Empty Promises (The Promises Series Book 3) (2 page)

I did the whole clichéd,
Oh, my god, this can’t be happening to me
breakdown right then and there in my oncology consultant’s office. Blair, Mom, and Dad sat silently; I think they were in shock. Interestingly enough, not one of us cried. They sat like rabbits in headlights, while I paced the room, refusing to accept the words being spoken. We left the hospital with vacant looks plastered over our faces, the news still floating around in our heads, refusing to seep in.

I woke up this morning feeling … different than the previous few days. I think I’ve graduated from denial and have boarded a raft, ready to navigate the treacherous waters of anger. It’s as if someone’s unleashed the freaking Kraken.

Mom is the first to feel my wrath.

She brings me a glass of orange juice to take with my Dexamethasone because she forgot the hospital withdrew my treatment schedule and replaced it with a palliative care plan. I scream at her—a blood-curdling high-pitched wail of a scream. She cries, then I cry and apologize before retreating back to my bedroom.

I catch my reflection as I cross the room and notice the breakout over my forehead and cheeks; it’s just another thing to add to the
“
Stuff That Sucks in the Life of Emily Wilson
”
list. Taking me off of my daily dose of chemo has my body in shock, and the toxins need an outlet, so my face seems to be it. When my treatment was stopped for a couple of weeks after I contracted e-coli last summer, the spots came and went pretty quickly, but a deep purple rash over your face is embarrassing and hard to hide.

I suppose I should focus on the good points:

1. I’m not feeling sick.

I’ve been on medication for so long that my body’s used to the feeling of being continuously not quite one hundred percent. It’s like my
normal
has been reset now that the drugs have stopped and are leaving my system.

2. I have energy instead of feeling bone tired.

I wasn’t even aware my energy levels had changed.
Weird, huh?
I don’t want to get too excited; soon the cancer will kick my ass, and I won’t have chemo as a buffer so the meds will start again. I should treat this stage as a gift because I’m not sure how long I’ll feel this good.
Good
…

What a cruel joke this is becoming.

It’s been almost three hours of rocking back and forth on the bed, trying to calm the urge to smash and destroy anything and everything.

I’m a mess.

I’m a horrible daughter.

I’m dying.

I hear the doorbell chime and then the sound of the door being opened. I don’t need to go and see who it is; I know it’s Blair. She always lets herself in but makes sure to ring the bell first. It started when we were around thirteen years old. Our paths must have crossed as I’d made my way to her house at the same time that she’d decided to come over here. My parents, much to my complete horror, had taken the opportunity for a nooner. Blair walked in on them in the kitchen as my dad was buttoning up his pants and my mom was flustered and fixing her shirt. She’s always used the doorbell without fail ever since. I’d have found the whole situation much more amusing, had it not been my parents. Ew!

I hear her shout her hellos to my parents, then I wait the few seconds it takes for her to reach my room and crack the door.

“You awake?” she asks quietly as she peeks her head in. She enters when she notices me sitting amidst the rumpled sheets of my bed.

“I’ll warn you now,” I tell her sternly, “I’m in a shitty mood and I don’t have the energy to smile and fake it ‘til I make it.”

“That’s okay. I’ve come to wallow with you. School was a nightmare yesterday. I don’t think I can face going back Monday morning. I swear that you not being there tilts my axis. Want to hear something that will no doubt make you smile?” she asks, widening her eyes. It sounds like she’s issuing a dare.

“Go on, then.” I raise what’s left of my thinning brow.
You’re gonna fail
I think as I issue a bored stare. She smirks, and I mirror it.

“Okay, you ready for this?” She wiggles around on the bed, getting comfy. “My mom made breakfast burritos for me yesterday to try and cheer me up.” She lets out a little grimace as if she’s feeling bad for mentioning that she’s been upset. “Anyway, you know me and Mexican food … I ate three and then headed off to school, just like I would any other day. I make my way to first period AP English and my tummy starts to churn. I’m thinking it’s probably because I stuffed myself with enough food to feed a small army and then rushed to get to class on time, so I ignored it. But the churning didn’t subside—it got worse.”

“Um, okay then. So you had a stomach ache at school … what’s funny about that?”

She shakes her head a little and a flash of humiliation passes across her face. Her thick chocolate hair is piled messily on top of her head and her glasses slip as she scrunches her nose. “I haven’t finished yet. So yeah, my stomach was beginning to cramp and I didn’t feel at all well, so I raised my hand and asked to be excused. Mr. Wilde gave this stupid speech about using the restrooms before class like we were all a bunch of kindergarteners, which was only mildly embarrassing in the scheme of things. By that time, he’d shifted the entire class’s focus on to me and I was getting really desperate. He told me I could be excused and I practically jumped from my seat, ready to haul ass to the bathroom. The movement didn’t agree with me though. I let out the biggest fart you have ever heard. It was awful. Everyone, and I do mean EVEREEEY-ONE, burst out laughing. Even Mr. Wilde.

“That’s not even the worse part. It smelled so freaking bad that Jen Gray and Ali Greig, who were in the row behind me, actually started to gag. And not the dramatic fake kind either. It was real. Don’t even get me started on the crazy Asian girl that they hang with. You know, the one TJ Connors so affectionately labeled the ‘Crazian’. Nobody has been able to understand a thing that’s come out of her mouth all semester since she transferred. Seems that the language barrier has been removed now, which meant that the whole class could hear and understand when she managed to shout, ‘Oh, my eyes are burning!’ in perfect freaking English! Damn Mexican food!”

I don’t want to laugh.

I want to reel in my anger and self-pity.

But how can I not?

I feel my cheeks begin to rise and a smile tug at the corner of my lips before I give in and fall backward on my bed giggling. “Oh my god, I wish I’d seen that!”

“Trust me, you did not want to see it—or smell it, for that matter. Seriously, why does this shit always happen to me? I should be banned from public spaces.” She grins, falling down beside me. She knows, easy as that, her work here is complete. She’s successfully pulled me out of my stupor in two minutes flat.

For now…

“So I’ll wait out here for you, and then we’re going for ice-cream if you feel up to it.” Blair motions to the white leather couches of Dr. Zahn’s waiting room. It feels more like a glossy, high-end reception of a media company with all the chrome, glass and white Barcelona chairs. I take a deep breath, and the smell of the calla lilies sitting in a huge glass vase on the sectional table infiltrates my senses. I should probably dislike it here, but I don’t. I
almost
enjoy talking to Dr. Zahn; she doesn’t look at me with pity in her eyes. I respect that.

“Okay, thirty minutes. Yeah.” I look at the only other person in the waiting room. He’s a tall blond guy with messy hair and an obnoxiously tight gray T-shirt that reads, “This is my happy face!” in bold, black letters. I nod my head in his direction, grinning at Blair. They'd make a great match; she loves her slogan tees. “Have fun,” I murmur, trying to alert her to the guy’s presence, but she’s oblivious.

“Good afternoon, Emily. Is your mother not joining us today?” the doctor asks as she moves from behind her desk over to the chairs positioned around a small, circular, glass table in the corner of her office.

“Not today. Blair brought me. She’s in the waiting room,” I answer as I take a seat.

“Very well. Let’s get started and not keep her waiting.” I watch as she shrugs out of her pale-blue suit jacket and drapes it over the back of her chair. “How are you feeling today?”

It’s such a simple question; one that most people could probably answer subconsciously. Not me, though. A million emotions stir in my stomach and chest, and my mind grasps at the first thought that enters it.

“Cheated.”

“She wants you to keep a diary?” Blair asks as we’re walking through the mall, our trajectory set to Joe’s Creamery.

“Yeah, you know what shrinks are like—they love for you to document your feelings. I don’t know … I mean, it’s not like I don’t sort of do it anyway. You know I write in my journal most days.”

“So what are you going to do? Just carry on with that or start a new one?” she asks as we reach the parlor’s entrance.

A bunch of hyped-up kids barrel through the door holding half-eaten cones dripping with chocolate and sprinkles, knocking us out of their way. A frazzled-looking woman, I’m guessing their mom, rushes after them. She shoots us an apologetic look as she simultaneously shouts at the kids not to run or touch anything with sticky fingers, all the while balancing her purse and a heap of jackets and toys under her arms. I watch as the woman struggles.

I’m jealous.

Jealous of troubles I’m never going to have. The feeling burns in my chest as though I’ve just chugged a scalding hot cup of coffee, setting fire to my insides. “I’m not sure yet … probably a new one. Anyway, let’s not talk about cancer diaries. I need ice-cream!”

July 16
th
, 2013

(*5 months)

Dear Diary,

So I’ve decided to take Dr. Zahn’s advice and keep a diary about how I’m feeling. Although, I’m doing things a little differently than what she suggested. Instead of it being all about this stupid, cruel disease—which, by the way, fuck you, cancer—I’ve decided to write it as a memoir. At least this way I’m leaving something behind; I’m leaving my mark. It’s not exactly going to be a huge mark. In fact, it will probably be more of a scuff, but it’s something.