Brisé (10 page)

“You aren’t authorized on the chart to receive information on Ms. Wells.”

“I don’t care who’s authorized. I’m the one here.”

“Sorry, it says only her attorney is listed as a point of contact.” I pick up her phone and find his number.

“Myra, it’s Lucas Nichols. Something’s wrong with Phoebe, and nobody will tell me anything. I don’t care what you have to do but find out.” I hang up and begin pacing her room. I stare at her face, worried about how pale she is, her breathing is shallow, but she looks at peace. She’s just resting. She’s getting stronger. She will not leave me here to face life without her. She won’t. She can’t.

An hour later Myra pokes his head in the room. “Only while she is unconscious are you allowed any information.” I nod. “It isn’t good. Her heart rate is lower than they would like, the infection is spreading, and no treatment can be started when she is so fragile. The longer treatment is put off, the worse her chances of survival are.” I have cried before, but I have never broken.

I. Break.

I pull the chair as close to her bed as possible and hold her hand. I bend my head to her chest, placing my lips above her heart and let go of every emotion. I kiss her heart, willing it to heal. I kiss her arms, her cheek, her eyelids, and every surface I can reach. I promised her once I was her superhero, and superheroes have healing powers. I can heal her; my love is that strong. I never stop crying, I never stop kissing her. I tell her how much I love her, how sorry I am. I promise her fifty babies if she’ll just fight. Just live. “Twinkle,” I beg her.

My parents come to the hospital and that pisses me off. Like we’re having some kind of bedside vigil. This isn’t her dying; this is her sick. I walk out to the hallway; I need a moment to gain control of myself. I find myself outside, staring at the stars. “If you can hear me, help me. I’m begging you, do something. Save her, save me. Make her wake up. Force her to fight.”

I walk in the room, and there’s no change. My parents leave, my mom’s not holding her emotions in check. I can’t blame her, because I’ve already lost it. In the middle of the night, they switch out her antibiotics and shortly after her fever breaks and her heart rate increases. All good signs.

The next day she shows some improvement. She is moving around, just not waking up. Her lab work is better, slightly improved in terms of the infection, and finally I can take a breath. Finally her eyes open, and she finds me in the corner. “You’re still here.”

“Phoebe, please. Don’t shut me out. I was so fucking scared. I couldn’t leave.” She nods her head and rings for the nurse. I’m afraid she’s going to have me removed from her room. I’ll sit in the hallway until the day she’s released. She doesn’t ask the nurse to kick me out. She asks for the doctor and wants to know what’s going on. She’s told about the infection, her prognosis, and what medications she’s on.

“How long until I can be discharged?”

“Probably another three to four days if things keep steady, but you need to have chemotherapy, Phoebe. There are new drugs available, trials, and I have faith you can beat this.”

She nods her head, agreeing with him, and I think she’s seen the proverbial light. “You are no longer in charge of my care. Once you sign off on my discharge papers, there’s no reason for you to consult on my case.” My heart drops to my stomach.

“Phoebe…” I begin.

“If you want to stay here until I leave, then don’t have an opinion about this.” I’ve never heard her sound so cold, so unemotional. Like she’s a robot. I agree for now, but somehow I’ll get through to her.

She takes out her laptop Myra brought her and is doing something. I don’t dare ask. I continue playing my guitar, playing a song I just learned. Ed Sheeran, ‘Even My Dad Does Sometimes’ I don’t know why this song jumped out at me the other day, before all the shit hit the fan. Now, I think it was a subconscious premonition. “Lucas,” she calls out to me. I fucking hate her calling me that. I am Luke. Her Luke.

I make my way over to her. “I was going to cut you out, but I can’t do that to you.” Her eyes have tears in them, I watch her steel herself and become a blank canvas right before me. No remorse, no feelings, just barely existing. “I’m leaving as soon as I’m discharged. Please know, I listened to you. I will undergo treatment, but not with you by my side. I’m doing this alone.”

“You aren’t alone. You have me, always. You may not want me, but my heart is yours. My life is yours. Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doing this to you. I
am
doing this for me.” For the first time since I met Phoebe, I can’t reach her. I’m a stranger to her. She doesn’t say anything else to me, doesn’t look at me, and just continues on like she told me she was cutting her hair. She just dropped a bomb on me, one that imploded my entire life, my reason for shaping my future the way I did.

Chapter 12

Phoebe

My anger has had time to dissipate over the last few days, but my pain is just as raw. I can’t hate the boy I have always loved, but I can’t continue to love him the way I always have. He let a piece of us be destroyed, and in the end it will destroy us. My head knows he was acting in my best interest; he did what any other human would do. Maybe I won’t survive this time. Wasn’t it worth a chance to have a piece of me left? Thinking about my child growing up without me, though, is almost unbearable. Doesn’t he realize another few rounds of chemotherapy could make me sterile? End my dancing career? And for what? There are no guarantees in life. So while my head accepts all his decisions, my heart won’t. It can’t, and unfortunately for him, my heart leads me.

I’m packing my meager belongings, Myra has already had my clothes and photos that I asked for packed. He’s been a godsend throughout this ordeal. My plane leaves this afternoon. I’ve already said goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Nichols, watched as they shed tears and tried to remain numb. The only thing left is to say goodbye to Lucas, the boy who stole my heart and then proceeded to break it. I thought I could do this, but when I turn and look at him, I don’t know if I’m strong enough.

The tears flow continuously down my face, ebbing like an overflowing river. It’s a loss that I’ll never recover from, a loss I never
want
to recover from. I want to feel this pain, this overwhelming, gut-wrenching pain in my chest, so I can remember what he’s capable of. All of it; the love, the laughter, the life he promised. I remember it so I can put that last piece of my heart away.

“Twinkle, let me come with you,” he pleads. I shake my head at him. I can’t formulate the denial I need. “Then I have one stipulation, and I will let you leave.”

“What?” I choke out.

“Kiss me, kiss me and mean it.” He throws my words back at me. Those were the same words I said to him after his senior prom. I walk towards him. Instead of me taking control, he places both hands on my face and lowers his lips to mine. One brush of his soft lips has me wanting more. Needing all of him. I give everything I have to this kiss. I give him his absolution from guilt. Begging him to go on with life, do great things, find love, and be happy. I hope that’s what I tell him in that kiss, because that’s what I want to convey. I pull back and gently touch my lips. I want to trap the feeling, like I wanted to trap the scent in my parents’ room. I want to wrap them both around me like a warm blanket. “Phoebe, why did that feel like a goodbye kiss?”

“It wasn’t a goodbye kiss.” I see the briefest of smiles form on his lips. “A goodbye has a chance for a hello. This is not goodbye because this is The. End.” I grab my small bag and leave the room with him standing there. I don’t want to remember the pain I just caused him. I don’t want to remember the cries I heard as I walked away. I don’t want to remember anything about this life. I’m leaving with my heart in shreds, never to be repaired.

I catch my plane; make my way to the apartment paid for by Myra, and sleep. I’m numb, going through the motions. I meet with the new oncologist, agree to the new medications he wants to try, and schedule treatment to start next week. Being numb is better than feeling. Being numb gives me a chance to survive this next year of life, rebuilding and recreating who I am. I tick off my goals, make lists, and settle into my new home. The first round of chemotherapy will be intense. I agreed with my doctor to go into the hospital for the month. Infections and set backs are more likely to happen. I will follow that up with three to four months of another regimen, but hopefully after the initial doses, I will be in remission. Two years of maintenance will follow, but nothing intensive, mainly oral drugs with no side effects. I’ve given myself a year from the first infusion . . . a year to begin training with a ballet company. Any one that will take me. I will prevail. I will dance center stage, and I will dance for my mom. After that, I have no plans. No dreams. No aspirations. I free my mind of everything and prepare for the toxins to flow through my veins, killing every fucking cancer cell. The drug names swarm before my eyes, Adriamycin, Cytoxan, and Methotrexate. They’re coming for you cancer. They’ll own you and rid my body of your poison. Only then, will I rid my body of the hate that has filled it. Hate for cancer. Hate for death. Hate for Luke for destroying us, but mostly hate for myself for breaking Luke the way I did. I took the purest form of love, the love I gained from his as a child and threw it back in his face. Then I left. .

Chapter 13

Luke

One week. Seven long days since she left that room and I watched her walk away. Why didn’t I stop her? “The End,” she said, and I died inside. I told myself that she couldn’t have meant that. The first day, I wasn’t too worried. Sure, I hated that she was upset, scared shitless of the battle she had on her hands, and hated fucking cancer in general. How can a six-letter word create such devastation? By day two when I still hadn’t heard from her, all my calls, voicemails, and texts went unanswered because she had shut off her cell service. She still hadn’t come home, and I began to panic. I checked all the banking accounts. I didn’t have access to her personal account, but I knew she only had about two hundred dollars in there, and I wasn’t due to transfer her monthly stipend for another few weeks. That amount of money wasn’t going to last long, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to pay for any treatments she needed, and she needed to start them, and fast. I called Myra; he ignored my calls. I called the bank to see if any transactions had been made on her personal account, but because I no longer had guardianship, they wouldn’t tell me anything. Day three, I called Myra again, still nothing. I paced the floors of her childhood home. I called her phone incessantly. I pleaded with her in voicemails and all went unanswered. I called hospitals, police stations, but I couldn’t bring myself to call the morgue. That was not an option. Day four, still nothing. The heaviness that felt like sludge settled in my chest. I got rip-roaring drunk. Day drunk. How I made my way to Myra’s office, I don’t remember.

“Where the hell is she?” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and his shoulders drooped. He was trying to avoid the question, offering me sympathy. I don’t need sympathy; I need Phoebe. That’s all I’ve ever needed.

“She’s safe. That’s all I can give you.”

“Bullshit. You can give me everything, you can give me my fucking world back if you wanted to.”

“Lucas,” that soothing tone was back, and I was ready to punch him. “She wanted this, and you have to respect it. She’s in pain, but I promise you she’s getting the medical attention she needs. You have to let go now.”

Let go? She’s tethered to me with an invisible rope, knotted to my soul, tattooed on my heart. There is no letting go. It’s physically impossible. “Please,” I beg. I need to take a deep breath; I haven’t had one since she left. I’m choking on pain, roaming a lonely house, and there’s no consoling or soothing it. It’s raw and it hurts. Myra won’t look at me, he won’t answer me, he’s given me all he’s willing to give and that pisses me off. I sweep all the papers off his desk, the burn of losing her flaming out. Howling in frustration I continue to destroy whatever I can. His phone gets thrown against the wall, more papers liter his floor, and before I know it I am against the wall with him in my face.

“This won’t help, Lucas. If it makes you feel better, destroy my office, destroy your whole damn life, but it won’t bring her back.” I don’t feel my legs anymore; I am on my ass on his office floor, head in my hands and once again cursing at the injustice of it all. I know life isn’t fair, it isn’t up to us to decide our fate; we’re supposed to just follow the path that’s put in front of us, almost blindly. My dad comes into the office; I guess he got called to pick my sorry drunken ass up. He doesn’t offer any words just helps me to my feet and out to the car. I notice he pulls up in our driveway and helps me into the house. “Lucas, I think it’s better if you move back in here.” I don’t argue with him because without her it doesn’t matter where I sleep, every place will seem dark and empty.

Day five I’m hung-over. I wallow all day in bed, then I get pissed. Fate, karma, cancer, God, collapsing buildings, love, hate, but mostly I’m pissed at her. She left me like this, to pick up the pieces alone, and I’ve never done that to her. Those were promises we made to each other; we would never be alone as long as we had each other. As quick as my anger comes, it fades. I love her. I hate the situation, but my love for her is stronger than any other fleeting emotion.

Day six I get my ass up and go into the office. Today will begin the first day of real life without her. I’ll make the best possible life and prepare for our future because one day she’ll come back. She has to. She loves me.