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Chapter one
Emmett
Whenpeopledie,theysimply cease to exist. Poof. Vanished. Gone.
I’ve never prayed. Although, I’ve made several women scream out to God. And that’s not me bragging, it’s merely facts.
In all seriousness, my family was never the type to go to church on Sundays. I don’t have any definitive answers, thoughts or feelings on if there is a God or an afterlife. I’ve been inside a church exactly three times; and one of those times was only so I could get Britney Paulson to hook up with me. The other two times were for my grandmother and my pop-pop’s funerals when I was really young.
When the people around me say they’ve prayed for me–I smile and thank them. Some days, the smile and thank you feel genuine. I can appreciate their sentiment. On bad days, I want to kick those people in their teeth.
Today–today I want to kick the hospital chaplain in his teeth.
When he finally leaves to go bother someone else, I use the remote to make the oversized hospital bed lie flat. I lie there, still and silent, looking up at the ceiling. I’ve counted the ceiling tiles in my room no fewer than a hundred times. I usually get to twenty-three before falling asleep. This time, I count all sixty-seven, and I’m still wide awake. Insomnia is a side effect of the new trial treatment. I slept for an unhealthy three hours last night before I was wide awake again.
For three weeks now, I’ve been in the hospital in Sheridan. Sheridan’s the town that’s actually big enough to have more than two restaurants, forty-five minutes from Easton where I’ve always lived. Chemo and radiation ended the first week of September, and the results weren’t what the doctors wanted to see.
The results of losing my hair, most of my muscle mass, and twenty-four-seven nausea and aches weren’t what I wanted either. This new treatment, at least so far, only causes insomnia and headaches. I’ll take it over the constant vomiting.
My freedom from being stuck in the hospital, needing twenty-four hour around the clock care, lasted slightly over a month before I was practically shackled back to this bed between the too-bright walls and the smell of disinfectant. It’s the middle of October now and the leaves on the tree outside my window are an explosion of reds, oranges, and yellows. The leaves will start falling soon, though, and the tree will be a skeleton. Barren. It will look dead on the outside, not unlike the way I’ve come to look.
Most days, I try to avoid looking in the mirror. I don’t recognize the bald head, gray skin that hangs loose from the weight loss or the dark purple and blue under my eyes. I’ve been an athlete my whole life and I’ve had the body of a Greek God since I was a teenager. The chiseled abs and biceps as big as my head are gone now.
“What it do, baby boo?”
Great. Mr. Cheery-sunshine-flowers growing out of his ass, is here. Jesse’s one of my best friends, but his knack for always being in a great mood is tiresome on days like today.
“Hey Jesse,” I say as I raise the mechanical bed back up.
It whirrs softly as it lifts. One of the benefits of having rich parents is getting a room all to yourself, top-of-the-line equipment and the best doctors and treatment money can buy. If they could buy a cure, they would. To date, they haven’t been able to. That’s not to say it hasn’t stopped them from trying.
Jesse sits down in the leather armchair next to my bed. He comes to see me at least three times a week. Usually by himself. Occasionally with his girlfriend Taylor or our other best friend Ender or Ender’s girlfriend Madison. My parents are here every day. They don’t always stay long, but they show up. Every day. I stopped letting them bring my little sister, Emily. She’s too young to be spending all of her free time in a hospital. She’s too young to watch her brother die.
That sounds morose, I know, and according to the doctors, I’m not dying. According to the doctors, I amfighting.
This doesn’t feel like fighting. If it is, I’m a shit fighter and I wouldn’t bet a penny on me.
“How are the counts looking today?” Jesse asks.
Jesse may seem like a dumb jock and doesn’t help himself avoid that reputation with how he talks, but he’s smart as hell. He’s the friend that asks about my treatments, my blood counts, and all of that other garbage. When the doctors tell me something that sounds like it’s out of a science fiction novel, I can usually ask Jesse to translate. He never judges my lack of understanding, he simply tells it to me in a way I can understand. I don’t ask him to interpret that often. Most of the time, I don’t want to know the details of what’s going on inside my body.
I know the basics and much beyond that, I’m not sure I want to know more.
I have Acute Myeloid Leukemia or AML. It is most common in men over sixty-five, but I’m one of thelucky onesthat was diagnosed at eighteen. I went through three months of hell with chemotherapy and radiation. They helped, but not enough. AML is rare and an asshole. When I’m trying to hide my fear, I crack jokes about being special, chosen, or the best. Because you have to be special to get a rare cancer that kills about half the people who get it each year.
I nod to the chart hanging off the end of my bed.
“See for yourself,” I tell Jesse.
Another being rich perk, they leave my chart in here so my parents can access it whenever they want. Jesse grabs the clipboard and starts flipping through pages, humming and hawing as he does.
“Emmett–this is incredible. Did they tell you about all this?” he asks, his eyes wide and unblinking.
I sit upright quickly and reach my hand out for the chart, tugging on my IV a little. I wince at the pain it causes in the sore spot of my arm, rubbing it gently as I look over the chart. The doctors were in here this morning with updates. I’m exhausted, slightly delirious, and I didn’t actually pay attention. The chart confirms it, though. The treatment is working. All of my counts are up. The treatment has the cancer in a chokehold and the referee is counting down, slamming his hand down on the mat. At least, that’s my understanding of what this means.
I set the chart down and start looking around in the crisp white bed linens for the remote so I can hit the nurse’s call button. When I finally find it, I hit the button three times. I’ve tried not to be a needy patient during my hospital stays and rarely request things from the nurses. Which makes it no surprise that two nurses come practically running into my room.
“Can I talk to Doctor Anderson?” I ask.
