Disclaimer…I don't own anything. The style this is written in was made awesome by Jodi Picoult and probably many other brilliant authors before her. I do not profit from anything.
Author's Note…I'm a little worried that a few lines in this chapter were clichéd…could anybody care to enlighten me as to if they were or not? Thanks! No, I'm not tricking anybody into leaving reviews, I'm just curious if anyone agrees…I swear! Nothing else to say here, except that I'm listening to "Be My Baby" as I'm doing the final edit and you can make fun of me all you want, but that song just happens to rock. Remember it? It's from the original "Dirty Dancing."
"The life so short, the craft so long to learn."
-Hippocrates
Cameron
Everywhere there is black; all I can see is black. My gown--no, my dress--is black, the seats are black, the people (who, by the way, are all carrying small pebbles in their hands) that are following me everywhere I go are in black. Everything is tainted and dirty and old and dead. The only thing that is white is Johanna's grim, sleeping body lying in a long box, but still, it is deprived of color and Johanna is nothing without her color. This is how I know I am having a nightmare.
I look around, my pupils shrinking, overwhelmed by all the darkness. Finally; I spot him; James Evan Wilson, standing in front of me yet very far away, doing a remarkable impression of a zombie.
I walk toward him, the people behind me trailing my dull flats (which miraculously do not fall off my feet) and see that, contrary to my earlier idea, James is not pretending to be a ravenous cannibal.
Rather, he is just made-up like one, his face gray and drawn, his hair askew.
I know nightmares are usually terrifying, but this is ludicrous.
I turn around slowly and demand the horrifyingly familiar man behind me to tell me where the hell I am.
He puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Al, don't you remember? She left us; she's not ours anymore."
XXXxxxXXX
I wake up suddenly, my breathing shallow. I remember crying last night, and I remember hearing somebody besides myself cry although I could not identify who it was exactly, but I do not remember the tears lasting into my slumber.
Al. Only one person has ever called me 'Al', and he has been dead for nine years.
Why the hell am I dreaming about Bryan? And why are we at Johanna's funeral?
Even though it is purely hypothetical, the two words put in the same thread of thought is enough to send shivers down my spine. Ironic; I have been wishing all these years to see Bryan just one more time, if only to hear him tell me that I did the right thing, and when he finally comes back to me, it is to deliver the message that our daughter has joined him.
The nightmare is disturbingly similar to the dream I had just last night. About marrying another man, I realize with a sick feeling in my stomach.
Last night. It seems like a year ago.
My breathing becoming less erratic, I shove the events of last night out of my mind and try to remember what I was doing a year ago. That was the time of the accident. I don't know what happened while I was 'out', so to speak, but I do know that once I was back 'in', everything had changed. It was only a few hours, Jimmy told me, but those hours were filled with events that could barely fit into a single lifetime.
The accident made me wonder what would have happened if it really had been fatal. I realize that once I was in more than a few doctor's care, my life wasn't in danger for a second but frankly; it does not matter to the family what the doctors say. Every minute is another perfect opportunity for something to go wrong; every second is another chance for somebody to die.
It doesn't have to be in the ER, you know. Life, death, and time exist in discord wherever you go, three elements there is literally no escape from. You can get hit by a car during your best day or your worst day. You can succumb to a latent heart disease any month of the year. Anybody who has lived through tragedy, who has had an emotional tornado rip at her heart, can tell you that nothing is random. The car was driving somewhere; the syndrome entered your body somehow, even if it started from the inside out.
I sit up and look around. The apartment is dead empty. Jimmy and Johanna must have gone…somewhere. It's Johanna's last Monday in school, so she must be there, and there is absolutely no reason why Jimmy wouldn't be at work.
As there is no reason he wouldn't have woken me up.
I glance at the clock; it's 9:33. Groaning slightly, I get off the coach, a thin blanket falling around my feet. I see that the computer has not been shut off properly, and I know that if I do not restart the embarrassingly fragile device, it will crash.
Surprisingly, there is a note taped to the screen. I smile as I recognize Jimmy's messy handwriting, and read as I work the computer:
Dear Allie,
I'm so sorry.
Sorry about what?
But then the computer comes back to life and the screen slowly lights up.
I press my hand to my mouth and read the flight information. It takes my vision thirty-three seconds to become so blurred so that I cannot see anything through it, but that is enough time for me to realize that Johanna and Jimmy are long gone.
Coincidently, that's how long it takes for a heart to break.
I close my eyes--not that they're doing anything--and push the chair back. Like a zombie, I walk back to my room and start to get changed into more professional attire. As I fold the blanket that fell to the floor earlier, I call House, telling him that the reason I'm late is because everyone overslept and I had to take Johanna to school. I apologize and assure him it will never happen again and say it more confidently then I should.
He really doesn't care either way.
XXXxxxXXX
Hilary
Everywhere there is color, all I can see is brilliant color. My outfit is a sassy shade of red, the seats are splashes of orange and yellow, the doctors (who, by the way, are all carrying brightly-hued first aid kits) that are following me everywhere I go are all wearing funky tie-dye lab coats. Everything is fun and cheery and vivacious and youthful. Even Megan is radiating color, her long blonde hair swishing around her waist, the ends still purple. This is how I know I am dreaming; Megan hasn't had hair for six months.
I look around, my pupils shining, reflecting the sheer beauty of it all. Finally, I spot her; little Johanna Cathryn, standing in front of me yet very far away, doing a remarkable impression of a custom-built angel.
I walk towards her, the doctors hot on my chic shoes, (which miraculously do not twist my ankles) and see that, contrary to my earlier belief, Johanna is not the response to my oft-repeated prayer.
Rather, she is merely dressed as one; a hospital gown billowing around her knees, and toting an IV bag like the one we gave her for Halloween. But instead of being filled with candy that my husband and I meticulously check for broken wrappers, it is carrying life-saving marrow, full of microscopic warriors.
I know dreams are supposed to reveal your strongest desires, but this is fairly obvious.
I turn around carefully, as so not to wake myself up, and ask Shawn (who has appeared out of nowhere) why we can't do this when we're awake.
He puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Hil, don't you remember? She left us; she's not ours anymore."
XXXxxxXXX
I awaken slowly, my subconscious still trying to hang on to my fantasy. A smile spreads across my face, even though my eyes remain firmly shut. Slumber is perhaps the only place where I can live free of worry, and I am in no rush to leave it. But then my ears wake up, and I can hear the steady, constant rhythm of machines attached to my daughter. This jerks me back to my dreaded reality, the reality that only exists in most people's nightmares.
My eyes search the stark white hospital room. It has become a temporary-permanent residence for Megan, if such a thing even exists. She lives here, but not forever. But there are only ways out of the Pam Sanders Cancer Wing of Mercy Hospital; remission and death. Of the two, we have already used one.
"Have a nice nap," I hear someone jocularly inquire. I do not need to see his tired face to know it is Shawn who has asked me.
I shift so that I am sitting upright, rather than have my back at a crammed angle and smile wearily at Shawn. "Yeah."
"Still look tired."
Of course I'm still tired; Shawn should know better than anyone that the natural result of being the parent of a cancer patient is perpetual exhaustion. But we have never admitted this truth to each other. Rather, we walk on like resigned soldiers, knowing whatever life throws at you is, well, life. So, instead of complaining to my husband about the dull pain in the small of my back or the headache that is pressing against my temples, I ask him in a hushed voice if Megan is sleeping, or just resting with her eyes closed.
"Just resting with my eyes closed," Megan answers for him. "And awake or not, I'm still right here."
I stand up and stretch before walking over to her bed. "Would you have preferred it if I left the room to ask?"
Her eyes still shut, Megan smirks weakly, and, out of habit, I kiss her forehead, searching for a fever. I still can't decide which will cause my stomach to sink further down; it being dangerously warm or dangerously cool.
I'm happier not knowing.
Megan winces suddenly and I glance at the clock; it is 3:20. The nurses were supposed to give her morphine at 3:15. "Did the nurses come yet," I ask Shawn sharply.
Megan shifts semi-painfully in her bed and opens her eyes. They're Shawn's eyes, a gentle shade of gray that used to be surrounded by light eyelashes. They fell out months ago, along with her hair. "They came a couple minutes ago, Mom," Megan says carefully, being gentle on her sore mouth. "It's just taking a little longer for it to kick in."
I remember the first time the drug was administered to Megan, I wasn't afraid, not for a single minute, she would become addicted. Although I will never admit this to anyone; it was because deep down, I believed she wouldn't live to get the chance. On the surface, I take everything in stride but if you ever take it all off, then you'll see I'm scared and I'm cowering and I'm crying and I'm second-guessing every step I take and I'm wondering if maybe just maybe it's time to let her go. I want to give my daughter the best life possible, and when something as big as this is preventing it, maybe the best life for her is no life at all.
And as soon as this thought crosses my mind, I immediately berate myself for being a terrible mother. What is wrong with me; wanting to let my child die? Do I have no heart? No soul?
After Megan had gone into remission, I didn't go back to work, even though the same position was waiting exclusively for me. Coworkers I used to be friends with when I had the time asked me how I could be so self-sacrificing as to give up the job I loved to take care of my daughters, one of whom was not even biological. The answer is simple, really; it was easier to think about the two of them than it was to think about me. My girls were wholesome and good and pure. I, on the other hand, played host to thoughts about burying my daughter.
When the cancer came back, it slipped into our lives with disturbing ease. Like a well-rehearsed routine, we went in for chemo appointments, infections, and the various other maladies associated with cancer. We already had white sheets to make dirt easy to detect, the super-strength cleaning products simply needed to be dusted, and we had all become so accustomed to a diet designed specifically for cancer patients, we never went back to 'real' food. No pun intended, but the manner in which the disease fit our family like a glove was sickening. It made me wonder if we were specifically designed for cancer, if it literally chose us out of a line-up that took place before we were even born.
Every time I think that, I can't help but wonder what the hell we did to deserve it.
Perhaps the powers that be know that we have done nothing to deserve it, but that we--or, more specifically, I--will do something to deserve it. It's just…these thoughts…they become all-consuming, even if you hate them. A black hole in my mind, sucking up every hope for Megan I have.
There is a soft knock at the door. "It's open," I tell their shadows, stating the obvious. Our guests don't even have to push the knob; it is our personal policy to allow for easy access for doctors and nurses, if, G/d forbid, they suddenly need to get to Megan immediately. She hates this breach of privacy with a passion, but I am firm in keeping it. How awful would it be if Megan died because help couldn't get to her fast enough, even though she is in a hospital?
See, the only good thing about these thoughts is that they stay inside. Actions speak louder than words, especially those unsaid.
The first person to enter is a man about Shawn's age with bags under his eyes and ruffled brown hair. I vaguely remember passing him in the hallway earlier today when he was standing awkwardly outside the women's bathroom. I had found such solace in the fact that the world continues spinning and people are still being embarrassed that I had volunteered to go in and get the presumably young lady he was waiting for. (I doubted he would be so uncomfortable waiting for a girlfriend or wife.) He had blushed and shaken his head, but thanked me anyway.
Now, he turns to his partner in room-raiding and encourages her to come forth. Normally, my instincts do not allow for strange visitors--everybody we really need to see we meet with in a bland office--but I decide to let this one slide.
Suddenly, I hear Shawn gasp and a muffled cry escapes from Megan. I turn to them, looking for an explanation, but they can only stare in shock.
"Meg?"
The voice is small and tentative, but I recognize it immediately. Before I can get a glimpse of her, before I can see how much she's grown in the past few years, another voice interrupts me: "Joey?"
It's her sister's.
Johanna runs past the man, past Shawn, past me, and jumps ever-so gently onto the bed, where Megan eclipses her in a giant hug.
I let out a breath I did not even know I was holding and do not fail to notice that, for the first time in years, the hospital reminds me of home.
