Authors: Megan Squires
“That’s their jeep!” A girl with tight blonde
curls races toward the bay window, her hair bouncing along her delicate
shoulders hidden under her boyfriend’s letterman jacket. “Mikey’s home!”
Bodies rush past me, the loud thudding of
linemen, running backs, and tight ends racing through the entry and out onto
the driveway. I steady myself with one hand on the counter and the other on the
broom, ignoring the throbbing ache that flashes through my leg. Gritting my teeth,
I reach for the two metal crutches leaning against the wall and tuck them under
my arms.
Mikey’s already in the foyer by the time I
round the corner, seated in a familiar, blue hospital wheelchair. His head is
bandaged, his eyes are wet, and the smile he wears draws my heart up into my
mouth.
“Sorry I missed the party,” he jokes, taking
inventory of our thrashed house. There are red Solo cups lining the tables,
jackets and sweatshirts strewn about the room, and piles of hair littering the
kitchen floor. It’s a total disaster zone. “Looks like I missed out on all the
fun.”
“The fun is just beginning!” Josh boasts. His
head is half-shaved, while the other portion still has his red curls clinging
to their roots. “I’ll let you do the honors of finishing this up.” He thrusts
the razor Mikey’s direction.
“Nice.” Mikey smiles again. My chest burns and
my eyebrows feel painfully tight. I shake my head, hoping the anguish on my
face isn’t as evident as it feels. “Gimme a sec, though. I seriously gotta
pee.”
Eric takes the handles of Mikey’s wheelchair
and swivels him around toward the dimly-lit hallway. “I’ll help you man. We’ll
be right back.”
Shifting my weight, I lean up against the back
of the couch at the same time Dad walks through the still-open front door,
sheets of paper in one hand, and a plastic hospital bag containing Mikey’s
personal belongings in the other.
“Let me give you a hand with that, Dad.” I
fumble with the crutches.
He shakes his head. “Nope, Mags. I’ve got it
just fine.” Pushing the door back into its frame behind him, Dad’s gaze finally
sweeps across the destruction that is his house.
Any other parent would launch into a tirade of
scolding, disciplining, and ultimate dismissal of the rowdy teenagers from his
home, but Dad’s never been like that. He’s always quick to forgive, to listen
to any excuses (no matter how fabricated they might be), and to give everyone
the benefit of the doubt.
Maybe that’s what made me hate her so
much—what sucked away any ounce of forgiveness I might have had deep in
my heart for my mother. That she could do what she did to a man as selfless as
my dad made the thought of ever forgiving her—of ever reconciling with
her—unimaginable. It’s one thing to cheat on a lying jerk; it’s another
to leave a family and a man that have done nothing but remain steadfastly loyal
throughout years of invisible deceit. In my eyes, my dad is a saint.
“Did you guys find the soda out in the garage
fridge? I stocked it fully just last night.”
Sadie stretches out a hand to my dad and takes
the bag of Mikey’s things from him. “Yes, Craig. Thank you for doing that.” She
bats her eyes. “Eric’s got a Shirley Temple already made with your name on it.”
“My favorite,” Dad says, flashing Sadie a wink.
“Looks like I’m one of the only ones left?” A few of Mikey’s teammates cheer,
and Josh gives my dad a fist bump and squeezes his shoulders as Dad slides onto
the barstool. “So which one of you has the steadiest hand? I think I want to
Bic it.”
The girl with the blonde curls rises up. “I’ll
do it. My mom’s a hairdresser, and I wouldn’t trust any of these guys with an
actual razor near your scalp.”
“Hey, come on,” Josh chuckles. “You could end
up with one manly scar.”
“Not as manly as mine, Dad.” The room falls
instantly silent. Mikey and Eric have returned from the bathroom break, joining
the rest of us in the kitchen. No one speaks, but I can audibly hear a few guys
breathing loudly over my shoulder. Mikey shifts his gaze from teammate to
teammate. “Seriously?” he asks, slightly annoyed. “I’m not allowed to joke
about it?”
“Mikey—” Sadie begins, pressing her palm
to his arm protectively.
“No, I’m serious. Have you
seen
my scar? It’s pretty damn impressive.”
I roll my eyes. “Not nearly as impressive as
mine, Mikey. I bet I’ve got three inches on yours.”
“Is that so?” Mikey’s long fingers coil the bar
on the wheels of his chair, and he spins around quickly with notable skill. “I
think we should let the tape measure be the judge of that.”
***
“Dude, she was right.” Eric snaps the metal
tape back into the place. “Hers is almost two inches longer.”
“But they just patched up your
leg
,” Mikey teases, rocking back on two
wheels so they squeal against the hardwood surface from the friction. It’s
seriously impressive how much control he has over his new chair. Not surprising
though; Mikey has always been incredibly strong and athletic. “They patched up
my
brain
.”
“I doubt they had much trouble doing that,
Mikey.” I throw him a mocking glare. “Because they really didn’t have much to
work around in that empty shell.”
Mikey clasps his heart and feigns injury. “Low
blow, Sis.”
“Seriously,” Josh mumbles around a mouthful of
chips. His head is still half-shaved, half-f of hair. I wouldn’t be
surprised if he keeps it like this; it sort of fits his oddball personality.
“That one was below the belt, Mags.”
“Is that what you used to tourniquet your leg?”
The blonde, whose name I discovered is apparently Layla, slides into Eric’s
arms now that he’s seated on the leather couch across from us. They’re a cute
couple, so much so it’s almost unbearable. And their entire student body
obviously agrees since they were voted homecoming king and queen last month.
“Did you use a belt to stop the bleeding during your accident?”
“No.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek. “I
didn’t do anything. The paramedics stabilized me.”
I didn’t do anything. I just dangled there, motionless. Clueless.
My face suddenly feels hot.
“I heard you lost like a third of your blood. A
few more minutes and you could have bled out.” I don’t know who says it; I
can’t see past the water pooling into the corners of my eyes. I clench them
shut to draw back any tears that might have the chance to spill.
“The femoral artery is not one you want to mess
with.” Dad strides into the room, his mouth pursed on a red and white striped
straw as he takes another swig of his Shirley Temple. His newly bald head
shines under the overhead light. “And Maggie’s was cut pretty deep. I’m so
grateful for the paramedics that were already at the light when the accident occurred.”
At the light? I shake my head. Does that mean
they were there before it all happened? That they saw the accident take place?
“Okay, I hate to be rude,” Mikey begins, “but
I’m feeling a little slighted over here. So what? Maggie almost bled out. I had
a freaking tumor in my head, people!”
“Fine,” I shrug my shoulders and smile widely.
“You win.”
“Damn right, I win.” Mikey high fives Eric over
the top of Layla and he lifts his head with a swift, cocky nod.
And I hope he does win. Because right now,
winning for Mikey means so much more than it ever could for me.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Maggie?”
I turn over in my bed. A thick blanket of
darkness swallows up my entire bedroom and my vision, like an opaque veil
covering my eyes. I fumble for a clock on the nightstand, but nearly every
possession I own is back in my dorm room in Davis. I rub the sleep from my eyes
with the back of my hand and blink away the haze.
“Maggie?” This time there is a knock that
follows the hushed whisper. “Mags, can I come in?”
I push up in my bed. It’s gotten easier to do
that this past week. Collin has really been working me hard, and while his name
has become more of a curse word for me than anything else, I’m so glad to have
him in my corner, cheering me on. Forcing me to do things that I didn’t realize
I had the strength to do.
“Yeah, Mikey.” My words crack with fatigue.
“What is it?”
Mikey pushes the door open slightly and it
squeals on its hinges. Dad said he was going to oil that, but now that I only
use this room when I’m visiting, I think the task been placed on the
backburner. Dad’s a man with a lot on his plate right now. Squeaky doors should
not take priority.
“I need to take advantage of your ability to
handle ‘all things gross’ right about now.” He’s carrying the yellow Tupperware
that we typically use as our popcorn bowl on family movie night. But I’m pretty
certain there’s not popcorn inside it this time. None of that familiar, buttery
smell that makes my mouth water. “You prepared for this one?”
“Not sure,” I say, rubbing my eyes once more.
He slides onto the bed next to me and the pungent odor assaults my senses
before I can even see what’s in the bowl. “Is that what I think it is?”
He pushes the bucket under my face.
“Damn, Mikey! Did you eat straight ketchup for
dinner?” The bowl is filled halfway with vomit, but it’s not the color I would
expect to see. Not that I spend my time staring at puke often, but this doesn’t
look normal.
Mikey’s eyes are bloodshot and his face holds a
ghostly white pallor. That I can see clearly, even in the pitch black of my
room. “I’ve been throwing up for the past three hours. This is the most
recent.”
“Thank you for sharing,” I groan, covering my
mouth and nose with my palm, grateful for the perfume I’d splashed on my wrists
this morning because it masks the bitter smell.
“Does that look like blood to you?”
I groan again and venture another look into the
bowl. “Yeah. It kinda does.”
“This round sucks, Maggie.”
Mikey’s doctor started him on chemo a week ago,
noting that though it’s not always routine procedure for brain tumors, he felt
confident this was the right treatment plan for Mikey’s specific type of
cancer. They would start with chemotherapy first, and then follow up with
radiation if they saw it fit. Mikey wasn’t too thrilled with the list of side
effects presented, especially when his doctor noted that nausea and vomiting
were likely to occur because chemo has a direct effect on the vomiting center
in the brain. Based on the contents of the bowl in front of me, it looks like
Mikey is in the throws of experiencing that unwanted side effect firsthand.
“Oh Mikey.” I try to pull the bowl from him,
but he tugs it back at the last minute and retches into it with force that
doubles him over completely. I steady the bowl with one hand and rub his back
with the other as he continues to gag and spit into it, moaning with each dry
heave. I feel the damp moisture of sweat beading through the fabric of his
shirt. When he lifts his head up, his eyes are wet and a line of red streaks
down his left nostril to the top of his upper lip.
“Oh God, Mikey,” I gasp. He wipes his face with
the heel of his hand, and his eyes widen until there’s nothing but white
circling all the way around his hazel irises. His fingers are coated in thick,
crimson blood. “I’m calling 911, Mikey.”
He nods, then collapses onto my bed.
***
“How long has he been vomiting?” Trav stands in
the doorway to my bedroom. Ran and another paramedic have Mikey on a stretcher
next to the bed and are checking his vital signs. At least that’s what I assume
they’re doing. I honestly know next to nothing about medical procedures, only
what I’ve gleaned from unrealistic TV dramas.
“Um.” I dig my hands into the pockets of my
hooded sweatshirt and fiddle with the loose fuzz that coats the inside of it.
“He said three hours? He had another round of chemo this morning.”
“And the blood. When did that start?”
I shake my head and it induces a shudder that I
try to mask, but I’m sure Trav sees it. “I don’t know. I think right before he
came in my room.”
“Alright.” Trav nods his head. I don’t remember
actually seeing him last month during the accident, just being aware of his
presence in the ambulance and his assistance in getting me to the hospital.
He’s mildly good looking with a mop full of auburn curls that rivals the tight
ringlets of a poodle. But his dimpled grin is what stands out. It’s a
reassuring, friendly smile that you’d want to see in an emergency situation, so
he’s definitely the right man for the job.
“He’s going to be fine. Most likely just an
esophageal tear.”
“He has cancer.”
Trav places a steadying hand on my shoulder and
I’m certain this is something he does with all of the people he treats.
Something about him feels like a friend. “Right,” he says, “I know. And there
are many things to worry about with that. But this is not one of them. He’s
going to be fine, Maggie.”
Ran and the other paramedic roll the stretcher
toward us, and we both step back from the bedroom doorway to allow for easier
passage. Ran has his grip on the bed while the other guy holds a plastic bag
with a circular ring at the top up to Mikey’s mouth. I clench my teeth and hum
quietly to drown out the retching noise that continues to pour from Mikey. It
doesn’t really work, but it’s all I can think to do.