I'm Not Her (16 page)

My heart flutters at the gesture and I wish my sister would give Gee a chance. She seems genuine. I open my mouth, about to tell her maybe I’ll try slipping her in the house, but then the bell rings. She reaches into her purse and hands me an envelope.

“It’s a note. Will you give it to Tee for me?”

I watch as she tears off down the hall toward her class, wondering how she’ll deal with the news about Kristina’s leg.

***

“Kristina wants to talk to you. Alone,” Mom says as soon as I walk into the hospital room after school. Her eyes are bloodshot and I’m not sure if it’s from exhaustion or a hangover.

I feel her pain. My day sucked too. Mom leaves and I walk over to Kristina’s bed. She’s tiny and broken-looking in her wrinkly blue gown.

“My operation is tomorrow morning,” Kristina says. “Seven a.m.”

I bite down on my lip hard to keep from leaking.

“I need something from you,” she says.

I pull up a chair to her bed as, in a robotic voice, she explains to me that she’s not handling things well. Her voice quivers and her hands shake.

“Who would be handling it well?” I ask.

“I talked to my doctor and she suggested sedating me before the operation. I don’t think I can get through without it.”

I chew on my thumb and nod.

“I’m barely hanging on. I need you to talk to Mom. So she knows and doesn’t freak out when she finds out. I have to do it this way. To cope.”

I don’t remind her how opposed Mom is to extra medication. We both know what her reaction will be. But what Kristina doesn’t know is that Mommy dear has been doing a different kind of medicating all her own.

And I won’t let her make it harder for Kristina. I’ll fight for her if I have to.

Mom makes Dad stay with Kristina at the hospital and asks me to go home with her for a short break. We don’t speak in the car, and at home I retreat to my room to go over my artwork, trying not to think about the operation. Mom goes to Kristina’s room to pick out some stuff to take to the hospital. After a few minutes, she strolls into my room and sits down on the edge of my bed. She glances around at the heap of clothes on my floor, the dirty dishes on my night table, books lying in a messy stack beside them. Sketch pads are heaped in piles around my bed, and right beside me is my entry. The Volcano. Despite the overwhelming evidence I’ve been busy drawing, she doesn’t ask about it. I could tell her. Right now. About the contest.

“It’s messy in here,” she says, and my body stiffens, waiting for the lecture about how cleanliness is next to godliness. And how my future husband is going to have a hard time staying married to me if I’m such a slob. I’m pretty sure my chances aren’t great with God or a future husband. Not the way the cards are being dealt.

“Tess?” she says.

I wait for the lecture.

“I love you. I don’t always understand you, but I love you. You’re so different from me, you know. You’re your father’s daughter. Your brains. I’ve always been a little envious of that.”

She shuts her eyes and breathes out loudly. “I’m very sorry about yesterday.”

I pick at the comforter on my bed, not wanting this conversation. My stomach burns and clenches tightly. “It’s okay.”

I want her to ask about my art. Say something. I want to tell her about the Oswald Prize, tell her how frustrated I am that I can’t seem to finish. I want it to be the best piece I’ve ever done. I want to ask her if she thinks Nick likes me. Or if he thinks I’m just a dumb kid. Do guys kiss girls they don’t like?

“No. It’s not.” She lets out another huge breath. “My mom drank, just like your father’s dad,” she says. “I hated her for it. It embarrassed me. I never wanted to do that to you girls. I promised myself I wouldn’t.”

Pick, pick, pick. I grab a thread on the comforter and pull harder. She’s never talked about her parents. I want to hear more about them, but also want her to stop talking.

“I know this is hard for you too, Tess. You’re handling it better than me.” She coughs. “I’m proud of you. For who you are, you know.” She inhales deeply. “I don’t wish this on you instead of your sister, no matter what I said to you when I was drinking.”

I still don’t look at her, just shake my head back and forth, shame running through me as if it’s somehow my fault that I got the good gene. The non-cancer one. I wonder sometimes if it will come for me too, but for now I’m the lucky one.

“Your father is proud of how smart you are. I am too. I just don’t know what to do with it. Kristina’s volleyball, I get that, I relate to sports. Or I did. I got it.” She pauses for a second, but I still don’t look at her. She snorts. “Sports came easy to me. I learned to get by with what I was good at. Having a bubbly personality was easier than remembering where I came from. And when I met your father, it changed my whole life. I tucked the person who I was away and never looked at her again.” She laughs, but there’s no happiness in the sound, and then she touches the cover of one of my sketchbooks, but doesn’t open it. “Your grandma was artistic. Really talented. You get that from her.”

I look up, surprised. I open my mouth to tell her about the drawing prize but she continues.

“Your dad is having a tough time. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. Neither of us do, I guess. But we’re going to have to try harder. Kristina needs us. All of us.”

Tears stream down my cheeks. I want to say that I need them too. That I need help too, but it sounds selfish and petty inside my head.

She reaches over and pats my hand. “Thank you,” she says. “For stepping up. For being strong for your sister. I know it’s not easy for you either.”

My tears flow faster then.

“What did Kristina want to talk to you about yesterday?” she asks in a soft voice.

I close my eyes for a moment and breathe, realizing this was her whole purpose. The reason she came to talk to me. Searching for answers. I have an urge to push her away. Tell her nothing. But Kristina asked me to handle it. I have to do it for her.

“Kristina wants sedatives,” I tell my mom. I don’t meet her eyes. I guess a part of me is still afraid she might try to blame me again. “She didn’t want to tell you herself.” I sit up straighter. “No. She’s afraid to tell you herself because she knows you’ll disapprove and she doesn’t have the strength to fight you. But she needs them and you need to accept that. No matter how you feel about that kind of medication.”

I want sedatives too, handfuls actually, but no one is going to hand any to me. I have to be strong. Talk. Be the voice. Keep all my bones.

“Oh, Tess. I don’t think it’s a good idea…” Mom starts to say. “I wonder if that’s safe. With the anesthetic she’s going to get, it might be too risky…”

As if it’s her decision to make.

“Mom. She wants freaking sedatives to help her cope with the fact that they’re cutting off her leg. Let her have them. Let her have whatever she needs to get through this.”

Mom stands, crossing her arms and glaring down at me on the bed.

“You don’t have to remind me what the operation is for.” Her voice is curt, her tone unapologetic and sure.

“No. Well, let me remind you then that she needs sedatives to deal. She’s freaking out. Kristina is having a really hard time and I say she’s more than welcome to take whatever she needs to get through it.”

Mom shakes her head and opens her mouth, but I hold up my hand, stopping her.

“No offense, Mom, but it’s not really your decision. She is worried about what you will say and you need to let her know it’s okay. She’s been doing things to please you her whole entire life. Volleyball. Popularity. Being the Beautiful One. And now they’re taking it all away. She’s looking at a future exactly opposite of the one you painted for her.”

She stares into space, her eyes unfocused.

I have an urge to smack her.

“Okay,” she agrees. “Okay.” She glances at her watch. “We need to get back to the hospital.”

I grab my sketch pad on the way out. Maybe doodling will help keep my mind off the looming operation. I have less than forty-eight hours to get my entry in the mail. A ball of anxiety rolls around in the pit of my stomach. It’s down to the wire.

Hospital. Five a.m. It’s Halloween morning. A gruesome day for limb removal.

I wonder if Kristina is aware what day it is and if it will ruin Halloween for her forever. It’s always been her favorite holiday, the parties, dressing up. This is the first year since she was a little kid she hasn’t gone to at least two Halloween parties.

Dad reaches out to give me a hug. I let him squeeze hard and don’t let go. He hasn’t hugged me like that since I was a little girl, when it would make me feel one hundred percent safe. It doesn’t work like that anymore.

“I love you,” he whispers in my ear. Again. I went years without hearing it.

Mom paces the hallway, back and forth, like a caged lioness at the zoo. She strides in the same pattern, over and over.

Dr. Turner comes to the waiting room to talk to us and asks us to come see Kristina before they prep her for the operation. They’ve sedated her already and she’s groggy. I don’t say a word. I mean, what do you say?

The three of us return to the waiting room while they operate. Mom paces. Dad plays musical chairs. I have no idea how long we’ve waited when a nurse comes out and quietly updates us. It’s going well, no problems with bleeding or clotting, she says. They’ve removed the diseased bone and are beginning the second part of the operation, constructing a stump that allows for the use of prostheses.

A few bottles of Coke later, the nurse appears again and lets us know the operation is complete. Kristina has been moved to post-op. When her anesthetic wears off, we can see her.

“You can see her now,” a nurse says sometime later.

As we walk down the hallway toward Kristina, Mom’s heels click on the floor. Two feet. Click clack. Click clack. I wonder how it will sound when Kristina learns to walk. Click shuffle? For some stupid reason I wonder if she’ll be able to wear boots with a prosthetic leg.

We tiptoe inside her room. She’s lying on the bed, pale and small. I try not to look at the bottom of the sheets. Where one leg makes a much shorter indent than the other.

She’s dozing, but when Mom goes and rubs her shoulder, she opens her eyes and stares vacantly, and then she groans and squeezes them tight.

Her expression blocks air from my lungs. It hurts to breathe. Dad stands a few feet from the bed, not looking at Kristina or her leg. A nurse comes in and whispers for us to let her sleep. We walk out single-file, back to a waiting room. Before long, Kristina is pushed past us, down the hallway on a gurney back to her hospital room.

Mom and Dad are the only two allowed to see her. I sit cross-legged on the uncomfortable chairs and stare at the dirty beige walls in the waiting room. People come and go with various expressions of grief and relief. A little girl sits on her dad’s lap, sucking her thumb and holding a worn-out beige teddy bear. Her hair is the same color as Kristina’s. As it was. Staring at her, an image pops into my head.

Bending over, I grab my backpack from where it’s tucked under the seat and take out my sketch. My entry has been missing the special something that takes a piece from good to great.

In a fit of inspiration, I begin to draw a girl. My fingers fly, my mind transferring the images to the page through my hands. I work, transfixed, shading and contouring, and a girl emerges. Her hands are raised above her head as if she’s in flight. She is both brave and fragile, with her features shadowed but her intent clear.

She’s diving in. Straight into the erupting volcano.

When it’s complete, my body feels drained, but I know it’s done. I check my watch. There’s still time to postmark the entry before the deadline.

Mom and I take turns sitting with Kristina. Dad goes back to work the third day after the amputation. It’s probably for the best, since he’s acting uncomfortable around Kristina and hasn’t said more than a few words to her. I want to smack some sense into him. I know it’s hard. But it’s hard for all of us.

Jeremy handles it best. He’s the one who comes in to visit and sits by her side and talks. He really does have a gift for babbling, but I’ve discovered it’s not a bad thing.

The next few days pass in a haze. I refuse to go to school and no one tries to make me. Who cares about grades? How can they compare to what Kristina’s going through? My old obsession with the stupid Honor Society seems so superficial and unimportant.

Thursday afternoon, I’m sitting with Kristina, trying to think of something to say, trying not to stare where her leg used to be. Trying to get used to it. I wait for her to talk. Wait for her to tell me something. Anything. But she stays quiet, her eyes closed.

Mom is off in the cafeteria or talking to someone on the hospital pay phone, I’m not sure. I hear a sound and turn and Jeremy is standing behind me. I glance at my watch. It’s after four already. School is out.

“How’s she doing?” he asks as he creeps closer.

“I’m awake,” Kristina says, and both of us look toward the bed where she’s lying. She opens her eyes and turns her head and looks at me for a second and there’s a slight reaction in her gaze, but then she focuses on Jeremy.

I feel like I’m failing her again but let him step in front of me.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Jeremy says to her.

“What else do I have to do besides sleep?” she says, and her voice is grumpy but at least she’s talking.

“Want to do my calculus homework?” He points to the backpack on his back.

“Ha ha,” Kristina says, but a tear slips out of her eye. Jeremy quickly moves to her side and takes her hand.

“Hey. You having a bad day?” he asks.

She nods her head and, even from where I am, I see she’s struggling to keep it together, biting her lip and blinking.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s such a simple question, but not one I thought to ask.

“Not really,” Kristina tells him. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” he says. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, but I can imagine how hard this is. I’m here for you. You know that, right? Anything you need, you just ask.”

I grab one of the steel chairs and push it up to Jeremy so he can sit with her. He turns when I slide it up. “Thanks,” he says.

“No. Thank you,” I say and then I quietly leave the room so the two of them have privacy.

I plop myself into a chair in the waiting room and stare at the TV that seems to play twenty-four hours a day. No one else is around and I’m glad I don’t have to make phony conversation.

A little while later, Jeremy approaches and sits beside me.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says. “Word has leaked at school. About the amputation,” he says.

I inhale deeply and nod. I don’t know how, but I suspect that Nick told Gee or Devon. We couldn’t expect to keep it hidden for long. I don’t want to think about Nick though, or anyone else at school, or what they might be saying. It’s so far removed from life in the hospital and the gloom when we’re home.

“Clark’s asking for you. He’s worried about you,” Jeremy says.

“How’s your mom doing?” I say instead of commenting.

He smiles. “She’s back at home.”

I’m happy for him but don’t say a word about Kristina or ask why he’s still spending so much time at the hospital. Kind of obvious.

That night I log on to the computer and see Clark has left a long private note in my Facebook inbox, but I don’t read it or write him back. Not yet. My Facebook wall and Kristina’s are filled with notes from kids from school. Condolences. Get well soon messages. There are even a couple of anonymous posts making jokes about it. One calls Kristina “Peg.” I delete them, but they burn me up inside.

Nick hasn’t posted anything on my wall and I pretend it doesn’t bother me, but don’t dwell on it. He’s not stepping up, that much is obvious. When I check voicemail, I hear Gee and Devon’s separate messages on my cell phone and on the phone at home, but I don’t call them back.

Someone posts pictures of the volleyball tournament on the weekend on my wall. The team dedicated the game to Kristina and had blown-up pictures of action shots of Kristina pasted all over the gym. I think Kristina would hate that, so I don’t tell her.

The next morning, Mom and I go back to the hospital. At lunch, we go to the cafeteria, and as Mom and I are eating soggy lettuce and rubbery chicken, I decide to open the discussion.

“Kristina doesn’t talk to me,” I say between bites of chicken. “I’m kind of worried.”

Mom sighs. “Well, Jeremy is here for her. She talks to him.”

I hold my fork in the air. “Jeremy is the best thing that happened to her.”

She shrugs. “He is. He’s the only one she’ll talk to. I guess family is not what she wants right now.”

We’re both grateful for Jeremy, I think, but also a little bit jealous.

After the first week, Mom insists I go back to school. I try to get out of it, but surprisingly she won’t give in. I don’t announce my return online and all eyes are on me when I show up for my first class. Everyone knows Kristina’s leg was amputated, but I’m not capable of talking about it without crying, and thankfully people don’t bombard me with questions. They give me space.

A few of the teachers corner me to ask questions about Kristina and ask if there’s anything they can do, but I assure them there’s not. Kristina doesn’t want a rally or gifts or anything at all from the school.

All week I wear hoodies, and pull the hood over my head between classes and wear an iPod with music cranked. It’s almost like it used to be before Kristina got sick, with people leaving me alone. Except they stare now and everyone knows my name. But no one tries to penetrate my bubble, not even Clark, who continues to escort me to class despite the fact I’m hooded and plugged. I see Nick once or twice in the hallway, but don’t have the energy to worry about what he thinks of me or what I did. Melissa keeps her distance and for that I’m glad too.

And then as if he knows I’ve been hiding out in the library at lunchtime and senses my desperation and growing isolation, Clark asks me to join him and Jeremy for lunch. I’m actually grateful for human contact and, for reasons I don’t even understand, agree and walk with him to the lunchroom. Jeremy joins us at a table, but doesn’t mention my sister.

Across the room at their table, the volleyball girls and guys watch with big eyes when I sit down with my healthy packed lunch, but thankfully they don’t approach me. I don’t imagine they know what to say.

The following week, the doctor gives her okay for Kristina to be discharged from the hospital. Kristina’s desperate to leave. Well, according to Mom. She still isn’t saying much to me.

Mom’s already bought Kristina the best wheelchair money can buy, crutches, and had ramps installed by workmen at the back door to the house. Dad’s office has been converted to a main-floor bedroom, and she’s moved down Kristina’s bedroom furniture.

I volunteer to go with Mom to pick Kristina up in the morning. I’m surprised when Dad meets us at the hospital. I’m used to his absence.

The nurses pop by as we are getting things ready to leave. They offer Mom last-minute advice on changing the wound’s dressing and helping to care for Kristina. When Kristina uses the washroom with the help of one of the nurses, another asks about psychological help. Though Dad is present in body, he doesn’t say a word, and Mom evades the question.

When Kristina gets back, Mom and I help her into the wheelchair. She doesn’t smile or speak as we wheel her down the hallway. She keeps her hands folded in her lap and her eyes down the entire way to the parking lot. Dad walks behind us, silent.

We manage to get her in the passenger seat of Mom’s car without much of a problem. I sit in the back, and Dad goes to his own car to head to work. Neither Kristina nor I speak on the ride home, but Mom chirps on and on about the nice weather, the traffic, her plants, and while it’s a little unnerving, I have to salute her efforts. Once we get her inside the house, Kristina insists on going to her new room.

I follow her and linger as she hoists herself out of the wheelchair and settles herself into her bed. The nurses told Mom to let her do it herself, but I ache for how clumsy and unsure of her own body she is. But she does it, her mouth set with determination. Wincing as if with pain.

“So?” I say once she’s settled, trying to be natural. “Glad to be home?”

She stares at me and I think she’s going to continue with the silence, but when she laughs it’s a harsh sound. “What do you think, Tess?”

“I know,” I say. “But things will get better.”

“Yeah? You think I’ll be like a salamander and grow a new leg?”

I can’t think of a reply to that one.

She reaches down and smoothes out her pants. Her fingers stop at the safety pin holding up her pant leg just above her stump. “It’s weird how much it hurts. I know it’s phantom pain. How can my leg hurt, when it’s not even there, right?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, wishing I had more. It’s the most she’s spoken to me since her operation and I have nothing to give her back.

“No,” Kristina says, and breathes out a heavy sigh. “It’s my fault. That this happened. I’ve thought and thought about it. All the running and jumping I did. I should have taken it easier. I pushed myself too hard and brought this on.”

A single tear runs down her cheek and drips on her shirt.

“Kristina, you have cancer. You can’t bring that on by exercising too hard.” My heart swells with pain for her and I don’t bother pointing out that no one else on her volleyball team has a limb amputated from pushing themselves too hard.

She shakes her head. “No. It was me. I kept going even when it hurt. I waited a long time before I said anything. Didn’t want to upset anyone. Push. Be the best. I wanted to be the best, and look what it cost me.”

“It’s not your fault,” I repeat.

“I kind of hoped I’d die in the surgery. That they’d cut the wrong vein or something. But no such luck.”

“Kristina!”

“Well, look at me!” She points at her missing limb.

I glance around her room, searching for hints, for the right thing to say.

“You’re still you. And I don’t want you to die,” I finally say. It’s not profound or fancy, but it’s how I feel. I search for more. “I love you, Kristina. I do.” My cheeks flush, but it’s the only thing I can think of to say that means anything. I know it’s not enough, but it’s everything I’ve got.