I hope this something fun is actually something fun, like a bookstore or a movie. More likely it’s going to be something “fun” as in “FUNctional.” This is a term Mom coined when I was five and refusing everything left, right, and center that had to do with the hospital. Calling trips, blood draws, and wearing the brace “something FUN” worked on me.
I was five and naive.
Caitlin and her mom wait for us in the lobby—there’s hope for real fun yet. And at least this version of fun includes Caitlin.
Large sunglasses cover her face, but the hint of a smile tells me she’s already moved on from her breakup last night. Her corkscrew curls fly every which way, and as soon as I am close enough, she whips her phone out, snapping a photo of us.
A sneak attack.
Her grin is wild and untamed. Caitlin is a girl of big emotions. She swings through them almost as easily as breathing and lives them all out loud.
“Not for social media,” I say. I know what Caitlin’s feed means to her. I want to love how “out there” she is. She shows off “our” perspective, but every time she gets near me with that camera … I just have flashes of what happens on Mom’s blog.
I want to be as comfortable in front of a bunch of people I don’t know, but I just … years of Mom’s blog has taught me one thing: people are not there for me. And there’s a solid ten percent that should just be removed from the gene pool. The ones who call Caitlin a freak and ugly or dare to say things like If I were in your shoes, I’d kill myself.
Caitlin pulls down her sunglasses and glares at me. “We look cute.” She shows me the photo, and yes, despite being deep into a hospital visit and post-breakup, we do look good. It almost makes me want to say yes. “It could be good exposure for your speech thing.”
“It’s not about your social presence.” Thank all that is good. Hard to be a social media darling when you don’t exactly meet the industry standard of beauty.
“Fine.” Caitlin draws out the word. “I don’t know why I bother—besides, this isn’t for A Patient Life—this is proof of life. If this were for the media we’d def need a redo.”
“What?” I ask.
“My friends want to know that you exist. They’re starting to think you’re just a figment of my imagination.”
“You talk about me to your friends?”
“I mean there’s not much to tell them, but yeah.”
“Any idea where we’re going?” I ask, forcibly changing the conversation as our moms lead the way to our car. Compacted snow and salt crunches under our boots.
“Apparently that is privileged information,” Caitlin says. “You doing okay?” There’s an unsaid question peeking out from between her words. She saw Jack last night; she saw me leave.
“Are you okay?” I say back to her.
She sighs. “He was an asshole.” She adjusts her sunglasses and squares her shoulders, ready to take on the world again. “He got scared when I mentioned that this was going to be a regular thing.” She waves her mittened hand at the world, but I know what she means. The Home, the hospital, Coffman.
“Is this where I ask about Jack?” she asks innocently.
A lump forms in my throat. All that I did to protect him from this place: trips in the summer, where absences were rarely missed; never, ever letting anyone see me adapt stuff; being my normal self so that no one could point to me and be like You’re different. Only bad things happen when they see you’re different. Case in point—last night. Jack finally saw this part of my world and it nearly broke us.
My lungs seize. A cough stumbles from my throat and I pull away from Caitlin and her probing questions. She presses her lips into a fine line and sticks her phone in her pocket, focusing all her attention on me. I need her to look away. Caitlin and I know how far to push each other, and I need her to respect my limit. Coffman’s already a place that will push you further than most people can imagine.
“Well, let’s hope this is fun,” Caitlin relents, playfully nudging me. I looked after her last night, and this is her reminder that she’s here to look after me today. We’ve both lived with our parents long enough to know that “fun” can mean a lot of things that resemble nothing like the definition of the word.
Not wanting to push anymore, I pull out my phone and see three new messages from Ryan.
Medical Coach
One—clearly you know nothing about soccer.
Two—maybe I like the show.
Thought about actually talking to the dr?
Ellie
He’s in surgery.
Medical Coach
And he can’t fit you in today?
Ellie
It’s almost cute how you know so little.
Medical Coach
That was a joke.
Ellie
Sure it was.
I pause, unsure why I want this information, but I let my fingers go.
Ellie
Do you tell your friends about this? Coffman hospital stuff?
I hit send and instantly regret it. Maybe I crossed a line. He’s a medical coach, not a life coach, not a friend. But still I crave his answer from his opposite view of my world.
“Who are you texting?” Caitlin asks, trying to look at my phone.
“No one,” I say, and shove the device back into my pocket. Caitlin would never understand my need for a medical coach. She has always had a complete say in her medical life.
Me, I just sort of hang on with enough knowledge to be dangerous. I can speak medicalese, but when it comes to the dialect of doctor, I’m barely conversational. The difference is I know what’s being said and can understand the procedures of medicalese, but I have no clue when it comes to the conjugation, grammar, or sentence structure. Most of the time they seem to pull things out of their asses and pray that it works. Few actually take the time to translate what they mean.
Outside is a blur of colors and ash-gray snow. Caitlin’s mom turns around from the front seat; her bright lipstick makes her lips seem comically big for her face. “I read your mom’s post last night—how are you feeling about surgery?”
I want to melt through the seat belt. It might be the only safe way out of the car. If Jack was angry at me, I can only guess what Caitlin has in store for me. Surgery wasn’t just something I didn’t tell Jack, it was something I told no one.
Except Ryan.
“What.” Caitlin pulls back and stares at me, and I don’t need to look at her to know she’s a deadly combination of angry and surprised. We tell each other everything about the hospital. Every appointment. Every test. Every surgery. Except this one. Last night was a lot, and the last thing she needed was me and my problems.
Her mom flinches and I meet my mom’s gaze in the rearview mirror. She seems to offer an apology and I look away—not accepted.
“Oh, um, yeah,” I say, words coming out of my mouth in weird bursts that make no sense no matter how hard you squint at them. “I … yeah…”
I type off a message to Caitlin.
Ellie
I’ll explain.
It’s a long story.
“Not as excited as you are about the Morning Show appearance?” Mom chimes in with a distraction. She gives me a wink in the rearview mirror, so proud that she’s got my back and completely oblivious to the other words that came out of her mouth, but I caught them all.
Ellie
Oh.
TV SHOW????
Caitlin
Don’t try to distract me.
Ellie
A. TV. APPEARANCE.
And that is the final word on the subject until Mom pulls into the parking lot of a JOANN fabrics. I don’t know why this was such a secret—it’s not like we’ve never been here. I guess Mom decided to go with FUNctional, because she always knows what’s best for me. Someday maybe she’ll ask me.
Caitlin pushes her sunglasses up on her head, trapping her curls in a makeshift headband. We race for the store, Caitlin claiming me and dragging me toward the yarn section.
“Two skeins,” Caitlin’s mom calls after us. This has always been more Caitlin’s playground than mine.
“Two minimum, got it!” Caitlin says, ignoring her mother’s limits. Caitlin learned to crochet years ago from a night nurse who decided she needed to do something productive. When she’s stuck in the hospital, she just does baby hat after baby hat. It’s easier because she saves on shipping. The nurses can just cart them down to the natal ward.
Caitlin drops a basket in the middle of the aisle. Around us walls of yarn reach for the ceiling in every shade and gradient imaginable. Caitlin trolls the aisle like a general inspecting her troops.
“Don’t think we will not be stopping by the embroidery aisle,” she says, stopping to feel the softness of one. Her words are a threat meant for me, that I will be doing the “good” thing for my fingers.
“Don’t think I will buy anything.” I make a face—that was a weak comeback.
We face off in the yarn aisle, two friends betrayed by each other. Caitlin just points her crochet hook at me. Caitlin crochets, I embroider. The whole holding a needle and hoop thing was highly suggested by my physical therapist around my hand straightening as a way to keep my fingers loose. Apparently one of the potential downsides of said procedure is that you can stretch tendons too far and permanently freeze your hand into a fist.
Not great, all things considered, but Mom still felt like this straightening process was absolutely necessary. I flex, as much as I ever could, the fingers of my right hand; they still work. I can do more things with my hand straight than I could when it sat at a ninety-degree angle to my wrist. I just wish a better-functioning body didn’t come at the cost of all my friends.
My phone dings in my pocket and I ignore it.
“A TV show?”
“It’s not—”
“If you say it’s not a big thing—you’re wrong, try again.” Despite being hurt that she didn’t talk to me about it, that I wasn’t an immediate text, I’m so happy for her. It fills me up so much that it stings and hurts.
Caitlin sighs. “Some people think what I do is cool. They want to give me a platform to reach more people.” The words come out of her mouth brimming with passion but hidden under a sullen mask. “And what about what you want?” Caitlin turns away from her success without a second thought. She casually dumps two skeins into her basket. “Surgery? We both know how you feel about that.”
“Not much of a choice.” My voice is so small I’m surprised it can be heard over my heartbeat. How can she bring this back to me, when we should be screaming and celebrating her? Screw two skeins—we are going to buy the whole shop.
And yet my friend just stands there, fiddling with her crochet hook. We’re both too good sometimes at hiding what we truly feel. Caitlin may be a girl of big emotions, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how to bottle things up inside too.
“You need to talk to your mom.” Caitlin cocks a hip, whatever confidence she lost now back in full force.
“The hits on her blog are going back up, which will help her organization,” I say. The blog is one of those things that I just get to be a part of.
“Screw her engagement ratings, and she can find a way to fund her families together project without pimping you out. I mean you can’t do that speech thing—”
“Why do you keep bringing that up?”
With precision, Caitlin jabs her crochet hook into the nearest skein. “Don’t worry, I’m buying it,” Caitlin says, tossing the mutilated yarn ball into her basket. She turns on me, crochet hook at the ready again. “Because I want to feel like I’m part of your life. I say this with all the love in my heart—what is wrong?”
“My friend didn’t tell me she got the opportunity to be on TV.” I reply, because now who’s keeping secrets?
“Trade?” Caitlin says, breaking the standoff.
“Fine.”
I motion for Caitlin to go first.
“Fine. I’ll start. I didn’t tell you because I’m not doing it. It’s just nice to be asked.”
“You live for A Patient Life getting asked to do this morning show—it’s like your dream.”
“And what do we both know about dreams?”
The hard truth forms a mountain range around us, one neither of us knows how to scale. And here I thought Caitlin had some clue, was maybe a bit further ahead, willing to lay down some sort of scaffolding for me to follow.
We back away from that topic because there is only so much existential dread a person can handle in one forty-eight-hour period.
“Why didn’t you tell me about what happened with Jack last night?” Caitlin asks, her voice quiet, as if she’s stripped away everything else and is showing me the real cracks in our friendship.
Her wide hazel eyes lock on to me, demanding answers and refusing to take my shit. She’s never had a problem with telling people she doesn’t want something. It may happen anyway, but not without her voicing her very strong opinion.
I pick at my cuticles, unsure how to answer her question. “Did you know that she thought bringing Jack here was helpful?” Each word grows softer and softer. But each one brings a new level of understanding to Caitlin. “How am I supposed to tell her it wasn’t? She thinks she knows best.”
“Shit,” she says. Her annoyance at my reticence disappears. “But weren’t you glad to see him? You disappeared…” Her words trail off, because realization hits her.
Hard.
“Ellie,” Caitlin says. She takes a step forward like she’ll comfort me, wrap me up in her arms.
“Please don’t.” I press myself back into the racks. The last thing I want is to be touched.
“Is everything good with Jack?”
“If I can make it back by this party, we can make this work.”
Ping!
My phone goes off; I don’t reach for it.
This time it’s Caitlin who looks deflated. “Why am I just finding any of this out now? Come beat down my door and pour your heart out next time.” She doesn’t come any closer, and I’m thankful that she knows me well enough to give me my space.
“You have a lot going on. Apparently turning down TV gigs.” That’s my excuse for everything. I don’t tell my friends because this is messy and their lives can’t handle it.
“Oh, come on. Not that excuse. We both have a lot going on. Have you seen our medical files?”
“Yours is bigger.”
She rolls her eyes. “Technicality. Each of ours is bigger than ninety percent of the population.” Her smile wavers when her joke fails to cheer me up. Her voice shifts, and she draws closer to me as if we’re in this together. Two against the world.
“Why are you turning this opportunity down?”
She looks off down the aisle away from me. “I can’t do live on camera.”
“You do stories all the time.”
“Yes, and I take five million tries before I post one.”
“If you need help I happen to be a very good public speaker. Plus I’ve watched my mom prep for this stuff.” I wince—not great, but also not a lie.
“And that’s the last person I want to be like.” Caitlin picks up her basket. “Come on.” When I don’t move, she adds, “If you’re going for torture, we might as well go to the embroidery section.”
“Excuse me?”
“Here’s the CliffsNotes so we can get to the real issue: ‘I’m Ellie and I think the hospital is the worst. I don’t want any of my real friends to know what it’s like here. Wah wah poor me. I just want a normal life.’” She rushes on so I can’t interrupt. “I say this because I care. I know this sucks, but you need to hear this. Have the surgery and get better. Tell your friends about this place—speaking from experience, it’s not so bad. People will always let you down if you don’t let them in.”
There are so many comebacks I have to that point, starting with Remember what happened when you let your boyfriend in?
When I don’t respond, Caitlin loops her arm through mine and pulls me toward the embroidery aisle. The tops of her curls tickle my nose.
And because we’re back to normal—I offer up one thing. Perhaps it’s penance for keeping everything so close, or maybe it’s just something I can’t keep to myself anymore. And maybe I hope that she can tell me I’m wrong. “Bad things happen when I let people into this world,” I say. Caitlin runs her tongue over her teeth like she’s trying to swallow the words I spoke. But she doesn’t refute me, because inside she knows it’s true.