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“You can count on me withyou, too, you know.”
I shake my head again, so tired. “I can’t count on anyone with me, but if I could, I’d want it to be you.”
His expression is fierce, and I want to kiss him for it and say fuck-all to my boundaries. “That means something,” he insists.
“Not enough,” I whisper.
“Not yet, maybe,” he concedes. “But I’m gonna wear you down, Winnie Sutton.”
“I hope so.” And I’m a little surprised to find that I mean it. For the first time in a long time, Ihopeso.
NineteenCASE
I didn’t figure I’d ever be back at the St. James Medical Center after the solid month I spent there visiting Walker last fall, but I’m relieved to note the cloud of dread I used to feel walking to the pediatric ward has all but disappeared.
I’m sure it has to do with the fact I’m not coming here today to watch my best friend fade away. Instead, I’m here to visit a friend who is recovering from a bone marrow transplant. Ryder’s a thirteen-year-old cancer patient who was in the hospital at the same time as Walker, recovering from an infection caused by his most recent bout of chemo. Their rooms were close, and sometimes when I stayed overnight with Walker and he’d be asleep, I’d stop in to find Ryder awake. Ryder’s a massive rodeo fan, so we had lots to talk about. His parents called me this morning to ask if I’d come by and visit him while he’s stuck in bed recovering.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t felt any trepidation about coming back, but I figure visiting someone who’s sick isn’t half asbad as being the actual sick one. Plus, I’ve been holding on to something that was Walker’s, and I think it needs to go to Ryder.
I stop at the front desk and give my name and get a sticker with today’s date in return. The friendly voice behind the glass asks me if I need directions, but I wave them off and make my way directly to the elevators. I ascend, and before long, adingrings out and a recorded child’s voice announces, “Seventh floor!” I swallow back the memory of how, toward the end, Walker would cringe at that voice. It’s so cheerful. It’s meant to make kids feel safer, but when you’re a dying seventeen-year-old, it feels mocking.
Maybe I should fill out a comment card or something.
The doors open, and I’m greeted by a chorus of cheerful exclamations from the front desk. “Case! What a surprise!”
“Hey, Maggie, Donna, Craig.” I nod at the older gentleman in his perpetual bow tie. “How’re y’all?”
Good, goods andCan’t complains are exchanged, and a moment later, I’m buzzed through the security doors. I reach the nurses’ station to another round of smiles and friendly greetings. This time, they ask about Kerry and how bull riding is going. They ask if I’m away at school yet. One shy-looking younger nurse asks about Brody Gibson, and I make a note to give him shit about it later.
I visit for a few minutes, feeling a little weird about hownotweird this is. It’s been seven months since I was last here, and yet they are just as pleased to see me as if I were here yesterday. Eventually, I break away, promising to stop back before I leave, and I make my way to room 118. I knock on the door, and Ryder’s mom startles before brightening from where she’s been asleep in a plastic recliner at the foot of the bed.
“Case! Oh my goodness! Ryder.” She shakes a blanket-covered foot gently. “Ry, look who it is!”
I school my features just in case before walking the rest of the way into the room. It’s something I learned with Walker. No matter what you have going on in your own life, in your own headspace, you drop that shit at the door because they are already taking on enough on their own.
This time, though, I needn’t have bothered.
“Bro!” I exclaim. “I don’t even recognize you! Is that a Mohawk?”
Ryder runs a hand through his neon lengths and beams. “Mom and Dad said once my hair grew back, I could do whatever I wanted with it.”
“His dad promised,” his mom says wryly, “but it suits him.”
I move closer and pull a chair from the wall to sit at the side of his bed. “It really does. I’m mad jealous. You look taller, too. Even sitting down. How is that possible? It hasn’t been that long! You’re like a whole-ass middle schooler now!”
Ryder’s face flushes with the minor cuss, but I know he’s loving it. The pediatric intensive care unit was pretty empty during the month he and Walker were here last fall, so Walker and I made it our mission to make sure Ryder always felt like one of the guys. That meant teaching him cuss words and all the right rodeo lingo.
“I know. Doc says if I keep up the good numbers, I might even go to school in the fall. Seventh grade.”
“Ah.” I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. “Seventh grade. I remember seventh grade. Lots of cute girls, if memory serves. And you know the ladies love a rebel. They’re gonna be all over this.” I wave my hand at his hair.
Ryder smiles and tells me more about his plans for after he’s discharged, and his mom fills in the gaps about his treatments and how successful the surgery’s been.
“Provided there’s no infection,” she tells me, “he could be home by the end of the month.”
I shake my head. “Awesome, bro. I’m so impressed. You’re kicking cancer’s ass.”
“I was thinking I might want to try some riding after I get better,” he tells me. “Maybe learn some roping or”—he shrugs, his shoulders still bony in his gown—“even try to sit a bull.”
