Send Me a Sign Page 5

But I did. When the thing you’re fighting is your own body, you don’t get tag-team allies. There’s no “sitting out this round” or “taking a breather.” I was at war with myself, and that’s lonely.

  “That woman!” Mom huffed as she stormed into my hospital room.

  “Who? What happened?” I put my laptop on the side table and turned toward her.

  “Nancy Russo crossed the line this time. She asked me who your counselor was.”

  “Same as Gyver’s. Ms. Piper is the only guidance counselor at East Lake,” I answered.

  “No, like therapist.” Mom spat out the word. “Like you need a therapist! You’re popular and well adjusted. You’re a cheerleader! If Nancy spent half as much time worrying about her own son, maybe Gyver wouldn’t have turned out like that.”

  I gave myself half a second to be grateful Gyver had already left before asking, “Like what?”

  “Introverted.” Mom pronounced it like it was the worst possible swear word. In her mind it probably was. “And then she had the gall to suggest family counseling. Like I’m some crack mother she’s arrested who can’t take care of her own daughter. Family counseling!”

  “You know she didn’t mean it like that.”

  She tutted at me and went back to being offended. Their friendship was a one-sided competition and I knew from experience that my defending Mrs. Russo only made Mom feel more threatened.

  I picked up my laptop and resumed the e-mail I was writing to the girls. I’d figured out it was easier to ask what they were doing than make up lies about all the old-people things I was supposed to be enduring.

  The Calendar Girls didn’t doubt me once—which made me feel worse.

  I thought about telling them sometimes. When I opened a particularly sweet e-mail from Ally, or one of Hil’s voice mails saying, “If you don’t escape the elderly soon, I’m launching a rescue party,” or when Lauren e-mailed me the rules she invented for drunk shuffleboard, or Chris and Ryan texted pictures from the shore.

  Mom reassured me I was “doing the right thing,” but I started looking for signs and made deals with myself. If I don’t need a transfusion today, I’ll tell them. If I throw up less than three times today, I’ll tell them. If I stay awake until noon. If Nurse Snoopy’s wearing her ladybug scrubs. If my numbers are … If the next person through the door is … If there’s green Jell-O with lunch. I never got my “if.”

  I woke to laughter—a sound so foreign in my hospital room that I thought I must be dreaming. But no, Gyver and Dad were grinning and deep in conversation.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Music,” answered Gyver.

  “Figures.”

  “Did you know your dad used to play the sax?”

  I raised my eyebrows and turned to Dad, who looked sheepish. “For real? In the marching band or something?”

  “That, and I was in a regular band too. Nothing serious, just a couple of guys who liked to jam and considered themselves the next Clapton and Kenny G.”

  “I can see it,” said Gyver. I was glad he could, because I couldn’t. The marching band, yes, but a band band? I couldn’t imagine Dad being a Gyver—on a stage with people yelling and cheering his name. Mom loved to reminisce about how Dad had been the geekiest of geeks when they met, and how she’d taught him as much about being social and stylish as he’d taught her about statistics.

  “We should play sometime,” Gyver said.

  “I’d love to jam … as soon as I figure out where Mia’s mom hid my sax.” Dad reached out for a fist bump. I wanted to laugh or put my pillow over my face and die from embarrassment. “So, kiddo, now that you’re awake, what can I get you? Milkshake? Juice? How about some soup?”

  I wasn’t hungry but Gyver would eat it, so I said “sure,” still staring at this stranger who looked like my father but was way more animated than I could remember seeing him.

  “Be back in a jiff.” He whistled on his way out the door. Whistled.

  “Who was that and what have you done with my father?” I asked Gyver.

  “What?” he answered, shifting out of his chair and onto my bedside. “Your dad’s cool.”

  “Since when are you guys BFFs? And how’d you learn he played the sax when I’ve never even heard him mention it?” I tried not to sound jealous.

  “Mi, we carpool most days. Spend enough time in a sedan with someone and you bond.” He fiddled with the hospital bracelet around my wrist.

  “What else do you know? What was his band called?”

  Gyver laughed. “You can ask him, you know. He’d tell you.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, but part of me wondered if he would. It’s not like he’d lacked opportunities over the past seventeen years. Maybe, and the thought made me a little ill, he thought I wouldn’t care. Maybe, and this thought made me feel even worse, I wouldn’t have. Our relationship had always been based on tasks, not talks—we could do puzzles, play board games, use his telescope to find shooting stars—but anything deeper than “how was your day?” resulted in awkward pauses.

  When Dad came back, he was bearing a tray laden with soup, milkshakes, three different bottles of juice, and french fries and wearing a guilty grin. “I know your mom wants me to go on a diet, but the fries smelled good.”

  “I won’t tell,” I replied, breathing through my mouth because for me the fry smell was nauseating. “If you tell me more about your band.” I stifled a yawn and hoped I could stay awake long enough to hear his answer.

  My phone chirped. Gyver lifted it from the bedside table, flipped it over, and scowled. “I think you’d better answer this one.”

  “The cheering references too complicated for you?” I’d been here two weeks and the girls had left three days ago for Penn State. Their updates were prolific, silly, and bittersweet. Ally bawled when I told her I wouldn’t be back for camp. Hil called my mom and complained. Lauren promised to document everything and had bombarded me with photos and video clips.

  Gyver handed me the phone, then stood and paced.

  I looked from him to the screen. Ryan. So? He’d texted plenty before, and Gyver begrudgingly handled it when I was too tired or queasy. What was the issue?

  I opened the message: Miss u. Can I drve up tmw?

  What? I fumbled with the keys. No. Sorry. Not a good idea. Miss you too.

  I put the phone down and debated whether I felt sad because I had to say no, disappointed because I wanted to see him, or thrilled because he missed me. I hadn’t decided or responded to Gyver when my phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mia. God, it’s good to hear you.” Ryan’s smile warmed his voice and my cheeks.

  “You too.”

  “How ’bout I call in sick, borrow Chris’s car, and come up tomorrow. I don’t have the address, but you said Bridgeport, right? That’s about four hours from here.”

  “Ryan—”

  “If I left early, I could be there around lunch. I’d stay until midnight—your grandparents go to bed early, right? And I’d be back before work the next day. I’d be tired, but you’re worth it.”

  “Ryan—”

  “I miss you. Don’t you miss me?”

  “Of course, but it’s not a good time.”

  “C’mon. Your parents can’t exile you to Connecticut. They won’t get mad if I visit. Your mom loves me. Or they don’t even have to know I came. We can be quiet.”

  My eyes stalked Gyver’s back. I blushed. He was in the room during what amounted to a booty call. How I felt about Ryan booty-calling was irrelevant; there was no way I could say yes, so there was no point in thinking about how good it felt to kiss him. Or even if I still wanted to.

  My door opened. It did all day, all night. I didn’t turn and look.

  “I wish you could; it’s just not a good time.”

  “What’s that mean?” Ryan asked.

  “How’s my favorite patient today? Are you sick of the hospital yet?” Dr. Kevin’s voice boomed. I rolled to face h
im; his eyes were on my chart.

  I held up one finger and spoke into the phone, “I’ve got to go.”

  “The hospital? Did something happen to your grandfather?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes.” My voice radiated relief; he’d created the perfect alibi. And technically, unfortunately, it wasn’t a lie. Pops had a nasty flu, which was why he and Gram hadn’t visited me. I sent another prayer I hadn’t jinxed his recovery.

  “I’ve got to go. Bye, Ryan.”

  “Is Gyver here?” I asked Nurse Snoopy when I woke to see her adding a bag of fluids to my pole.

  “Right here.” His voice circled from my other side. He had a tired smile on his face. “Your mom’s getting lunch.”

  Nurse Snoopy asked, “How are you feeling? I know you were uncomfortable this morning, but that shot of pain meds I gave you should have kicked in by now.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “That’s a good friend you’ve got. I think he spends more time here than I do.”

  “Possibly,” Gyver conceded.

  “Gyver’s the best,” I cooed.

  Nurse Snoopy smiled. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what kind of name is Gyver?”

  I giggled. The sound startled me and I giggled more. “Ask him what it’s short for.”

  Gyver snorted. “What’d you give her? She sounds wasted.”

  “Morphine. What’s Gyver short for?”

  “MacGyver!” I crowed.

  “Like the show? Say, if I gave you a paper clip and a stick of gum, could you build me a hang glider?”

  “Uh-oh, Gyver doesn’t like those jokes,” I warned.

  “I loved that show—or I loved Richard Dean Anderson. He was gorgeous.” Nurse Snoopy fanned her face.

  “My MacGyver’s gorgeous too,” I protested.

  “Yes, he’s very handsome,” the nurse agreed. “Why don’t you go by Mac?”

  “There was a nickname in middle school,” he explained, sucking air through his teeth.

  “Mac ’n’ cheese,” I helped.

  “Gyver hated it.”

  “And Hillary loved it.”

  “I like Gyver better anyway. I don’t care what Hil says. She’s wrong, you’re cool.”

  Gyver shook his head and laughed. “At least I’m cool.”

  “Very,” I reassured him. “You always were. And then you got hot—”

  “Baby girl,” Nurse Snoopy interrupted, “why don’t you save your confessions for when you’re a little less medicated? How about you and Gyver watch TV?”

  “Okay,” I agreed. I handed a grinning Gyver the remote she’d given me.

  “And I’ll make a note on your chart that you’re very sensitive to pain meds.”

  Ally called sobbing the day she got home from camp. “I heard!”

  My heart raced—I wondered if I would set off a monitor. “What’d you hear?”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Ally paused to blow her nose. I clawed at the blankets, sweaty and claustrophobic. “I shouldn’t have had to hear it from Ryan.”

  “Ryan?” He knew too? My throat tightened.

  “I am so sorry about your pops. Are you okay? When’s the funeral?”

  “Pops?” I was swept up in a flash flood of relief and confusion. “He didn’t—he’s not dead.”

  “But Ryan said—”

  “Ryan’s wrong. Pops is fine. Fine.” I repeated the word to reassure myself.

  “So can you come home soon?”

  “I hope so.”

  “What’s your address there? We’re sending you a care package.”

  “Ally, I’ve got to go.” As the panic receded, it left me exhausted.

  “Already? Well, text me the address for the box. My mom even made brownies.”

  Ally’s mom’s brownies were legendary, but they were sent to Connecticut. By the time the package was forwarded to me they were stale. Gyver and the nurses still enjoyed them and made me put on the plastic tiara included in the box.

  “Can you eat those in the hall? The smell’s making me nauseated,” I lied. When the room was empty, I looked at the girls’ cards and photos, covered my face, and cried.

  “Mom?” I hated to wake her. Leukemia had changed her as much as it had me; she no longer wore business suits or heels or makeup. She wore frowns and creases between her eyes. An air of fear, desperation, and fragility clung to the threads of her cotton tops and pants—clothes intended for yoga or gardening and never before worn outside our house and yard.

  “Mom?”

  “Mia? What’s the matter?” My mother’s hands reached for me before her eyes opened.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “What can I do? Do you want a sleeping pill?” She smoothed her hair and sat beside me.

  “I guess.”

  She pressed the call button and took my hand. “Dr. Kevin said sleeplessness is normal.”

  I nodded. Her hand seemed so cold.

  “Is there anything else I can do, kitten?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I looked up, alarmed; there were tears in her voice. “Mom?”

  “I’m so sorry,” she gasped.

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “This is all my fault! These cancer genes had to come from somewhere. Bad DNA your father and I passed on.”

  “It’s not anyone’s fault.” I was shocked by her apology. “It’s bad luck.”

  “But what would we do without you? You’re all we’ve got, and I can’t do anything to fix you. I feel so helpless!”

  “I’m going to be okay.”

  “You’re right, you’re going to be fine. Of course you will be.” She sniffed and tried to get herself under control.

  Southern Nurse arrived. She was only on duty at night. The less I dealt with her, the better. Not because she was mean—she was pecan pie sweet—but because if I didn’t see her, it meant I slept. She listened to Mom’s request and came back with apple juice and a pill.

  “Mom?” I whispered. The pill had started to pull me toward sleep and I needed to get this out. “Do you think I was stupid not to tell? I miss my friends.”

  “I know you do, but they’d just sit here feeling useless and uncomfortable. Do you want them to see you like this?”

  The words hung in the air: guilt wrapped in a cocoon of maternal caresses and a gentle tone. I knew it was her projecting how she felt, but it didn’t make it less true. She kissed my cheek and added, “Of course it’s your decision, but things will be back to normal soon.”

  The sleep meds caused weird dreams. In a blurry, drugged subconscious, I dreamed of Gyver—on stage with his band, Empty Orchestra. In my dream, just like in real life, I marveled how Gyver’s look—just off of normal in high school halls—worked on stage. Really worked. In a girls-in-the-audience-swoon sort of way. I was trying to convince the bouncer—Business Nurse—to keep all East Lake girls out. It wasn’t because I didn’t want them to see me in a hospital gown, it was because I didn’t want them to see him on stage or hear him sing.

  Dr. Kevin had replaced Gyver’s drummer, and Business Nurse wouldn’t be bribed, not even when I promised to let the volunteers make me latex-free balloon animals. Yes, even the lounge clown had a cameo in my dream.

  I woke to find a pick on my pillow and Nurse Snoopy in the doorway. “Gyver was here all morning. You just missed him.”

  “I know,” I whispered. My left hand was still warm from holding his. I’d missed him and I missed him. More than made sense. More than I should.

  “I’m waiting at the airport for my parents. They’re coming back from visiting Louisa and her new baby. I had a few minutes and figured I’d call.” Lauren was an eleven-years-younger-than-her-sister oops.

  “You didn’t go?” I asked.

  “Nope. It’s all baby gushing and I’d worry about dropping him. I’ll see him when he’s bigger. Plus, no parents equals parties. I wish you’d been here, it was insane. So, how’s Connecticut?”
r />   “Fine. Boring.”

  “Yeah right. I’m totally convinced the reason you’ve stayed so long is you found some gorgeous preppy with his own yacht and you’re acting out a Nicholas Sparks summer romance.”

  “What?” I laughed. Only Lauren. As long as I shut my eyes, I could pretend I wasn’t in a hospital room with Mr. Russo and Dad discussing football a few feet away. Pretend this was a normal conversation.

  “It would be a hundred percent okay if you met someone. It’s not like you and Ryan are exclusive.”

  “I know that.” This was a sore point and she knew it. Why would she bring it up, unless … “Wait, has he?”

  “Not in front of me. He’d be crazy to do anything while we were at Chris’s house—Hil would castrate him for you. But I think every girl on the beach knew his name. I mean, are you surprised? You disappear for a lifetime and you know he’s a man-whore.”

  “Thanks, Laur.” I smacked the bed in frustration—sick of being stuck and forgotten.

  “What? Would you rather not know? Geez, shoot the messenger. He did ask about you, and if you’d been there, I’m sure it would’ve been the Mia-Ryan show.”

  I was teetering between hanging up and clinging to this bit of normal. I was angry: at myself for being here, at Lauren for prattling on about the “stupid no-boyfriends pact,” at Ryan for being Ryan, at my life for not being what I’d planned and worked so hard for.

  “Everything’s falling apart.” It was a whisper. A confession. If Lauren had pressed, I would’ve spilled everything.

  “Okay, drama queen.” I could practically hear the eye roll in her voice. “If you’re sick of Ryan’s games, move on. So anyway …”

  I didn’t hang up. Just sighed and half listened as she told me about the “mutiny-worthy guy” who worked at Scoops, launching into rhapsodies about his ability to make a frappe and complaining about the weight she’d put on drinking them. I tried to feel connected, tried to care, but it all felt so foreign. My contributions to the conversation were minimal and awkward.

  “Oh, here are my parents. I’ve got to go. Come home soon!”

  I said good-bye and opened my eyes. No parties. No cute ice cream scoopers. Just sterile white walls and stacks of photos of them having fun without me.