The Winner's Game (2 page)

“Totes,” I recently learned, is the lazy-teen vernacular for “totally.” And she's right, separating would be “totes lame.” Maybe that's why we're not calling it a separation. It's more just…an opportunity for some space.

Sadly, it isn't the first time in the past year that that particular question has been voiced in our home. It usually comes up after one of our arguments, during those awkward moments when we're still not speaking to each other.

“Oh, heaven's no,” Emily gushes. “This is just…given the circumstances and everything…and let's not forget it will be a good change of pace for everyone. So even if it's not the perfect situation, at least we'll be together as a family on weekends.”

“Absolutely,” I chime in, trying to be positive for the sake of the kids. “As many weekends as I can break away.” I focus on Bree, then ask, “Why would you ask that, sweetheart?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. Just making sure.”

Emily scoots closer to Bree on the couch and puts an arm around her. “It's been a really hard year, Breezy, and your father and I have certainly felt the strain that comes with adversity. But we love each other very much. So, other than Ann's well-being, there's nothing to worry about.”

Bree gives a nod that she understands, but I'm not sure that she completely bought it. “Um, OK.” She pauses momentarily, and then says, “New topic. Is it OK for Ann to be so far away from here if a heart becomes available?”

I glance at Cade, who looks a little squeamish. Talking about hearts so casually has never been easy for him. The unstated reality of his sister's remark, which he only recently fully grasped, is that a human heart only “becomes available” when its owner no longer requires it. Even as a macho eleven-year-old boy, he still clearly finds the thought unsettling.

“The doctors say it's fine,” I explain. “She'll have a pager on her at all times, and if we get a page—
when
we get a page—we'll just need to get to the hospital within a few hours. Cannon Beach is only seventy-five miles away, so we have a little buffer. And in many cases, the donor is on life support, so they wouldn't harvest the heart until we arrive. Worst case, they could arrange an ambulance service to get Ann there sooner if needed. But the doctor says the benefit of spending some relaxing time away at the beach far outweighs any risk of being farther away.”

I can't help but notice Cade cringing when I say “harvest,” as though we're talking about picking vegetables from a garden.

There is a momentary pause in the conversation, then Emily gently says, “Cade, you look like something's on your mind. Care to share?”

“Just thinking about Ann, I guess. She sometimes gets on my nerves and all that, but…I just hope she's gonna be all right.” Without blinking, he asks, “She is gonna be all right, isn't she, Mom?”

Emily's eyes start to fill up once more. She looks down briefly and then refocuses on our son. “There are no guarantees in life, Cade, so I can't make any promises. The situation isn't bleak, but neither is it rosy.” She stops to collect herself. “Ann understands the possible outcomes, and she's trying hard to process that right now. But I'll tell you what, I have no intentions of losing her. I have to believe there's a heart out there just waiting to be shared by someone who God calls home. When we go to the beach, we all just need to love her and allow her to enjoy it, and give her the peaceful, restful environment that she needs. The rest is in God's hands.”

“Mom…,” Cade says hesitantly, as though unsure how to voice what he's feeling. “I hope God has big hands.”

M
Y ENTIRE LIFE
is a solar eclipse. Have you ever seen one, when the moon passes between the earth and the sun, blocking out all of the glorious light? Yeah, that is
so
my life. I'm the sun, Ann is the moon, and she's always getting in my way. It's not that I'm not sympathetic to her very real, very unfortunate situation, but when will it be my turn to shine?

Mom and Dad say I have middle-child syndrome. I looked that up once, and I'm not so sure I do. I think I just have “undernoticed-child syndrome,” which is not even anything, 'cuz I just made it up, but it sounds like what I feel sometimes.

If I did happen to develop middle-child syndrome, though, I guess it wouldn't be like a big shock or anything. I mean, everything about me screams “middle”! Even my name is in the middle, and not by coincidence. My parents named us alphabetically from oldest to youngest—Ann, Bree, and Cade. Recently, though, Dad joked that they actually named us after the letter grades we would earn in school. I laughed when he said it, but in retrospect, it isn't very funny. Whatevs. I guess I should just be glad they didn't name me Faith. And b-t-dubs, his name is Dell—with a big fat D—so the joke is on him.

It is early in the afternoon on Sunday, and I'm busily going through the mail…with a clothes steamer and a steak knife.

“What are you doing?” Cade is standing in the doorway, staring at me and my tools.

I knew I should have locked myself in the bathroom!

“Oh, I'm telling Mom and Dad!” he shouts as he finally puts two and two together. “You're being sneaky.”

“I'm not being sneaky.
I'm bored
. But you're too young to understand.” I know he hates being painted as young and dumb, but sometimes I just like to get a rise out of him.

“Shut up.”

“What? It's true. Bored people sometimes do things that might be mistaken as sneaky, even if they're totally not. Heck, I wouldn't have even bothered getting the mail if I wasn't bored out of my mind for like the millionth day in a row.” I pause and smile. “It's because of you, Cade. Babysitting you is boring. You drove me to this.”

“Shut up,” he says again. “I'm not a baby and you're not my babysitter.” He motions to the letter in my hand. “Just open it already.”

The letter is from the school district, addressed to the parents of Ann Bennett. It came in the mail with a stack of medical bills that my parents will likely request to defer, since they're already overdue on others.

I slide the knife beneath the envelope's seal and gently peel it open.

Then I read it and groan. “You've got to be kidding! Why does she have to get all of the attention?”

“What does it say?”

I clear my throat so I can read it in the snootiest voice possible, 'cuz that's how it sounds in my head. “Listen to this:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bennett. We are pleased to inform you that Ann has been selected as Student of the Year. We realize that she has faced substantial adversity throughout the school year, which only magnifies the significance of her accomplishments. It is
no small feat that she has been able to maintain perfect grades during both semesters while working independently from home. We believe her success is a reflection of her dedication and commitment to education
…Blah, blah, blah.
We hope you are able to attend a year-end banquet, where she will be honored
…Blah, blah, blah.” I slap the letter on the counter, just to make sure he knows how upset I am. “Can you believe that? The whole education system is screwed up. She didn't even attend school, and they made her the Student of the Year! I got good grades too, you know! Mostly. Heck, I should get an award just for putting up with her all the time. Right?”

“I guess.”

“It's so unfair. Just because she's sick, she get's everything handed to her.
Ugh
. I hate her.”

“You do?”

“Yes!” I pause, then back off. “Well, maybe not ‘hate.' But not ‘like,' that's for sure.”

Do I have to like my sister? I mean, I think I love her—not out loud or anything, but inside. Isn't that enough? Do I have to like her too? I bet I'd like her a lot more if her health problems didn't overshadow everything I do!

My life is a solar eclipse.

I neatly fold up the paper, shove it back in the envelope, and reseal the flap. Part of me hopes she'll notice it was tampered with so I don't have to pretend to be surprised and happy for her when she announces the good news.

A few hours later, Ann comes home from the hospital wearing brand-new, fluffy, pink designer slippers. My best friend, who is lucky enough to be an only child, has the same exact pair in blue that I've been drooling over. I can't help but howl when I see them on Ann's feet. “Mom, I showed you those slippers at the mall just last week! I said they would make a nice present, but I didn't mean for
her
.” Redirecting my frustration to the recipient of my parents' generosity, I add, “Unbelievable. Every time you go to the doctor, you come home with something new. And what do I get? Stuck babysitting, that's what!
Totes lame!
I hardly even get to see my friends anymore because I'm always stuck at home with Cade!”

“Oh, excuse me for being born with a crappy heart,” replies Ann, her face heating up. “Maybe you'll feel better
after I die
.”

“Girls!” snaps Mom. “That's enough. And Ann, you're not going to die. You're going to get a new heart, so don't say that.”

Dad is carrying Ann's backpack so she won't have to lift it on her own. No surprise there; she never has to lift a finger. While setting it down on the counter he gives me “the glare.” “Remember what I said last night, young lady?
Peace
and
quiet.
No arguing, period. Especially with Ann.”

I deliberately roll my eyes. Interestingly, so does Ann. “I don't live in a bubble,” she tells him. “If Bree wants to express herself, I don't have a problem with that. I'd rather know how she really feels than have her walking on eggshells.”

“
I
have a problem with it,” Dad responds. “This family can—
and wants to—
support you while you're going through this. Isn't that right, Bree?”

“Right,” I mumble.

“Good. Now, is there something you'd like to say to your sister?”

I don't want to, but finally I say, “Sorry Ann. I…um…really like your slippers. Maybe someday I'll get a pair like that. You know…if I break my neck or something.”

Dad immediately points to the stairs. “To your bedroom.
Now.
And stay there until you can be a little nicer.”

“What?” I reply, throwing my arms up as I stomp out of the room. “I said sorry…”

I
DON'T KNOW
why Bree always gets so jealous. Sometimes I just want to scream at her, “You have a healthy body! What more do you want?” But a healthy body isn't the only thing she's got. She's popular, she's talented, she's got a ton of friends, she's got an outgoing personality. I could go on and on. And yet she's all jacked up about some dumb slippers that Mom picked up on discount to give me something to smile about after learning that I need a heart transplant?

Does she not understand that I'm a time bomb waiting to explode, and that I might not ever get a heart? Or that even if they find a decent match, my body could reject it?

I love Bree, but sometimes she gets on my nerves. I wish she'd see that I'm the one who should be jealous of her. She wants my slippers, but I would love to be in her shoes. Still, I would never wish my problems on Bree. She's got too much potential that would be wasted. People would miss her if she had a heart attack and died. If it happens to me, I doubt anyone will know the difference…

I'm sitting by myself in the living room when Cade comes up from behind and pokes his nose over my shoulder. “Whatcha got?”

I hold it up for him to see. “My pager. It's sort of my lifeline. I'm supposed to keep it with me day and night for when they find me a heart.”

“Why don't they just call your cell phone?”

“This has a better signal. They can pretty much reach me anywhere, even without a cell tower nearby.”

He's fascinated, so I let him hold it. He cradles it gently, like a baby bird. It's all black and about the size of my palm, with a belt clip on one side and a digital display for text on the top. “Pretty cool,” he says.

“Actually, not so cool.” It's hard to put it in words, but I try my best to explain to him that ever since they gave it to me I have this constant pit in my stomach. I keep looking at it, thinking it could start buzzing at any moment, but then it doesn't, which is nerve-racking. It's like I can't relax with it near me, but I probably couldn't relax without it either, because I'd be too worried about missing my page. Kinda sucks.

“Is that why you're staring at it?” he asks. “Hoping it will go off?”

“No. I was just thinking how—Never mind. You'll think I'm stupid.”

“No I won't.”

“Yeah, you will. I know you.”

Cade sits up as tall as he can. “I won't! Cross my heart and hope to die.”

The comment hits me hard, and I don't bother hiding my reaction. He immediately apologizes and says he'll never say that again.

I think about it for a second, then tell him not to be sorry, because I've said that a thousand times too. I just never thought about what it means until right now. It's really kind of morbid.

After a brief silence, I decide to answer his question, just to change the subject. I take back the pager and hold it gingerly in my hand. “I was thinking…it's like me,” I tell him quietly. “Kind of vanilla. Plain. All it does is sit around waiting for something to happen.”

He looks confused. “You're like the pager?”

“Uh-huh. I saw doctors at the hospital walking around with these cool, flashy ones—very sleek and shiny. But they gave me the plain black one. No style, just a little boring.”

I'm not trying to be critical of myself…just self-aware. It's no secret that I like to play it safe. Apart from swimming, I've always had a hard time putting myself out there, I guess. I'm nothing like my sister in that regard—she's anything but safe.

Is it a bad thing to be the dependable and predictable one? Or would it be better to be like Bree, carefree and spontaneous?

I like who I am, but sometimes I wonder. Just once, instead of playing the hostess, it might be nice to be the life of the party.

Cade seems surprised that I just called myself—and the pager—boring. “So change it,” he says.

“I can't just give it back to the hospital and ask for another one.”

“No. I mean
change
it. Paint it or something. Make it less boring.”

“Can I do that?” I admit, I feel dumb posing that question to my little twerp of a brother, but it's really more of a rhetorical question.

“You're asking me? I'm eleven. But if it's your pager…” He leaves the thought blowing in the wind, perhaps hoping it will land somewhere fertile and take root.

It does.

I stare at Cade for several seconds, and then at the pager, and then again at Cade. “You know what?” I say eventually. “I am going to change…the pager. Stay here.” I get up and leave the room without saying another word. In a few minutes I return downstairs with six or seven bottles of nail polish, all different colors. Cade doesn't have socks on, so he quickly tucks his feet beneath himself to hide his toes—I painted them once before with alternating pink and purple, and his friends still tease him about it. For the next twenty minutes I methodically dip and dab until a colorful picture begins to emerge on the pager's black plastic shell.

“Who is it going to be?” Cade asks as a face takes shape on the front of the pager, with pearlescent highlights flowing down the sides and back.

“Just a face,” I tell him. “A friend. Someone to look back at me until I get my heart.”

In the end, my enamel friend has sparkly orange hair, lavender eyes, hot-pink lips, and French-vanilla teeth. The final touch is a ruby-red heart on the pager's lower-right corner, where the figure's chest would be.

“I think I'll call her Page.”

“Pretty cool,” he says when I give him a closer look.

“Yeah,” I reply, feeling a sense of pride in what I've done. Then a horrifying thought occurs to me: “Dad's going to kill me.”

“Nah. He'll only be mad for a minute. He won't yell at you anyway. You're off-limits, at least until after the transplant.”

Cade's right. Dad and Mom let me get away with just about anything, because they don't want to upset me in any way. It's kind of nice, but I know it drives Bree and Cade crazy sometimes, because they don't get away with anything.

I lower Page and absently reply, “Yeah…until then.”

I'm about to get up and head to my room, but a muffled cry from the other end of the house stops me. “Was that…?”

Cade looks worried. He whispers, “I think they're fighting again.”

A few seconds later a door slams shut, then it slams shut again. In no time at all, my father comes striding through the living room, tailed by my mom. He's fuming. She's crying.

He's headed for the closet to grab a jacket. She's maneuvering to the front door to block it.

Neither of them seem to notice us on the couch, so we just sit there, watching the drama unfold. If we had popcorn, this might feel like a movie. And the script would go something like this:

I hate hearing them talk like that. I wish I could just get up and run out the door myself so I wouldn't have to witness the crumbling of their marriage. But I am held in place by the worst kind of fear there is.

The fear of the unknown.

The fear of not knowing what the future holds for our family.