Maybe One Day Page 9

  Calvin threw back his head and laughed just as Jake pulled into the driveway, honking, with Luke hanging out of the back window and waving.

  “Come on!” Luke yelled. “We’re going to be late.”

  “You need a ride?” asked Calvin as Tommy tossed the basketball onto the lawn.

  “No,” I said. “I feel like walking. Thanks, though.”

  “Anytime.”

  Calvin and Tommy headed for the car, and Jake waved to me. “You don’t want a ride?” Jake asked.

  I shook my head. It was less than a mile from my house to Livvie’s, and I walked it all the time. “I’m fine,” I told him. “Have fun at the movies.”

  The car drove down the block. I waved to them as they passed, thinking what nice guys Calvin and Jake were for entertaining the twins all afternoon. Calvin especially, since you could argue that Jake’s being their big brother obligated him to look after them.

  Pretty quickly I couldn’t hear the car anymore. It was a warm afternoon; the only sound was birds calling to one another or singing or whatever it is that birds do and the occasional slam of a door or maybe a lawn mower going in the distance. The walk from Olivia’s to my house was so familiar I could do it on autopilot, and as I made the turn onto my street, I realized I’d gone the whole way without once thinking of Olivia’s being sick. I stopped, startled by the realization. I wondered what I had been thinking about, but when I tried to retrieve my thoughts of the last fifteen minutes, the file came up blank.

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  12

  It’s insane how fast the unthinkable becomes the new normal.

  By the middle of October, my new routine was as predictable as my old one had been. I went to class. I ate lunch. Sometimes I’d see Jake in the hallway or as I was walking into school, and we’d hug and he’d ask me how I was doing. If he was with Emma, she’d hug me and ask how I was doing also. Sometimes I’d just pass a group of cheerleaders without Jake, and all of them would have to hug me and ask how I was doing. Once, when Mia and I were coming back from Starbucks and we ran into Jake and Emma and Stacy Shaw and the Bailor twins in the parking lot, she witnessed this phenomenon and said there weren’t enough minutes in a free period for her to do coffee runs with me anymore.

  I went over to Mia’s a couple of times, and the soccer team had a party and they invited me, but all those things were just a way to pass the time. My life—my real life—was, just as it had been until sophomore year, with Olivia. Every day after school and every Saturday afternoon and every Sunday morning I’d get on the train or into my mom’s or my dad’s car and head into the city to Olivia’s hospital room. We’d do homework together or not do homework together or talk trash about people or—when mouth sores from the chemo made it hard for her to talk—communicate via a sign language we invented that made us crack up but that drove everyone else in the room totally batshit. On Saturday mornings, we taught dance class together—or she taught the class while I said vague, encouraging things from the sidelines.

  Instead of dancing together, we were waiting for Olivia to get better together. Everything had changed, but nothing had changed. It was still me and Olivia in our own world.

  One afternoon, just as I was walking out of history—my last class of the day—and doing a mental check of what I had to get from my locker before I left the building to go home and meet my dad so he could drive me into Manhattan, Mrs. Greco called. Because it was her hospital room’s landline, which Livvie called me from if her hands were shaky (which sometimes happened from the chemo), I’d assumed it was Livvie, so when I picked up, I said, “Yo!” in this way we have.

  “Zoe?” said Mrs. Greco.

  “Oh, Mrs. Greco. I’m sorry. That’s just this dumb thing Livvie and I do. Yes, it’s Zoe.”

  “No, that’s fine,” said Mrs. Greco. “I understand you two have your . . . things.” Mrs. Greco was one of the people who was not especially fond of our private sign language. “I’m calling because Olivia is too tired to have visitors today. Her counts are so low—she’s just wiped.”

  Even though the chemo was over, Olivia’s red and white blood cells still had to come back, like flowers growing in a postapocalyptic landscape. While that was happening, she didn’t have much energy. The day before, she’d dozed off twice while I was there. “I don’t mind being there even if she’s asleep,” I said.

  Mrs. Greco didn’t come right out and say no.

  “We’re hoping a transfusion’s going to give her some pep,” she told me. “It’s scheduled for later this afternoon.”

  “She’s like a vampire,” I joked.

  I don’t know if the idea was objectively funny or not, but I really think Livvie would have laughed.

  Her mom did not. “I suppose so,” she said.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I’m sure she’ll feel better after she gets the transfusion.”

  “Of course she will,” said Mrs. Greco firmly. “And then she’ll be up for visitors again.”

  “Yeah. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “She’ll call you,” Mrs. Greco said.

  At the far end of the hallway, I saw Jake and Calvin standing by their lockers. They were talking to each other. I almost went over to say hi to Jake, but Calvin had his arm draped around this senior girl, and for some reason that made me feel weird about going over to them.

  When I got home, my dad was in the kitchen working on his laptop. I jerked the door of the refrigerator open, looked inside, grabbed a bottle of seltzer, then slammed it shut loudly enough that my dad jumped a little.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You seem a little mad.”

  “I seem a little mad? Yeah, I’m a little mad.” I put my hands on my hips and glared at him, and it was like all those times I’d managed to contain my anger—all those annoying seat belts and bathroom locks and too-hot Frappuccinos that I’d been tolerating for the past several weeks—just exploded. “The stupid doctors give Olivia all of this medication that’s supposed to make her healthy, and meanwhile it makes her feel like total shit. I mean, what the hell are they doing?”

  He lowered the lid of his laptop and frowned. “It’s lousy. It’s really lousy.” He shook his head.

  “It’s not lousy; it’s criminal,” I corrected him. “They’re, like, carpet bombing her body and just hoping it will make her better. Livvie said some people who get chemo get brain damage.”

  “Well, I think that’s pretty rare,” my dad said, folding his hands under his chin.

  “Oh, so that makes it okay?” I waved the bottle of seltzer to emphasize my point. “What if your kid got brain damage from all the toxic chemicals the doctors were dumping into her body to quote unquote cure her?”

  He pushed his chair back, stood up, and came over to where I was standing. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and looked down at me. “Everyone is doing everything they can to make sure Olivia gets better. They’re using the tools they have. It’s no one’s fault that those tools are primitive.”

  “Why are you defending a bunch of random doctors you don’t even know?” I demanded, jerking free of his hands and crossing the room to get a glass. “Since when are you a cheerleader for the medical community? Aren’t you the one who’s always saying we need a single-payer system?”

  My dad gave me a confused look. “I’m not exactly sure what this has to do with a single-payer system.”

  “Can’t you see how our whole medical system is completely fucked up?” I slammed the glass and the seltzer bottle on the counter and threw my hands wide in the air. “I mean, wasn’t cancer supposed to have been cured, like, fifty years ago?”

  My dad’s expression softened. “Honey, we’re all worried about Olivia. But it’s no one’s fault she’s sick.”

  “Oh, really?” I snapped. “That’s your professional opinion.”

  “Not everything is somebody�
�s fault.”

  “Don’t give me that, okay? I’m really tired of hearing that.” I looked at the bottle in front of me. “You know what? I don’t even want a fucking glass of seltzer.” I left the bottle there and stormed up to my bedroom.

  “Maybe we could watch the language a little bit, okay?” my dad called up after me.

  “Whatever,” I yelled back, and I slammed my door.

  The stupid thing was—the embarrassing thing was—I wasn’t even mad about Olivia’s blood counts. I’d been all psyched for the day her chemo ended, but then Olivia had told me that Dr. Maxwell had told her that a lot of patients felt worse after the chemo because they had such low blood counts. Given how tired Livvie had been when I’d visited yesterday, I wasn’t exactly shocked that she was too zonked for me to visit today.

  It was that word. Visitors. If Mrs. Greco had said, Olivia isn’t up for seeing you or Livvie wants to see you but she feels like shit (not that Mrs. Greco would ever use the word shit, but still), I wouldn’t have minded so much. Visitors. Like I was Emma, who was always offering to go with Jake to the hospital, ostensibly because she was worried about Livvie but really because she wanted to be Jake’s official girlfriend as opposed to what she was, which was the sad girl who threw herself at him.

  God, that was so me. The sad girl throwing herself at the Greco family.

  My phone rang. It was the hospital landline again. Mrs. Greco? I picked up. Before I could say anything, Olivia spoke. “Check your email.” I could tell her mouth was still bothering her, because she articulated her words carefully.

  I logged on. There was a forward from Olivia.

  “It’s from fucking Stacy Shaw?” I screamed. “Oh my God, is this one of those inspirational messages?”

  “Just read it,” Olivia said patiently. “I want to hear you read it.”

  I read it out loud.

  Dear Olivia,

  We are all freaking out that you are sick. We just love you so much. You are the sweetest person and we are going to do everything we can for you! Starting with raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and the National Bone Marrow Registry with a . . . drum roll, please . . . car wash! Also a blood drive! I talked to your mom, and she said that you might be able to come if the weather’s warm and it’s outside (car wash, outside, so totally!), so we’re scheduling it for the last Saturday in October. We’re all going to sign up with the registry, so if you need a bone marrow transplant (hopefully not, right?!) you can have one from one of us!!! We love you! We’re cheering for you!

  Love, Stacy (aka Captain, lol!)

  “Oh. My. God,” I whispered as I reread the message, silently this time.

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  I didn’t even want to think about Olivia’s needing a bone marrow transplant. The only reason she would need that would be if the chemo failed and she relapsed, which was so not going to happen. After getting some early postchemo blood work, Dr. Maxwell had said it was “unnecessary” to think about Livvie’s having a bone marrow transplant, which clearly meant she was responding well enough to the chemo that she was definitely not going to need one.

  “I don’t care if it costs you your life,” I said. “You cannot get Stacy Shaw’s bone marrow. I’m serious.” God, talk about brain damage.

  “I promise,” Livvie whispered.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked. Over the weeks she’d spent in the hospital, I’d begun to crack the code of Livvie’s answers to this question. Good meant not bad. Fine meant pretty bad. So-so meant awful.

  “So-so,” she said.

  “Oh, honey.”

  “But the good news is”—I heard a slurp, and I knew she was eating one of the frozen pops that made her mouth feel better—“they’re sending me home Sunday.”

  “They are? Livvie, that’s amazing.” I jumped to my feet. If they were sending her home, that meant she was getting better. All this time I’d been so focused on how lousy the chemo was making her feel that I hadn’t paid attention to the fact that it was actually curing her.

  “I know,” she said.

  “I’m so happy,” I said, and then I started to cry. I thought I was managing to keep my snuffling on the DL, but then Livvie asked, “Are you crying?”

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “Geez,” she said, her voice sounding stronger than it had during our entire conversation thus far, “you are such a wimp.” The fact that she had used the word geez (very close to Jesus) made me know her mom wasn’t in the room.

  “You’re not supposed to be on the phone, are you?” I realized.

  “I’m supposed to be resting,” she admitted. “But I had to call and tell you the good news.” Her saying that just made me cry harder.

  “Can you do me a favor?” Livvie asked, speaking carefully. I thought she was going to ask me to stop bawling in her ear, but instead she said, “Could you teach dance class alone Saturday morning? I just feel too—”

  “Oh my God, of course!” I said wiping my face. “Of course I can.”

  “I know we were going to try to start choreographing something for the recital—”

  “Livs, please! Don’t even worry about it. I’ll figure something out. I’ll work on it.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about anything. Just have fun with them.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  I hung up. When Livvie had good news, she called me. When something funny happened to her, she called me. When she needed something, she called me. When she wasn’t allowed to be on the phone, she called me anyway.

  Maybe Mrs. Greco thought of me as a visitor.

  But Livvie didn’t.

  Later, my mom and I went to get takeout from Mr. Chow’s. We were sitting in the little waiting area by the cash register when out of nowhere my mom reached over, pulled me to her, and gave me a hug so tight it actually hurt.

  “Ouch, Mom!” I complained. “You’re hurting me.”

  To my surprise, my mom’s whole body suddenly convulsed in a single enormous sob. A second later, she pulled away. There were tears on her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was husky.

  I felt bad for pushing her away, and I reached out and patted her hand. “It’s okay.”

  “I just keep thinking of how awful this is for Adriana. For all of them,” she added quickly. “But for Adriana especially. I think it must be the worst for her. To have your daughter . . .” Her eyes filled up and more tears spilled onto her cheeks. She didn’t bother wiping them away.

  “It’s the worst for Olivia,” I corrected. “She’s the one who’s sick.”

  “I know,” said my mom, digging around in her bag. She pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. “I know it’s awful for her. But I just think about what if it were you and how your dad and I couldn’t—” Her voice broke, and she buried her face in her tissue.

  “Mom, please.” It wasn’t just that I didn’t want the woman who worked the register at Mr. Chow’s to see her. There was something about her saying how awful it would be if it were me who was sick that made me feel guilty, almost like she was saying she was glad it was Olivia and not me.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  I slipped my arm around her waist and hugged her. “Anyway, it’s not me, Mom.”

  “I know,” she repeated. “I know that, honey.” She blew her nose again and put her arm around my shoulders.

  “And she’s coming home,” I pointed out. “That’s really good news. It means she’s getting better.” I smiled and poked her gently in the side. “Then we can finally take that mother-daughter trip to see Fallingwater you’ve always talked about.”

  My mom was kind of obsessed with the idea of a mother-daughter trip somewhere. She and Mrs. Greco would bring it up now and then, but somehow it never seemed to happen. Olivia’s and my theory was that that was because nob
ody but my mom thought it would be fun to see Frank Lloyd Wright’s most famous house, which, unfortunately, is in Nowhereseville, Pennsylvania.

  I’d said the thing about the mother-daughter trip as a way of throwing a bone to my mom, totally expecting her to start chattering on about how wonderful it would be for all of “us girls” to go somewhere together.

  But she just said, “Mmmm,” and squeezed my shoulders again. I waited for her to start talking (which is like waiting for the Home Shopping Network to start selling you something), but she stayed quiet. When our food came out from the kitchen and the woman called our name, my mom paid for the food and took the bags. She handed me one, then held the door for me as we exited the restaurant. But she didn’t say a word about our trip, and she didn’t say what a wonderful thing it was that Olivia was on her way to being cured.

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  13

  Saturday morning when I ran down the driveway to meet Jake, who was driving me to the rec center, I assumed one of the two people sitting in the backseat must be Calvin, but two other guys from the football team—Sean Miller and Delford White—were there instead. They said hi to me, and I said hi back.

  “So, are you psyched about Olivia coming home tomorrow?” Sean asked me. “Jake was just telling us about it.”

  “Totally,” I said. “I can’t wait.”

  “My mom’s home right now sterilizing everything,” said Jake. “Prepare to be boiled.”

  “Happily.”

  Jake turned up the volume on the radio, and no one said anything for the rest of the song. When it ended, I asked where Calvin was.

  “He’s got some family thing this weekend. In Pennsylvania,” Jake answered, slowing down for a red light and jumping to another song.

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, that sounds like fun.”

  Jake shrugged. “I guess.” The light changed, and he drove on. It was weird, because for a minute it almost felt like I was disappointed by the news that Calvin was away for the weekend.