livvie, who suddenly looked distraught. “And I might not be able to go to school between treatments at all.”

“Wait, you’re going to miss months of school? I—” I bit my tongue. Literally. Because here’s what your best friend doesn’t need to hear you say when she’s just found out she has cancer: I can’t deal with that.

“This is a lot to take all at once, I know,” said Dr. Maxwell. She furrowed her forehead in a way that somehow managed to be concerned and not pitying. “And it’s not the last time you’ll be able to ask me questions.” Dr. Maxwell put her hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, but if something comes up during the night, they’ll page me.”

“Okay,” said Olivia. “Thanks, Dr. Maxwell.”

“Yes,” I said, trying to capture an optimistic tone. “Thanks for explaining all of this to me.”

She smiled at me. “Olivia is very lucky to have a friend like you.”

Dr. Maxwell said good-bye to everyone, and when the door had closed behind her, Mrs. Greco clapped her hands together once. “Now I’m sending everyone home. Our girl needs to get her rest.”

I was surprised that Olivia didn’t object, but when I looked at her face, she seemed tired, and I thought maybe she was relieved that everyone was leaving.

My mom came over and gave Olivia a long hug, then touched me lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Calvin and Jake said good-bye. When Calvin was hugging Livvie, she gave me a little wink and a thumbs-up behind his back, and I actually laughed.

I got off the bed and stood over Olivia. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she looked somehow frailer than she had when I’d first walked in, as if she’d gotten smaller over the past thirty minutes.

Not wanting her to read my thoughts, I bent down and hugged her. She squeezed me back. There was nothing frail about her hug, and the strength in her arms made me feel better.

“This is going to be okay,” I whispered into her shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.” She gave a tiny squeak, and I could tell from the way her body shook that she was crying. It was hard to believe that just a minute ago she’d given me the thumbs-up about Calvin Taylor’s hugging her.

Remembering how my getting upset earlier had made her get upset, I forced myself not to cry as I pulled away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, ’kay?”

“Thanks, Zoe,” she said. She wiped the tears off her cheeks, and no new ones fell. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Liv.”

The whole way home, my mom talked. She talked about how Mrs. Greco was going to arrange for Olivia to Skype her classes. She talked about how the doctors felt there was every reason to be optimistic. She talked about how Olivia was getting the best medical treatment there was. She told me she’d called my dad, who was on his way home. Every once in a while, she turned to me and patted me on the knee or stroked my hair.

“You okay, honey?” she asked about twenty times.

“I’m … yeah. I’m okay,” I said each time. I couldn’t find the words to describe the tight feeling that had disappeared for a little while when I was with Olivia but had come back again now that we were in the car. Months. She was going to be out of school for months. She had to go through round after round of chemotherapy. My mind danced from one detail to another, skittishly skimming the surface of the situation. I would picture Dr. Maxwell’s glasses, then the dark circles under Olivia’s eyes. I felt Olivia’s shoulders shaking as I hugged her. I lowered my window all the way, hoping the chilly night air would focus my thoughts, but it did nothing except make my face cold.

Since I’d gotten my permit, every time we got in the car I begged my mom to let me drive, but even if we hadn’t been driving in Manhattan (where out-of-state residents can’t drive until they’re eighteen), I was way too distracted to even contemplate operating a motor vehicle. I kept thinking about how on the way to school I’d been pissed because on B days after lunch I have history, then physics, and then math. And I’d thought, I hope Livvie’s in school, because if she’s not, this day is going to suck even worse than it will if she’s not in school, which is a lot.

If you’d asked me on my walk that morning to list ten things I was worried about, I would have started with a pop quiz in history, because I’d only kind of done the reading. If you’d asked me to come up with ten more things, chances are global warming might have made it onto the list. And if you’d asked me to list another ten, I might have added something about bioterrorism, because sometimes when it was late at night and I couldn’t sleep, I worried about how my parents and I would get out of New Jersey if there were a terrorist attack.

But no matter how many multiples of ten you’d added, I just don’t think I’m worried that Olivia has cancer would have made it onto one of my lists. Because there are some things you worry about. And then there are some things you don’t worry about.

You don’t worry about them because they’re too awful to contemplate worrying about.

We pulled up into the driveway. I followed my mom up the stairs to the front porch and waited while she fished for her keys. She opened the door and flipped on the light. From the kitchen came a whimper.

“Oh my God,” my mom whispered. “We forgot all about Flavia.”

She raced into the kitchen, and I followed her. Flavia was lying on the floor, his paw covering his face as if he were ashamed. A few feet away was a small puddle of pee.

It was my job to give Flavia his afternoon walk. I pictured him waiting for me to get home from school, imagined how confused he must have been when I raced into the house and then raced out again, taking my mom with me instead of him.

I went over and dropped to the floor. “I’m so sorry, Flavia,” I said, putting my arms around him. “I’m so sorry.” For a second he seemed to resist my hug, and then he gave a little sigh and rested his head on my lap as if to say, I understand. I forgive you.

“I just forgot. Livvie’s sick, and I just forgot.” Flavia blinked at me. The last time I’d walked him, I’d gone over to Olivia’s house after. She hadn’t been sick then. Except she had been. I pictured her bone marrow, full of terrifying child soldiers, the kind that were sometimes featured on the front page of the New York Times, with their dead eyes and their automatic weapons. They’d been hiding out inside her, their numbers growing for weeks. Months. Maybe years? We were driving in and out of Manhattan and dancing and planning our glamorous futures, and all that time, an enemy deep in Olivia’s DNA was plotting and waiting and getting ready to strike.

“She’s okay, Flavia,” I said. “She’s going to be okay. Really. She is. You don’t need to worry, Flavia. She’s going to be fine.” And then I wrapped my arms around his body and the tight feeling inside me burst and I cried and cried into his soft, warm fur.