them to increase your dose of Zofran? Have some water. Don’t get dehydrated. Let me adjust your pillow. Don’t rub your eyes—you can get germs that way. You really should use the hand sanitizer again. Eat something, honey.’ Yeah—something pretty, because I’ll see it again.”
He flopped back on his bed. “Was Mom always this bad? And I just didn’t notice cause it wasn’t focused on me?”
Not really. Her anxiety had gotten worse, but I didn’t want Beep blaming himself or his cancer on how whacked-out Mom was. “Pretty much. She just freaked out over smaller things, so it was even weirder.”
“Smaller than—”
“You know, cancer. It’s like the woman thinks you have a serious condition,” I said. “Crazy bitch.”
I got a shock laugh out of Beep with that, which was the goal, but he couldn’t stop laughing, and then the laughs turned into coughing. I got up to pat him on the back, but before I could he leaned over the side of his bed where the spit-basin was, and threw up with a watery splat. And then another.
I felt awful. “Sorry, sorry.” I grabbed the pink basin he’d barfed into and carried it into the bathroom to get the acid-retch smell away from him, and set out a clean plastic basin to replace it. Then I gave him a warm wet washcloth for his face and gave him a peppermint candy to get rid of the puke taste. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “It was going to come back anyway. That’s the most fun barfing I’ve had all week. You should come entertain me all the time.”
“Nah. You’re already sick of my jokes.”
That made him laugh again, so I clapped him on the back.
“I’ll rub your back,” I told him. He rolled over onto his side, so he wouldn’t mash the snaking Broviac line in his chest. I rubbed his back, keeping it gentle so he wouldn’t bruise. He was already bony again. I could feel each of his little ribs.
Get well
, I thought with every circular rub across the tops of his shoulder blades.
Get healthy
. I wished his cancer hadn’t come back, and that it would have waited until he was bigger and stronger.
“You give the best back rubs,” he said after a while.
“Don’t tell Rachel. She’ll get jealous.”
“Yeah,” Beep said. I’d been joking, but he sounded serious.
“She’s bummed that she can’t visit you more,” I said. “Because of her cold and Mom’s paranoia.” Rachel hadn’t actually said that to me, but I assumed that she would have, if we still talked, like normal sisters.
• • •
It was totally worth it, but it was a long night. Every two hours a nurse came in to check on Beep and take his vitals, waking me up, and the blood-draw lady came before 6 A.M. , when it was time for me to get moving. But it had been fun, chatting with Beep, and at least Mom got some sleep. In the morning I headed back across the Bay to spend the day yawning and dozing in school, unaccompanied by finished homework.
10
I was doubled over in P.E. on Friday, after running the mile for time, gasping for breath, while my stomach tried to decide if it was going to start Beep’s dry-heaves-as-exercise program. I was definitely not in soccer shape, but I’d gone for it anyway. Coach Paulsen had said this run affected our P.E. grade, and she’s old-school, always-give-a-hundred-and-ten-percent.
“Nice hustle, Kat.” Coach Paulsen walked over. She’s also the varsity soccer coach, so she knows me. She’s tall, with short blonde hair, an angular face, and that athlete-for-life lean look even in her thirties. “You’ll get more air if you straighten up.”
I knew that, but I wasn’t sure if I was going to spit up. I straightened anyway. I figured she was going to hassle me for being out of shape.
“We need you out there this year. Playing center mid,” she said.
Ah. About soccer and my grades. Deep breath in. Slow breath out.
“The other girls play harder when you’re on the field,” she said. “Scrimmage harder,
He flopped back on his bed. “Was Mom always this bad? And I just didn’t notice cause it wasn’t focused on me?”
Not really. Her anxiety had gotten worse, but I didn’t want Beep blaming himself or his cancer on how whacked-out Mom was. “Pretty much. She just freaked out over smaller things, so it was even weirder.”
“Smaller than—”
“You know, cancer. It’s like the woman thinks you have a serious condition,” I said. “Crazy bitch.”
I got a shock laugh out of Beep with that, which was the goal, but he couldn’t stop laughing, and then the laughs turned into coughing. I got up to pat him on the back, but before I could he leaned over the side of his bed where the spit-basin was, and threw up with a watery splat. And then another.
I felt awful. “Sorry, sorry.” I grabbed the pink basin he’d barfed into and carried it into the bathroom to get the acid-retch smell away from him, and set out a clean plastic basin to replace it. Then I gave him a warm wet washcloth for his face and gave him a peppermint candy to get rid of the puke taste. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “It was going to come back anyway. That’s the most fun barfing I’ve had all week. You should come entertain me all the time.”
“Nah. You’re already sick of my jokes.”
That made him laugh again, so I clapped him on the back.
“I’ll rub your back,” I told him. He rolled over onto his side, so he wouldn’t mash the snaking Broviac line in his chest. I rubbed his back, keeping it gentle so he wouldn’t bruise. He was already bony again. I could feel each of his little ribs.
Get well
, I thought with every circular rub across the tops of his shoulder blades.
Get healthy
. I wished his cancer hadn’t come back, and that it would have waited until he was bigger and stronger.
“You give the best back rubs,” he said after a while.
“Don’t tell Rachel. She’ll get jealous.”
“Yeah,” Beep said. I’d been joking, but he sounded serious.
“She’s bummed that she can’t visit you more,” I said. “Because of her cold and Mom’s paranoia.” Rachel hadn’t actually said that to me, but I assumed that she would have, if we still talked, like normal sisters.
• • •
It was totally worth it, but it was a long night. Every two hours a nurse came in to check on Beep and take his vitals, waking me up, and the blood-draw lady came before 6 A.M. , when it was time for me to get moving. But it had been fun, chatting with Beep, and at least Mom got some sleep. In the morning I headed back across the Bay to spend the day yawning and dozing in school, unaccompanied by finished homework.
10
I was doubled over in P.E. on Friday, after running the mile for time, gasping for breath, while my stomach tried to decide if it was going to start Beep’s dry-heaves-as-exercise program. I was definitely not in soccer shape, but I’d gone for it anyway. Coach Paulsen had said this run affected our P.E. grade, and she’s old-school, always-give-a-hundred-and-ten-percent.
“Nice hustle, Kat.” Coach Paulsen walked over. She’s also the varsity soccer coach, so she knows me. She’s tall, with short blonde hair, an angular face, and that athlete-for-life lean look even in her thirties. “You’ll get more air if you straighten up.”
I knew that, but I wasn’t sure if I was going to spit up. I straightened anyway. I figured she was going to hassle me for being out of shape.
“We need you out there this year. Playing center mid,” she said.
Ah. About soccer and my grades. Deep breath in. Slow breath out.
“The other girls play harder when you’re on the field,” she said. “Scrimmage harder,
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