again. Kate wipes her eyes and looks up at
me. “You do realize,” she says, “that you're the only friend
I've got?”
“That's not true,” I immediately reply, but we both know I'm
lying.
Kate has spent too much time out of organized school to find a group she
fits into. Most of the friends she has made during her long stretch of
remission have disappeared—a mutual thing. It turned out to be too hard for an
average kid to know how to act around someone on the verge of dying; and it was
equally as difficult for Kate to get honestly excited about things like
homecoming and SATs, when there was no guarantee she'd be around to experience
them. She's got a few acquaintances, sure, but mostly when they come over they
look like they're serving out a sentence, and sit on the edge of Kate's bed
counting down the minutes until they can leave and thank God this didn't happen
to them.
A real friend isn't capable of feeling sorry for you.
“I'm not your friend,” I say, yanking the curtain back into place.
“I'm your sister.” And doing a damn lousy job at that, I
think. I push my face into the shower spray, so that she cannot tell I'm
crying, too.
Suddenly, the curtain whips aside, leaving me totally bare. “That's
what I wanted to talk about,” Kate says. “If you don't want to be my
sister anymore, that's one thing. But I don't think I could stand to lose you
as a friend.”
She pulls the curtain back into place, and the steam rises around me. A
moment later I hear the door open and close, and the knife-slice of cold air
that comes on its heels.
I can't stand the thought of losing her, either.
That night, once Kate falls asleep, I crawl out of my bed and stand beside
hers. When I hold my palm up under her nose to see if she's breathing, a
mouthful of air presses against my hand. I could push down, now, over that nose
and mouth, hold her when she fights. How would that really be any different
than what I am already doing?
The sound of footsteps in the hallway has me diving underneath the cave of
my covers. I turn onto my side, away from the door, just in case my eyelids are
still flickering by the time my parents enter the room. “I can't believe
this,” my mother whispers. “I just can't believe she's done
this.”
My father is so quiet that I wonder if maybe I have been mistaken, if maybe
he isn't here at all.
“This is Jesse, all over again,” my mother adds. “She's doing
it for the attention.” I can feel her looking down at me, like I'm some
kind of creature she's never seen before. “Maybe we need to take her
some-where, alone. Go to a movie, or shopping, so she doesn't feel left out.
Make her see that she doesn't have to do something crazy to get us to notice
her. What do you think?”
My father takes his time answering. “Well,” he says quietly,
“maybe this isn't crazy.”
You know how silence can push in at your eardrums in the dark, make you
deaf? That's what happens, so that I almost miss my mother's answer. “For
God's sake, Brian… whose side are you on?”
And my father: “Who said there were sides?”
But even I could answer that for him. There are always sides. There is
always a winner, and a loser. For every person who gets, there's someone who
must give.
A few seconds later, the door closes, and the hall light that has been
dancing on the ceiling disappears. Blinking, I roll onto my back—and find my
mother still standing beside my bed. “I thought you were gone,” I
whisper.
She sits down on the foot of my bed and I inch away. But she puts her hand
on my calf before I move too far. “What else do you think, Anna?”
My stomach squeezes tight. “I think… I think you must hate me.”
Even in the dark, I can see the shine of her eyes. “Oh, Anna,” my
mother sighs, “how can you not know how much I love you?”
She holds out her arms and I crawl into them, as if I'm small again and I
fit there. I press my face hard into her shoulder. What I want, more
me. “You do realize,” she says, “that you're the only friend
I've got?”
“That's not true,” I immediately reply, but we both know I'm
lying.
Kate has spent too much time out of organized school to find a group she
fits into. Most of the friends she has made during her long stretch of
remission have disappeared—a mutual thing. It turned out to be too hard for an
average kid to know how to act around someone on the verge of dying; and it was
equally as difficult for Kate to get honestly excited about things like
homecoming and SATs, when there was no guarantee she'd be around to experience
them. She's got a few acquaintances, sure, but mostly when they come over they
look like they're serving out a sentence, and sit on the edge of Kate's bed
counting down the minutes until they can leave and thank God this didn't happen
to them.
A real friend isn't capable of feeling sorry for you.
“I'm not your friend,” I say, yanking the curtain back into place.
“I'm your sister.” And doing a damn lousy job at that, I
think. I push my face into the shower spray, so that she cannot tell I'm
crying, too.
Suddenly, the curtain whips aside, leaving me totally bare. “That's
what I wanted to talk about,” Kate says. “If you don't want to be my
sister anymore, that's one thing. But I don't think I could stand to lose you
as a friend.”
She pulls the curtain back into place, and the steam rises around me. A
moment later I hear the door open and close, and the knife-slice of cold air
that comes on its heels.
I can't stand the thought of losing her, either.
That night, once Kate falls asleep, I crawl out of my bed and stand beside
hers. When I hold my palm up under her nose to see if she's breathing, a
mouthful of air presses against my hand. I could push down, now, over that nose
and mouth, hold her when she fights. How would that really be any different
than what I am already doing?
The sound of footsteps in the hallway has me diving underneath the cave of
my covers. I turn onto my side, away from the door, just in case my eyelids are
still flickering by the time my parents enter the room. “I can't believe
this,” my mother whispers. “I just can't believe she's done
this.”
My father is so quiet that I wonder if maybe I have been mistaken, if maybe
he isn't here at all.
“This is Jesse, all over again,” my mother adds. “She's doing
it for the attention.” I can feel her looking down at me, like I'm some
kind of creature she's never seen before. “Maybe we need to take her
some-where, alone. Go to a movie, or shopping, so she doesn't feel left out.
Make her see that she doesn't have to do something crazy to get us to notice
her. What do you think?”
My father takes his time answering. “Well,” he says quietly,
“maybe this isn't crazy.”
You know how silence can push in at your eardrums in the dark, make you
deaf? That's what happens, so that I almost miss my mother's answer. “For
God's sake, Brian… whose side are you on?”
And my father: “Who said there were sides?”
But even I could answer that for him. There are always sides. There is
always a winner, and a loser. For every person who gets, there's someone who
must give.
A few seconds later, the door closes, and the hall light that has been
dancing on the ceiling disappears. Blinking, I roll onto my back—and find my
mother still standing beside my bed. “I thought you were gone,” I
whisper.
She sits down on the foot of my bed and I inch away. But she puts her hand
on my calf before I move too far. “What else do you think, Anna?”
My stomach squeezes tight. “I think… I think you must hate me.”
Even in the dark, I can see the shine of her eyes. “Oh, Anna,” my
mother sighs, “how can you not know how much I love you?”
She holds out her arms and I crawl into them, as if I'm small again and I
fit there. I press my face hard into her shoulder. What I want, more
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