Lights out in the hospital. I lie on my side, mesmerized by the slit of light under my door, and listen to the sounds in the hallway—something beeping, someone yelling. My breathing is deep and slow, and thoughts float in and out of my mind. And though I try not to let the bad ones reach the surface, they are stronger than I am. I am nothing, I am nothing, I am nobody.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Jessica the Sweet Thing wouldn’t have let such dark ideas take over. She would have fought them off with thoughts of rainbows and unicorns. “I can be her,” I whisper into the darkness. But it sounds empty and meaningless. A lie.
Sitting up, I click on the bedside lamp, grab a magazine and flip through the pages. Aqua eye shadow is hot, but pink is not. Ankle bracelets are in again, wrist bangles are out. Working out is cool, but bo is nasty. I am at the last page and ready to declare myself a fashion expert when a small piece of paper flutters out and disappears under the bed. Down on my knees, I reach past the blanket hanging over the side and grasp about until my fingers hit pay dirt.
Jess, you old cow. Happy Birthday! the note says in orange ink. A big heart with Love Ya Forever is on the other side, and it’s signed Best Friends Always, Megan.
My fingers trace the shape of the heart carefully. Only a few short weeks ago, before this shitty thing happened and I was turning fifteen, I was somebody. All that I had before has to be up here in my head somewhere, lingering, hiding in the shadows. My hand is shaking as I put the note down on the table, and a number appears clearly in my mind: 770-2865. And I know. That is Megan’s number, one I probably used to call several times a day.
She was there for me. And she would be now, wouldn’t she? She seemed to care when she visited with the Pink Posse. If we were as close as it seems we were, this whole thing must be tearing her up.
I pull myself up on the bed and stare at the phone. It’s late, and Megan might be sleeping. But I probably called her late at night all the time before, to talk about homework and guys and whether I should wear aqua or pink eye shadow. Wouldn’t she be happy to hear my voice? Wouldn’t it feel like old times?
I pick up the receiver and dial slowly, my heart beating hard in my chest. I am not a nobody. I have a Best Friend Always. The phone rings once, twice, and I am thinking about hanging up when there is a click and a soft, sleepy “Yes?”
Nothing comes out of my tight throat, but my breathing is so loud she must be able to hear me. Does she know it’s me? Would the hospital’s number show on caller id? I clamp my hand over the receiver, panic taking over. What was I thinking? She used to be my best friend, but that was a whole other life. That was then; this is now. And now is very, very different.
“Hello?” Her voice is louder now, more awake. “Anyone there?”
The loneliness that has been creeping through my system all day makes me want to cry out and say, It’s me, your friend, and I miss you, or at least I think I could, and do you think about me? Maybe we could talk—like, really talk—about the way things were before and things that matter and the way things might be again if I can beat this stupid thing. But instead, with shaking hands, I place the receiver gently back in its cradle. I curl up tightly in a ball on the bed and wrap my arms around my legs.
What color eye shadow to wear isn’t exactly a life-or-death decision. But what about the other stuff? There’s no one I can talk to, no one who will genuinely understand what it’s like to lose everything. It’s not advice on makeup that I need. It’s someone to tell me that everything is going to be all right.