Broken Pieces: A Novel (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

I found Ella at the kitchen table the next morning, armed with a lineup of rocks and a set of new permanent markers Jackson had sent her from New York.

I wondered how he’d been; my father hadn’t mentioned him lately. The markers, however, had made Ella’s entire week.

Waves of dark hair hung across her face as she worked, and the tip of her tongue pushed between her lips.

She finished decorating a rock, then slid it across the table to join a group of five others.

“Do you want to see?” she asked.

“I do,” I said as I stepped into the room and leaned down to study her work.

Ella’s attention shifted instantly to my shorn hair. “You’re not sick, are you?” she asked, eyes wide.

“No, no, no.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulder. “I just wanted to do something to surprise your mom.”

“Wow,” she said, unable to take her gaze away from my head.

“Show me.” I tapped the table, wanting to shift focus back to what she’d created.

On each rock she’d drawn a person, cartoon-character style. A woman. A girl. A man. Another woman. A boy. Each figure wore a mask, like a superhero. At least, I hoped they were superheroes and not a group of bandits ready to hold up the Paris Market.

I thought of Sydney and how much she’d looked like a superhero the night before, draped in her towel cape as Manny had shorn her hair.

I realized she wasn’t just the bravest person I knew, she was also the bravest person Ella knew, just as my mom had been for me.

“What’s with the masks?” I asked, my voice thick with emotion.

“You’ll see,” Ella answered, putting the finishing touches on another female face.

When she lifted her gaze to mine, I realized her joy magically reappeared whenever she was doing something creative. I gave silent thanks for Marguerite, her bowl of broken crayons, and the way she’d given Ella an escape from the sadness in her life.

“Color them in, Auntie D.”

I twisted up my features. “Kid, I was never good at coloring between the lines.”

Then I measured the happy expectation plastered across her sweet face, and I sank onto the chair beside her and reached for a red marker. “OK. I’ll try.”

Ella pressed her hand over mine. “Not that one.” She reached for a teal marker and slid it toward me. “This one. Just the mask,” she instructed.

A frisson of nervousness rippled through me. Hand me a hammer and I was good to go, but a fine-tipped teal marker on the kid’s carefully drawn creation? Terrifying.

The corners of Ella’s mouth pulled into a grin. “You can do this, Auntie D.”

In her tone I heard Sydney’s quiet confidence, and sudden tears welled in my eyes. Tears for the years we’d never had, for the years Ella was about to lose.

My family.

And then I concentrated, filling in the space between the lines of one superhero mask after another. Teal here. Teal there. Until they were complete, a set of rocks transformed into warriors, just like Ella’s momma.

Beside me, Ella uttered a slight gasp.

Sydney stood at the doorway, her favorite gray shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders as she leaned heavily against the frame.

“What have you done to your hair?” she asked softly.

“Solidarity for my sis,” I answered. “You like?”

Color rose in her cheeks, and I wondered if she might be embarrassed by such a public display. “I love,” she answered, stepping close enough to touch my head.

Her fingertips felt slender and cool, and I closed my eyes, doing my best to capture this moment and the gentleness of her touch, wanting to lock both away in my permanent memory banks.

“What are you making?” she asked, shifting her attention to her daughter’s creations.

Ella said nothing, transfixed by the sight of her mother up and around.

“Superheroes,” I answered, filling the void. “She’s made the most amazing set of superheroes ever.”

Sydney took one careful step after another toward the table, then quietly studied Ella’s work. Her face, swollen from her steroids, softened as she smiled. Moisture glistened in her eyes, yet she didn’t cry.

I realized I’d never seen her cry in front of Ella. Not once.

“Oh, sweetie.” She held out one arm as she leaned against the back of a chair. Ella jumped to her feet and moved to her mother’s side, letting herself be wrapped in Sydney’s embrace. “They’re amazing.” She looked at Ella, beaming. “Teal warriors, yes?”

Ella nodded. “Just like you, Momma.”

Sydney looked up, and our gazes met and held. “Just like me.” Then she cupped Ella’s chin. “I thought I might make pancakes for breakfast.”

Ella let out a whoop, but I couldn’t deny the worry that slid through me.

“You sure you’re up to that?”

Annoyance flashed in Sydney’s eyes, and I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender.

She laughed. “Sorry. Thanks for your concern, but I can do this, and I make the meanest pancakes around.”

Ella and I helped her gather ingredients and tools, then I headed upstairs to get dressed while they set about making breakfast.

Ella came tearing up the stairs several minutes later, screaming my name.

I found Sydney on the kitchen floor, fighting to pull herself upright, half-propped against the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink.

Superhero rocks lay scattered across the floor, having apparently fallen with the tablecloth.

“I couldn’t catch myself,” Sydney said, her voice weak, frightened.

“Get Grandpa,” I told Ella as calmly as possible as I rushed to Sydney and pulled her against me. “Steady. I’ve got you.”

“Can’t feel anything,” she said, her voice trembling. “My face. My side.”

I swallowed against the fear that clawed its way up my throat. I fought the tears that threatened, and I focused on Sydney, on staying strong, on being as brave as she was.

The color drained from my dad’s face as he rounded the kitchen door. He moved to where we sat and squatted down, pressing a palm to each of our faces. Then he pushed to his feet and raced for his phone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Sydney grimaced as the ambulance made its way toward Hunterdon Medical Center, and I tried to ignore the churning cauldron of fear and shock that threatened to make me ill.

“Ella?” she asked.

“Safe with Albert,” I answered.

I didn’t need to tell her Ella had been hiding inside her closet when the ambulance came. I’d left Albert gently talking through the door, assuring her everything would be all right, when both of us knew nothing could probably be farther from the truth.

Sydney mouthed the words, “Thank you,” then softly said, “Your work?”

I laughed nervously. “Seriously?”

She reached for my arm, wrapping her fingers around my wrist. I covered her hand with my opposite hand, and we rode in silence for several minutes, holding on to each other as if neither of us intended to ever let go.

I stared at her teal nails, defiant in the face of the odds stacked against her.

“I’m more upset about not getting those pancakes you promised,” I teased, and a smile pushed at the lines of worry and fear on her beautiful face.

Then a lone tear slid from the corner of her eye. I wiped it away with a quick brush of my fingertip, settling my hand back into place over hers.

“Scared,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“Thought you didn’t get scared.” Another weak smile.

I drew in a deep breath, then sighed. “Apparently, I do.”

There was a reason I hadn’t been scared for most of my life. It was simple: I hadn’t lived. From fifth grade on I’d been smart enough to know that if I never let myself love anyone the way I’d once loved my mother—and my father—I’d never again suffer a broken heart when they left.

Then Albert had showed up at my door, and Sydney had driven into town with Ella, and everything had changed.

The girl who had once vowed to stay alone and protect her heart now sat in the back of an ambulance holding on to her newly found sister, ready to fight anyone and anything that might take her away.

And even though I knew deep inside my soul that this moment might be the one that changed everything—the moment that catapulted us toward the unthinkable—I wasn’t about to let go, wasn’t about to shield my heart or walk away.

I was in this for the long haul—whatever that might mean—today, tomorrow, or next week.

Sydney had found her way under my skin and into my heart, as though she’d been missing all along. Part of me. A missing piece slipped back into place.

I dipped my forehead to hers and held on tight.

And then we rode together in silence, clinging firmly to our belief that maybe, just maybe, fate still had one last miracle in store for us.

Late that night, after several long hours of waiting, a CT scan, a brain MRI, and a spinal tap, Sydney’s doctor stood at the foot of her bed and delivered the news.

I wondered how my father had felt in moments like this with my mother, back when I’d been too young to realize what a roller coaster her battle must have been.

I was afraid, plain and simple. As I sat beside my sister and waited for the doctor to look up from the chart and deliver his news, fear and dread wrapped themselves around my insides and squeezed so hard I could barely breathe.

“While it’s often difficult to know for sure whether an area like this is new disease or necrosis, we’re fairly confident this is the latter,” he said finally.

His words made no sense. “I don’t understand. Isn’t that a good thing? That it’s not disease.”

The oncologist’s brows furrowed. “It’s dying tissue,” he explained. “A side effect we see sometimes after multiple rounds of radiation treatment.”

The bottom fell out of my stomach, and I reached for Sydney’s hand. She stared at the doctor, dumbfounded.

Then she laughed, the sound a mixture of shock and disbelief. I tightened my grip on her hand.

“I’d imagine that when you underwent your radiation treatments, one of the risks explained to you was this,” the doctor said. “Radiation necrosis.” He paused, giving Sydney time to digest what he was saying. I was thankful for that small kindness. For everything else, I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands.

“The area of your brain where your lesions were is now dying,” he explained.

“A side effect.” Sydney drew in a slow, steady breath and turned, looking me straight in the eye. “Son of a bitch.”

“Does it go away?” I asked, not wanting to overstep my bounds, but frantic for answers. How could this have happened? Why did it happen? How quickly could we fix it?

The doctor took a backward step, the move subtle. “The drug combination typically administered is the same combo you’re currently using.”

“That’s not working,” Sydney said flatly.

He flipped through her chart. “Evidently not. And based on the increase in affected area between today’s scan and your last, I’d say your necrosis is spreading.”

“But it’s not cancer?” I asked.

He blew out a breath, clearly anxious to get out of Sydney’s room. “Not in her brain.”

Sydney nodded, pressing a hand to her lips. A single tear ran down her cheek. I let go of her hand long enough to wipe it away before I interlaced our fingers once more.

“As for the paralysis,” he said, “we’ll increase your steroid dosage to get the inflammation down as much as possible.”

“Can she go home?” I asked, suddenly desperate to get her out of this place, away from the doctor and his chart and his words that sounded hopeful but were undoubtedly anything but.

“Let’s see what the morning brings,” he answered. “I want the results of that spinal tap.” Then he was gone.

The next morning a different doctor explained that Sydney’s spinal tap had been inconclusive. Based on her symptoms, however, the team felt the cancer had spread to her central nervous system.

I dropped my face to my palms, wanting to reverse time, wanting to undo the doctor’s words and this new reality.

“Prognosis?” Sydney asked, her voice steady, strong, amazing.

“A month or two.”

He might as well have kicked me. Based on the way Sydney grimaced, she felt the same. Although I was certain her pain resonated far more deeply.

Neither of us said a word until he was out of the room and the door swung shut.

“Let’s go home,” Sydney said.

“What about treatment?” I asked, desperate for something, anything that might change her apparent fate. “Surely there’s something we can try.”

She gave me a gentle look, her expression one of total resignation. “I’m done, Destiny. It’s over.”

“Not yet,” I said, grabbing on to my denial and squeezing tight.

But Sydney merely nodded. “Time’s up. I want to go home.”

“What if they’re wrong?” I asked, full of a hope so desperate it stole my breath.

Sydney only shook her head, knowing exactly what I meant. “It’s science,” she said. “As much as I hate it, it’s just science.”

“Not good enough. They can still be wrong.”

My ten-year-old self came back to life, clawing at any possibility of hope, any possibility of saving the person I loved.

I moved to Sydney’s side and grabbed her hands.

She breathed slowly, calmly. “I’ve been fighting this battle for four years. You’ve been fighting for two months. It’s enough. We live our lives, and we never stop to think how quickly things can change.” She lifted her tired gaze to mine. “Until they do.”

And then something shifted inside me. My desperation gave way, and my defeat took over.

“I don’t know how to watch you die,” I said softly. After all, I hadn’t watched my mother die.

This time, however, I wasn’t going anywhere. I’d stay by Sydney’s side and hold her hand, no matter how much my heart might hurt.

“Me, either,” Sydney answered.

Then I thought of Ella and how devastated she’d be by today’s news.

I thought of Ella and my promise to Sydney, the parallels between my life and my dad’s, and I understood how terrified he must have been.

“I don’t know how to raise an amazing kid like Ella.”

“Who does?” Sydney asked. “But I know you’ll do just fine.” Then she drove her last nail home. “I know you want to fix this.” She patted her chest. “Fix me. But maybe some things are just meant to stay broken.”