Ryan stares dubiously at the door to the Family Care Home. Outside there is a bus. One we are definitely going to get on, which will then take us to the Moreland Mall.
As much as I want to just not be here, at Coffman, about to have surgery—seeing Jack one more time will be the boost I need to get through it. I nudge Ryan forward. We’re in this together. He glares at me, his brown eyes telling me to back off.
That’s just not in my nature.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” He’s tense next to me, way more than he was when we parted last night. He’s on edge like I’ve never seen him before; Ryan Kim is losing his cool.
“What is it that you like to say? Teamwork?” He narrows his eyes at me and I just smile. Payback is evil and I quite enjoy it. “You need a break from this before it becomes your entire life.” Ryan’s fear is not going to stand between me and my boyfriend.
“We’re still in the hospital,” he grumbles, but inches toward the door.
Starbuck, give me strength.
Mom and Mrs. Kim trail behind us, both of them surprisingly cool about letting us leave the safety of the hospital. There’s a new sense of normal between Mom and me—like there’s nothing standing between us. I don’t have to watch myself around her in fear it will end up on her blog or be used to raise money to support others. If it weren’t for surgery in a few days, I’d swear I was living my best life.
“Got everything?” Mom reaches out to adjust the collar of my jacket, and I let her because this could be the new normal, where she’s just my mom and not my mom-plus-Ellie-blogger. The bombs I worried about when I told her to stop didn’t blow up in my face. She got it. And maybe, like Ryan suggested, I just need to have a little faith.
“Yup,” I say, backing up. Faith. But not that much faith yet.
“Cough drops and your extra battery pack?”
I nod.
“Money I gave you?”
Another nod. Plus an eye roll. This is Morelands, not a trek through the Sahara.
“Call if you need me? I can just as easily drive—”
“Mom,” I say, cutting her off.
“I know, I know you’re a big girl.”
I cover my eyes with my fingertips, embarrassed by her comment. “Mom,” I say, pouring every ounce of teenage annoyance I have into the word.
“I’m sorry.” But her smile peeks through. “Have fun.”
I flash her some finger guns and go rescue Ryan, who still looks five seconds away from giving up on this trip.
“Mind if I steal him?” I say, taking his hand, ready to drag him out if necessary. It’s a trick Mom used to do when I was a kid and thought throwing a tantrum could get me out of tests. His fingers tighten over mine and he shoots me a look. The touch grounds me, and for the first time the Home doesn’t feel like a hotel or just a place to stay, it feels like it could be normal. Because at the end of this trip is Jack. Or so I tell myself. I let go of Ryan’s hand just as Ryan looks down at our once entwined fingers. Turning my best smile on Mrs. Kim, I interrupt her interrogation of Ryan.
Butterflies play games with my heart, and all I want to do is squash each and every one of them. I brush aside the emotion. Completely unnecessary.
“Coming?” I ask Ryan through a cough. The sting in my lungs banishes the fluttering in my chest. Back to your battle stations, body, we have to survive this.
Mrs. Kim eyes me and looks slightly more relieved that I’m going on this trip with her son.
“Go on,” Mom says, waving Ryan and me toward the bus. “Us moms are going to have a day off.” She and Mrs. Kim trade looks, but Mrs. Kim seems more wary of letting us go than Mom does. But this is what Mom does—her whole thing is about helping parents adjust to this new way of life.
“Have fun,” I call, and practically frog-march Ryan toward the bus. He leans on his cane, and I wonder for a moment if I should be worried about him. Maybe Ryan shouldn’t go. Maybe it’s too much. Well, he has to learn his limits sometime and no better way to help realign yourself than to overextend. People talk about moderation all the time, but it’s almost impossible to practice if you’ve been running at eighty percent all your life.
“Keep walking,” I tell him when I feel he’s about to turn back. The comment is for me as much as it is for him. I want to see Jack, but somehow all I can remember is the look of disappointment in his eyes when he left me.
“Wait.” Mom pulls out her phone. “I want a photo.”
Fear jabs me in the kidney. And I freeze. “Mom,” I say, a warning lacing its way through my words.
She winces, probably remembering her promise, and puts her phone away. I breathe easier, my chest returning to its normal crackles.
I don’t check to see if Ryan caught that, much less if he has any response to my mother’s comments. Instead, I just push him forward. JackJackJack …
“You did talk to her about the blog?” he asks. “Caitlin’s not going to, like, suddenly call this whole thing off?” I glare at him, mostly because of how hopeful he sounds. What could be so wrong about getting away from this place for a few hours?
“If you were holding out hope for that—you’ll be disappointed,” I say. There is no joke, no lightness, to my words. I am deadly serious. It’s been handled—I hope, a small voice in my head adds.
Ryan slips back into medical coach. “You wanna give me the play-by-play?”
“Let’s just say I’ve fired a team member.” The admission stings, my issues with Mom still too freshly closed. Just because you had surgery doesn’t mean things don’t take time to go back to normal.
Ryan uses this distraction to try to go back. “I think I forgot something.” He tries to do an about-face and I shift, hooking my arm around his elbow. The electricity returns. It’s as if it can re-form my body, or maybe reprogram it. Ryan catches my eye, and more butterflies hatch in my chest. Because it’s that look like Jack had, as if for one moment, I can make the world spin.
I let go of him fast. What is wrong with me? Maybe because he’s helping me, all my feelings are getting mixed up.
“You’re coming,” I say for what is probably the hundredth and final time. I don’t dare touch him again; instead I just wait as he mounts the bus’s steps. “Rule number four—I’ll be with you the whole way.”
“Promise?” he finishes, his tone shifting to serious. And for a second I don’t know how to react. I’m doing this for Jack. I want to see my friends, and I think Ryan does too—we need a reminder of why we’re doing this hospital thing. It’s not because we’ll last here but because we’ll leave here. We just have to get each other across the finish line, and then …
We’re done.
Ryan looks past me back at the house and then at his cane. “I never should have made those stupid rules.” I just smile and wait for his answer. Not my problem he didn’t foresee this. “What if this messes everything up?” There’s a haunted look in his eyes, and I can just guess he’s imagining something that’s already happened to him. Something that proves he shouldn’t do this. He shakes it off just as easily before I can counter his argument. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
“There is no let, this is practically a kidnapping.”
The rest of Tumor Squad is already on the bus. Ryan picks a seat close to the front and drops. He hesitates when I drop into a seat across from him and then puts his cane next to him. I wonder if he expected me to sit with him.
“Are we getting charged with felony kidnapping, at least?” Caitlin asks from her seat. “If not, take him back and do it right. I want a decent criminal record.”
“I’m not pressing charges,” Ryan says, just to spite her.
“Children,” Luis says, pulling down his mask, “settle down.”
My doctors may raise an eyebrow or two, but they’re not gonna stop me. But if Jack breaks my heart, the docs are not going to be happy.
I stamp out those thoughts; this is going to work. Jack is going to be happy to see me.
Luis grins. “Time to live before surgery and radiation.”
“Plus it will make excellent footage for A Patient Life,” Caitlin says.
“Please tell me we are doing this for something other than Caitlin’s weird photo op?” Ryan asks, picking at his seat.
“We’re taking photos?” Luis asks. “’Cause I would have worn my good beanie then.” He points to the worn-out and pilled stocking cap covering his bald head. Despite the trip and impending surgery, his dark brown eyes still carry a hint of mischief.
“No, we are not taking anything resembling a group photo,” I say, putting an end to that. The last thing I need is to tempt Mom with a photo that’s blog bait. I can just see the title now: This Is How a Kid Is Normal! Gag me with a spoon.
“So no photos,” Luis says.
“None.”
“If teens go to the mall and don’t document it on social media, did it really happen?” Caitlin says. “Plus I have already talked about this on A Patient Life.” I know that Caitlin will respect my privacy.
“Exactly, it’s like Schrödinger’s cat but in day form. The day both exists and did not at the same time.”
“We know it exists,” Ryan says. “Are we the cat, then?”
“Perhaps we are,” I say, enjoying this. Caitlin looks at us like we need to be taken to the ER to be seen by doctors immediately. I just smile at her. She holds up a finger to me like This is a warning, but her stern look is compromised when she has to blow a curl out of her eyes. Neither of us can hold in a laugh.
Veronica sprints up the bus steps, her blond braid flying behind her, almost out of breath, and walks down the aisle toward us. I don’t miss that Luis brightens and sits up a little straighter when she does.
One of the full-time Home employees steps onto the bus. Unlike Veronica, she doesn’t have the overly perky face of someone there for the right kind of wrong reasons. She knows this world and knows enough to stay out of it.
Rules are read, times we’re leaving, how long we’ll be there, and of course tickets. There’s a small amusement park in the center of Moreland, and wouldn’t you know they give us sick kids free all-you-can-ride wristbands.
As the bus pulls away, we all wave to our parents. At one point on the drive, Caitlin trades places with Ryan so that she can sit closer to Luis and Veronica. The three of them are deep in conversation about some movie. However, I don’t miss how Veronica takes any opportunity to touch Luis. She’s into the conversation, but something shifts in her when she focuses on Luis. He soaks it up.
“Do you even understand what they’re saying half the time?” Ryan asks.
I lean forward, watching the three of them talk animatedly. Words like cinematography and fourth wall get thrown out at random. “Just nod and go along. Unfortunately, I don’t have a film coach to help me through these sessions.”
“You could if you wanted,” Caitlin says.
I roll my eyes. Of course she heard me. Nothing escapes her. She disappears back into the conversation before I can reply. “I will watch whatever movie you want me to when you let me help you with your TV appearance.”
“So, truth,” Ryan says, drawing my attention to him. His focus is on his hands, like he’s not sure I can take what he’s about to say. “My friends are gonna be there. I made the mistake of texting one of them last night. After—”
“Ryan not following doctor’s orders and getting a full eight hours of sleep? How dare you,” I say in mock shock. It manages to crack a smile across his tense features and warmth spreads throughout my chest. So this is why he was so keyed up this morning. Last night it was just a possibility, but now … his friends are actually coming. “You don’t want them to come?”
“I didn’t think I’d mind seeing them,” Ryan says, but he shifts in his seat. I think he would very much mind if they showed up. “I mean you’ll be off with … Jack.” He struggles through the word and I refuse to read anything into it. “This isn’t exactly a spectator sport, is it?”
“You have no idea,” I say under my breath. There’s no drug on this planet that will make me forget the way my old friends stared at me. How their points and murmurs of the word freak shredded my childhood. Nothing about this is real to them. Science is just a class during the day. They’re not the experiments.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I flash him a brilliant smile. There’s no need to scare him with how much being disabled will make you an object. It’s so easy to forget in the hospital, where everyone is some form of messed up. “I mean,” I say, backtracking, “rule four.”
And I’m surprised that I mean it. I’m not leaving him to face this alone.
“Rule four.” His gaze travels over to the others. There’s a way his eyes shift like he’s balanced between our world and life-life, but this time siding with life-life. He’s not worried about them seeing him, he’s worried about them seeing us.
I want to hate him for that. Caitlin and I have had our share of judgment from people. Luis too, probably, with his bald head. But Ryan, sans cane, of course, can pass. And what a privilege that is.
This feeling of unease—that maybe he’s not fully on our team—trickles down my spine and I can’t shake it. I’m not really sure I want to. It’s just a reminder to keep my distance.
I was right about the whole hospital situation. It’s a real relationship killer. Ryan just doesn’t know that his judgment-of-my-life look, the one that still sneaks through his eyes, will be the end of our friendship here.
Ryan sits there and presses his lips together. I can see him on the soccer field doing that as he assesses where to go next. Who to kick the ball to? How to win? There is no winning this one.
Not true, for him there is a difference between a win and a loss. People who get stuck like me—we’re the losers.
Why didn’t I just leave him behind?
When his friends show up, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t need another thing to worry about when I leave to go find Jack and Brooke. People change when they leave these walls, like you adopt a certain persona just to get through it. Becoming stronger, more resilient, and sometimes sour just to keep going through all the bullshit.
Ryan is in no way ready to meet his friends again, which means I’m stuck babysitting him for the day.
There are worse options.