THIRTY-EIGHT

People said, what comes around goes around.

They didn’t know what they were talking about.

Instead of taking the elevator downstairs, I went to her room. Emma was sitting in bed. I realized that in one way, I was as guilty as Dave. I saw only what I wanted to see.

Now it was so obvious.

Her arms were thin. Her knees stuck out. She was dying. It probably took every ounce of energy just to get through the day.

“I feel stupid,” we said at exactly the same time, but neither of us smiled. This wasn’t funny. Not for her, not for me. I would never understand anyone being willing to die without a fight.

She stared straight ahead. “Your hair falls out. You puke all day. You can’t get out of bed—even to go to the bathroom. I’m not going to be a martyr.”

It sounded terrible. “But lots of people get better. There’s a girl from my school who—”

“And just as many don’t.” She showed me a picture of herself before chemo. She was chubby. Healthy. Smiling. “My strain of leukemia is particularly—how do they put it—aggressive. Best-case scenario was pretty much off the table.”

She was not going to convince me that what she was doing was the right way to go about things. “What about your parents?”

She looked sad. “I miss them, but if I go home, they will make me go back to the hospital. They located a match.”

“For what?”

“Bone marrow.”

I begged her to reconsider. I’d seen the PSAs about bone marrow transplants. They saved lives. They worked real miracles. “Don’t you miss your friends? Don’t you want to live?”

Her posture stiffened. “Yes, I want to live, but no, I do not miss being the spunky sick girl that people have to visit to feel less guilty about their own good luck. I don’t want to risk spending the rest of my life in a bed. If I can just stay with Dave until I’m eighteen—then I can go home. My parents won’t be able to force me to do anything.”

I looked at the picture next to her bed. A smiling threesome, not that different from mine. But these parents were alive. They loved her. They wanted her to live. Her mother should not have to read a Book of Death to know how her daughter was feeling at the end of her life.

I held up my hands and let her see every line, every scar, ever disfigurement. I said, “Do you still believe I can help you? Do you want to try?”

At first, she didn’t move. She didn’t have to tell me—she was scared. She wanted me to try. She still wanted to believe. She put her hands on mine, and we closed our eyes. This time, I knew what to do. I pictured her getting stronger. I asked God—whoever he or she or it was—to pay attention.

I prayed. I spoke directly to God. If there were any justice at all in this world, she would get better. This girl deserved to be healthy. She was good. She helped other people. “Make her better. Let her live.” I scrunched my eyes tight. And then I listened. I waited. I wanted to hear my mother’s voice. I knew—if there were any hope of this working—that that was what had to happen. I had to feel the way I felt when Abe began to breathe. I tried to conjure up optimism and hope.

But nothing happened.

I squeezed her hands tighter, but all I could think of was that line from the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, the line that made me so mad.

He who makes peace in his high holy places, may he bring peace upon us, and upon all Israel; and say Amen.

I prayed desperately. “Help her. Now. Come down off your high holy place and help her. Mom, talk to me. I know you weren’t perfect, but I need you. Don’t abandon me again. I need one little miracle. I need to hear the words. I don’t want Emma to die.”

No voice spoke. My mouth was dry like dust. When I opened my eyes, my mother was not here; Emma’s eyes were not closed. She said, “You can’t fix me.” I was pretty sure she’d been looking at me almost the whole time.

I grabbed her hands. “Let me try again.”

She told me to leave. “If you care about me, walk away. Live. Next time you go to a party, go for me. Next time you kiss someone, kiss him for me. You complained how people look at you? When people find out I have leukemia, they treat me the way you are looking at me right now. Like fine china or a contagious disease or a ticking clock about to stop. They think they can tell you exactly what you should do. The reason I left home isn’t because I want to die. It’s because I want to live. On my terms. I want to live a normal life. For once, I want to be just like everyone else.”