Dana's Valley (30 page)

“But you've got more to do.”

“It can keep.” He seemed to have decided not to let me outmaneuver him this time.

I headed down the empty hallway, and he followed close behind. Suddenly I was angry with him too, and I turned to face him. “You don't understand, Graham. You don't know what it's like. You just don't understand.”

“
Make
me understand.”

“You can't!” My hands began to shake a little. “Please, leave me alone. I just need to be alone.” It sounded like Corey's words echoing in my mind.

“But, Erin, you're my best friend. You're more than a friend. Let me help.”

The words exploded from me with pent-up emotion. “How can you say that? You don't even know me.”

Graham recoiled, his face full of confusion.

“This … this idea you have of me … it's not what you think it is.” The words burst from me, and there was no going back now. “It's not even real. It's like a game. I pretend to be what I think you want me to be. But I'm not that. I'm not like you … and I can't pretend anymore. I don't believe that … that God is what He's supposed to be.”

I could see he was hurt and bewildered, but I couldn't stop. “And I don't care anymore. I don't even care what happens to Dana.” Once the words were out, I knew they weren't true. I cared very much. “I mean, I don't think I can … I don't think I have the ability to care anymore.”

At Graham's stunned look, I hurried on. “You don't know. … You can't understand. You've never had anything bad happen to you, so you can just go on believing that God is … is like a … a Santa Claus or something.” Tears by now were pouring down my cheeks as I looked up at him. Graham stared back at me for a long time. I finally spoke again. “I lost my sister a long time ago. Don't you understand?
My
Dana is not the body that's lying in that hospital. She was … she
was
my friend. She was my
best
friend.” I could hardly go on, but I forced myself to be truthful. “I don't pray about her anymore, Graham. I don't pray about anything. I don't think God listens. I don't think He cares about me, and I sure don't think He cares about her.” My last words were nearly drowned out by my sobs.

Graham stepped back. I covered my face with my hands so I wouldn't actually see him walk away. I turned to lean against the cold concrete wall and gave myself to weeping.

It was some time before I gained enough control to begin wiping away the tears. When I finally gathered myself together and pushed away from the wall, I was shocked to find that Graham was still there.

He was silent, still confused, and even looked scared. But he hadn't walked away as I'd expected. And now that my outburst had passed, I was too embarrassed to say anything more.

Graham eventually seemed to find courage to speak. “I know you're angry. And I know you're hurt. It's true that I can't feel what you feel. I can only imagine. But, Erin”—his eyebrows knitted together and he searched my face closely—“don't say God doesn't care. Because He does. And someday this will be over, and you'll be facing Him. You can either be ashamed of the way you respond now, or you can use this as a time to show your faith. To grow.”

“But I don't
have
faith anymore,” I insisted, the tears threatening again. He clearly hadn't heard a word I'd spoken.

“I don't believe you, Erin. You're being lied to. Satan is using this to try to tear you down. But God won't let him. I know that is true.”

Satan? I wondered why we needed to include him in this conversation. It was God. Wasn't it God's decision that Dana be sick and God's choice that we watch her suffer? But Graham sounded absolutely certain that my confusion was from another source. An evil one. Could I have been wrong in blaming God?

After a heavy silence, Graham offered, “Do you want me to drive you home?”

I just nodded.

The ride was a silent one. It wasn't until Graham walked me to the door that he spoke again. “I'm going to pray for you, Erin. I'm going to pray that you face up to God. If we can't see each other anymore, that's okay. I don't want you to have to pretend. Not to me or to anybody. But I do care about you. Very much. Like a sister, if that's all you want. The most important thing is that you get your view of God lined up with the truth. That you don't lose your faith in Him. That's what matters most. I'll be praying for you. Every day.”

Graham took a deep breath, tried for a smile, and walked away then. I stood and watched him go. I was astonished that his faith was so unshakable.

I saw very little of Graham for the remainder of the summer. I wasn't sure if he was angry with me, but I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter all that much. And I was so truly relieved to feel like I could stop living a lie all the time. But I missed him deeply—most of all his ability to make me laugh. But at least I felt like I could be honest again.

Dana came home near the beginning of August, just as we were gearing up for school. This would be my sophomore year, and I wondered how much of it would be used up in emergency calls during the middle of the night, lengthy conversations with inquisitive friends about Dana's health, and taking care of all the things Mom was too tired or too busy with Dana to do. But I was glad they were home again. Even with Dana requiring so much care. It was better for Corey this way. I supposed it was better for me too.

I missed our other house more than ever. Cramped closets, close quarters, and no place to go to get away from the situation made me feel boxed in.

Corey was starting fourth grade, and it seemed easier for him to be back in school. It filled his days. There were friends to see and challenges for him to conquer. Summer had been hard for him. He'd spent far too much time alone.

Brett, of all things, had started to come around to visit or to stop for supper. I wondered where he stood, and if he was still angry about taking second place to Dana's disease. He never said anything to me. And I didn't ask.

But Dana was still not really improving. She stayed in her room all day, though she was able to sit at her computer some of the time. I think it was her way of reaching outside her limitations, gaining some measure of freedom. I was glad she'd found
something
she could do to pass the time.

No matter how late it was when I finally entered our room to retire, Dana was still awake. Still restless. We talked then. I couldn't avoid it. It seemed strange at first. It had been so long since we'd really talked. At first it was just polite little snatches of conversation. I didn't ask her how she was feeling. I guess I was afraid she might tell me. I didn't want to discuss her illness. I didn't want to hear of more complicated medical procedures that weren't working.

Instead, I told her little things about my day. About friends we had in common. Just little bits of news that I heard at school or in the town.

Gradually the conversations grew longer, more complex, until I found myself actually looking forward to them. It was
almost
like it had been before Dana became so ill. But then I'd look over at her as she grimaced with a sudden pain, or closed her eyes tightly while she struggled to take a deep breath, and all the joy would go from the exchange. Pretending didn't change things. Dana was very sick. Then I'd suggest that she needed her sleep and turn over with my back to her so I wouldn't need to watch her. It was hard to block it all out. I found myself wishing the house were bigger. That I didn't have to share a room with Dana. I even thought that I couldn't wait until I'd be able to move out of the house. Anything to block out the glimpses of a sister who was so sick, who needed so much.

We had very little time to readjust to Dana's being at home. Her frequent visits back to the cancer treatment center revealed that the marrow transplant had not been effective. She would need to be readmitted, and the prognosis was quite grim. Dad said the cancer had spread to some of her other organs. I shuddered when I thought about the patchwork of disease that her body had become.

And it had been given a new name—
acute myeloid leukemia.
It sounded much worse to me. I didn't know if they'd misdiagnosed her in the first place, if this had developed in addition to what she'd already had, or if it had been that all along and they'd just put the real name to it. But it was very sobering.

Dana's attitude had changed along with the new diagnosis. She seemed resigned to the fact that she would not get well again. She had not seemed surprised by her worsening condition. She had not tried to fight against it in any way. Almost as if she had expected it.

We packed her things and carried them back out to the car. She had hardly gotten back to us, though it had been over a month. I wished I could feel numb as I so often had before. I tried to put the emotions aside, but it was as if the calloused wounds around my heart had broken open again. I loved her so much. And yet—I could hardly admit it even to myself—I almost hated her too. I tried in my mind to separate her from the disease, but it had so completely consumed her. And the fact that she seemed to accept the additional diagnosis so easily only increased my anger about it all.

With no outward trace of my turmoil, I gingerly hugged my sister good-bye. She was sixteen. She was bald, frail, emaciated, and sick. And she had already wasted three long years of her life fighting leukemia. I turned away and walked toward our little house.

I had never before been to visit Dana at the treatment center, but Dad and Mom had sent word for us to come. That in itself was a little scary, though they tried to assure us that there was no immediate crisis. “It's time” was all Mom said.

Brett drove. He and Corey and I rode together. We even had to take a map along to make sure we could find our way. Brett had paid little attention when Dad had done the driving. Mom or Dad could probably have driven there in their sleep—and it was likely they had come very close to it on occasion.

We asked at the front desk to be given directions to Dana Walsh's room. The receptionist smiled broadly and called an attendant to show us the way.

“We all love Dana,” she informed us. “She's a favorite here.”

I cringed. Who would want to be a
favorite
at a cancer treatment center? But I followed along behind the young woman in white. The walk from the nurses' station to Dana's room took us down several long hallways. And of course there was evidence of the sick all along the way. There was the hospital odor hanging in the air, and wheeled carts carrying medications, and gleaming medical equipment stored here and there. Snatches of conversations reached us as we passed each open door, carried on by low, respectful voices. Nurses worked behind their counters at almost every turn. Most of the patients who walked toward us down the hall or rested in the small sitting areas were old. Here and there was someone who looked to be the age of Mom or Dad. I thought about Dana, here among the elderly, dying alongside them. It just wasn't fair.

God must not care about fairness, I thought fleetingly.

Then the attendant pushed through a double set of doors, and I realized that I had been wrong about this being the domain of the aged. Here were the children. All ages. All descriptions. Many of them had bald shiny heads or else hats that betrayed their attempt to hide the fact. I noticed some with missing limbs. Those who were lying in the rooms we passed were hooked to tubes for medications and nutrition. Yet many of them were smiling, as if they were not in a hospital being poked and cut and forced to endure all manner of sickness in the name of healing. I choked back my tears and turned my head away.

I could hear Mom's voice, and I knew we were approaching Dana's room. I braced myself for the white~ness, the starkness, the smell of disinfectant.

Dana's room was nothing like I expected. There were balloons on the window ledge, waving brightly with each gust of air, and stuffed animals on the little table by the door. The walls were covered with cards and letters—many of them e-mails that had been printed and saved. And there were pictures everywhere.