Authors: Marley Gibson

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Health & Daily Living, #Diseases; Illnesses & Injuries, #Love & Romance, #Religious, #Christian, #Family, #Sports & Recreation

Radiate (7 page)

He slams the phone back down and then returns to me. I don’t know whether to choose fight or flight. He stretches his hands out and feels the glands in my neck. Then, he places a stethoscope to my chest.

“Breathe in and out slowly,” he orders.

I do as I’m told, although I don’t know what the hell my breathing has to do with a ridiculous, inconvenient lump in my leg.

“How long have you had pain?”

“Since the second week in June,” I say.

The doctor tugs on my leg and does the same poking, pressing, and squeezing that Dr. Colley did. Only, he’s not so gentle and friendly about it. I yelp when he mashes the sensitive area too hard. “Ouch!”

He screws up his mouth into a combination of a contortion and a glower, and then he moves to his desk. A password is input and my name pops up on the screen. He clicks on it. Several images of my leg appear on the monitor. Side views, front views; the original picture Dr. Colley took two days ago.

“What do you think it is, Doctor?” Mom asks hesitantly.

He adjusts his glasses on the tip of his nose and drags his finger across the milky white area on the X-ray. His tongue clicks as he stares at the screen. “This doesn’t look good. Not good at all.”

The thudding of my heart actually deafens me. His harsh words reverb against my eardrum, obliterating inane thoughts of what to wear tonight on my date. This is real. This is now. This is happening.

Not good at all?

“How so?” Mom asks as she reaches for my hand.

I don’t remember how our fingers got tangled, only that I’m clutching hers as though my life depends on it.

“Well, I can tell you it is definitely
not
a calcium deposit.” Dr. Maddox sighs and squints at the image. He toggles between the pictures and leans in to get a better view. His finger taps the screen over and over, pointing at the mass that’s gathered around my bone.

Slowly, he turns to face us. Mom’s standing next to me; her grip on my hand tightens. I think it’s more for her benefit than mine. This guy’s just a jerk and doesn’t know how to deal with civilians. I’m not worried. It’s no big deal. Right? I’ve been perfectly healthy my whole life aside from a cold here and there and the occasional flu that got past my yearly vaccination. Of course, there was the horrendous, god-awful bout with chickenpox last year, but everyone gets those at some point.

This is just par for the course for a cheerleader who’s tumbling, running, and dancing all the time.

Mom gulps hard, though, and I begin to share her trepidation.

My eyes implore hers to not let this be bad. It can’t be. I won’t let it be.

“Mrs. Matthews... Hayley . . .” the doctor starts. “Bedside manners are not my forte, as you can imagine coming from thirty years in the army. I’m going to be very honest with you and not sugarcoat things.”

Now I gulp.

He stares directly at me. “Hayley, I’m afraid you have malignant cancer.”

“Cancer?” Mom shrieks, clutching my hand so tightly that it hurts.

“C-c-cancer?” I manage to say.

“Yes,” the doctor affirms. “The only way to save you is to amputate the leg.”

My ears ring.

Tears sting the back of my eyes.

My world goes dark.

Chapter Seven

In time of test, family is best.

—Burmese Proverb

Cancer!

Cancer?

Cancer.

C-a-n-c-e-r.

Can. Cer.

I roll the word around inside my brain to try and wrap some sort of meaning around it. Especially in conjunction with me.

Me. Cancer. Leg. Tumor. Cancer. Bump. Malignant.

Amputation?

Surely I didn’t hear
that
word. That was merely my imagination running away from me while sitting bored to death in that rude doctor’s office. All I can remember is staring at the poster of undersea life, noting the angel fish, sharks, dolphins, pelicans, starfish, eels, barracuda and all the other species I couldn’t identify on the vibrant blue image. All of the sea creatures living in harmony and peace... at least for one moment as the artist captured their images. No larger prey consuming the smaller ones. No overaggressive amoeba overtaking some plant life or fish that couldn’t fight it off.

That’s what cancer is, though. An intruder in your body that seeks to conquer all. A disease of epic proportions that can alter your life—or even frickin’ end it.

I stare out the windshield. Unblinking.

The asphalt passes by in waves, the fingers of white lines twisting and swaying, doing their best to confuse my already muddled mind.

Mom clears her throat, a near-deafening cannon in the silence of my anguish. “So, what do you say we stop at El Palacio’s and pick up a whole mess of chicken enchiladas? You know how much your dad loves their food.”

I slice my eyes over at her hands death gripping the steering wheel to the point that her nail beds look the color of Valentine’s Day red hots.

Cancer.

Malignant.

“Um... sure, I guess,” I say, still stunned. I don’t even remember leaving the doctor’s office. All I recall is Mom turning beet red and grabbing the impolite doctor by the sleeve of his coat and hauling him out of the examining room. From the small window in the door, I could see Mom reading him the Riot Act, her eyes beady with anger.

“We should get some sopapillas, too,” Mom adds as she switches lanes.

A dull headache begins to tippy-tap over my left eye. My eye twitches in response. “Sure. We can do that.”

Don’t you want to talk about what just happened? What
did
happen?

I muster up the courage. “Mom, what did—”

She stops me with her hand. “Come to think of it, we’ll have your grandparents over tonight, too. Daddy loves their queso and chips. You know they make all their own? Absolutely delicious.”

Sure, have Grandmother and Granddaddy over so we can shock them with the news over beans and rice. “Mom . . .”

I see a glisten in the corner of her eyes. The tension in her face, obvious by the vein in her neck, makes me want to reach over and hug her. But I’m belted in. And she’s driving.

I try again. “Mom... can we talk about what happened back there?”

The car swerves a little too much to the left, and a passing car lays on his horn. The driver mouths something at Mom while flipping her his middle finger. Lovely.

“Oh dear,” she mutters, and rights the vehicle, slowing down a bit.

Funny thing is, I’m not upset. And I’m not freaking out all that much. I just want to understand what the hell is going on. I need to know what’s next. What will tomorrow be like? Can I go to cheerleader practice? Can I just check into the hospital and let them cut this thing out?

As if reading my mind, Mom wets her lips with her tongue and says, “That appointment never happened.”

“What?”

She nods. “That was only a formality. He’s just one doctor.” Then she sneers. “Besides, what does he know? I’ve never met such an arrogant, disgusting person in all my life.”

“He was a dick,” I mutter.

Mom snickers, knowing she can’t correct me when I speak the truth. Still, she gives me “the look.”

“So, what do we do, Mom?” I pull my foot up onto the seat and wrap my arms around my leg, resting my chin on my knee. “I’ve got this... this...
thing
... growing inside me.”

“I know exactly what we’ll do,” she says with a confidence returning to her eyes. She fumbles next to her and nabs her cell phone. I’d rather she not drive and dial—like the rest of the free world—but right now, I’m not going to speak up. It’s a speed dial number, and she sets the phone on speaker.

On the third ring, I hear, “
You’ve reached Dr. Roger Swonsky. If this is a medical emergency, please press zero to be transferred to my answering service. Otherwise, please leave your name, number, and a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.
”

Beeeeeeeeeep.

Mom clears her throat again. “Roger, this is your sister. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. I know you’re two time zones behind me, but I don’t care how late it is. This is a family emergency.” Her voice catches momentarily and then softens into that of a small child. “Please call me.”

She clicks End and tosses the cell phone down next to her. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.” A confident nod follows as she pulls into the upcoming turn lane to take us into El Palacio’s.

I let out a long sigh. Not in frustration, but in relief.

Uncle Roger is Mom’s little brother. I say “little” in that he’s five years younger. Uncle Roger is also a doctor. Not just any random, run-of-the-mill doctor—he’s a radiologist. The dudes that stare at black and white images and come up with all sorts of discoveries and finds. According to the accolades I hear from Grandmother and Mom all the time, his specialty is detecting breast cancer in time to treat it. He’s like... renowned in his field.

Throughout my life, Mom has called him for every sniffle, scratch, or wheeze. When Dad had that bout with bursitis, Uncle Roger got the call. When Cliff broke his collarbone skateboarding, Uncle Roger got the call. When Granddaddy had gall bladder stones removed, Uncle Roger got the call. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that’s who Mom called for reinforcement.

I relax a little into the seat.

Mom smiles. “Yes... Mexican food will hit the spot, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and breathe normally for the first time since we left the medical plaza.

Dr. Alfred S. Maddox the Third, be damned.

Mom just brought in the heavy hitter.

***

Against my parents’ wishes, I go to practice the next two days and pretend nothing’s wrong. The pain in my leg is wicked, but I grin and bear it. I work hard on the new pyramid we invented, and I help spot the other girls doing their tumbling runs. Chloe doesn’t give me too much of a hard time when I don’t do the same. Instead, I practice my splits, which are essential for any cheerleader.

When I get home late Friday afternoon, all icky and sweaty, I strip out of my clothes and wrap up in a soft, fluffy towel, ready for a cold shower and then a long, hot soak in the tub.

First, a quick look at Facebook.

I log on and read a status update from Shelly:

THE STEP SUX. WON’T LET ME DO ANYTHING!!!!!!!! FML

Fuck my life. A fave saying of my generation.

Poor Shelly. I know it’s hard for her with her parents calling it quits earlier this year and her father moving away to Mobile. Now she has to do split time between here and there. At least she’s close to Gulf Shores and the beach, although it doesn’t sound like her tether reaches that far. The whole Splitsville sitch was made worse when Shelly’s dad remarried about two seconds after the divorce was final. “The Step,” as Shelly refers to her, is only twenty-four years old and is fresh out of the ΠΦΨ sorority house at Maxwell State where her father used to teach. Now he teaches at the University of South Alabama and “the Step” does all she can to spend his salary and make Shelly’s life miserable. Imagine having a stepmom who’s only six years older! I understand why she says “FML.”

But as I scroll through the status messages of friends and acquaintances and see their complaints of the day, I’m struck with a realization of how easy it would be for
me
to post an “FML.” Not just an “FML,” but a full-blown pity party diatribe all about me and my woes. Everyone would comment and “like” and tell me to hang in there, that they’re praying and rooting for me. I don’t need the sympathy, though. I can get through this.

I mean, if
anyone
can say “FML,” I think it’s certainly me. It’s not necessary at this point. It’s cancer... so what? Big whoop. They cut it out and I’m back at practice in no time. Right? People get cancer every day. It’s on the news, all over the Internet; there are charities and fundraisers for this, that, or the other form of cancer. I won’t let it be an “FML.”

Instead, I type in my update:

44 DAYS UNTIL CHEERLEADER CAMP—PHS PATRIOTS ARE GONNA RAWK!

Not a minute later, five of the twelve girls on the squad have either “liked” or commented on my status. I lean back and smile when I see “Chloe Bradenton likes your comment.”

“Whattaya know?” I say to no one. Okay, Leeny’s asleep on my bed, so technically, she can join me in basking in a small victory.

Then I see the chat window pop up. It’s Daniel!