I don’t mind the shots, not really. Most of the time, they don’t even hurt. I glance down at my hands in my lap. I pull my right hand up in front of me and look at the tiny bruises on each of my fingers. That was the worst of it: being woken up in the middle of the night—when I actually could sleep—and blindly passing my finger out from the covers, while squeezing my eyes closed. I think the anticipation of it was always the worst. I knew it was coming, but I never knew exactly when. Some of the nurses were nice and quick about it, that was better. But one of the nurses hovered, and she always had a look of trepidation on her face; it made me want to apologize. I kept having to bite my tongue so I didn’t say, “I’m sorry you have to poke me. I can see it’s hard for you.”
Sometimes, if I just squeeze my finger, it will start to bleed again. They said my fingers will get used to it, they won’t always bruise. I’m ready for that to happen because right now it hurts to even brush my hair. Diabetes. It still doesn’t seem real. I know I can do it—the treatment doesn’t scare me. What scares me is the look I keep getting from people. The look that says, she’s fragile, we have to be careful with her. I’m afraid I’ll never be independent again, never be trusted to be alone.
The creek of the door opening startles me from my thoughts. Harrison. He’s never been in my room before. What is he doing here?
“Hey,” I say weakly, standing from the edge of my bed. “What’s up?”
“Since your mom had to go to work, and Jesse had a study session, they wanted me to come hang out with you.”
The internal groan is so loud. I’m glad it’s in the depths of my imagination and I didn’t let it slip. It’s humiliating enough to need a babysitter. I don’t need to be making absurd noises on top of things. My only visible reaction is the slight hitch of my left eyebrow—it’s always been the more active of the two.
“What? Is an afternoon with me so bad?” he questions, a teasing smile on his face. “Come on, Rice. Get your shoes, and let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”
I feel a little tingly every time he calls me that, which is silly, I know, but I love that he gave me a name no one else uses.
“What does that even mean?” I deadpan.
“We need to get out of here, you know—go walk around—experience life…”
I stare at him for a moment, enjoying this banter and the small smirk still playing at the corner of his mouth. My heart rate quickens as I take in the sight of his mouth. That perfect mouth. Ugh. Get a grip, Brice. I move my gaze up to his eyes—the color of warm, dark honey—with lashes so long, they almost sweep the lenses of his glasses. I’m glad his eyes aren’t full of the pity and guilt that my mom and brother’s have been swimming in for the past week. My cheeks warm as I realize that I’ve been standing, staring into his eyes for way too long.
“Right, shoes,” I say dumbly, quickly stepping around him and out my bedroom door.
I slip on my snow boots once I reach the front entry. The weather has been really bad, with record snowfall already, and winter has just begun. I don’t mind it. It seems fitting for the way I’ve been feeling.
When I turn, Harrison is standing there, holding my coat. “Do you need to check your sugar before we go?”
And this is why I need a babysitter. As soon as he opened my bedroom door, I completely forgot about all things diabetes. Although, I could argue that, had he not come at all, I wouldn’t have been distracted by him and forgotten. See, I still don’t need a sitter.
“Yeah, I probably should.” I hang my jacket back on the hook and walk the short distance to the kitchen. From now on, my life is going to be measured in tiny drops. Tiny drops of my blood given to see how I’ll measure up—how I’ve done. If I’m maintaining like I’m supposed to. What will the answer be?
I go to the drawer Mom set up for my needles and supplies. It’s such a weird thought, that I will need something as permanent as my own drawer for this stuff. I can never go without it—at least, that was the running theme at the hospital. They each talked to me about it, in different, not so subtle ways. There was the talk about loss of kidney function if you aren’t good with your dosing. Amputations. Loss of eyesight—which freaked me out the most. If I couldn’t see, I couldn’t read, and I don’t think I could survive without books. I thought about Braille, but with the way my fingertips are feeling, that doesn’t seem plausible. I never knew that when you get a disease, they talk to you about all of the horrid things that could and will happen to you if you don’t take care of it. Of course, I’m going to take care of myself. I want to live. I want to do everything I need to do to keep it in control.
I set the monitor on the counter and snap open its hard outer case. We were sent home with it from the hospital. After they released me today, we stopped by the pharmacy and got everything I need. I don’t know how my mom is going to afford to do it all the time. Just the strips to check my blood sugar cost nearly seventy-five dollars. I’m not even sure if one hundred strips is enough for a month. They want me to check it first thing in the morning, before and after each meal, and before I go to bed each night. If it’s out of range at all, they want it to be checked in the middle of the night, too. That’s at least eight strips a day. The doctor did say that once I get the hang of things, if I have good control, I can just check before meals and bedtime. That’d be nice.
“Does it hurt?” Harrison asks, his eyebrows pinched as he stares over my shoulder. He’s so close, I can feel the tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand from the proximity—a foreign anticipation of touch.
“I’m proud of you, Rice. You’re taking this really well. I don’t know if I would have,” he whispers, each word tickling my skin.
My heart begins to race as I let my imagination play out a scene where I turn and wrap my arms around him.
“You’re like a sister to me, and if you need anything at all—ever—you just say the word.” His words are strong, confident.
I glance down at my chest, fully expecting to see the handle of the knife that must surely be protruding from the center of it. I can almost feel the blood dripping down from the wound his words left there. I swallow my humiliation and do my best to recover. “Thanks, Harrison. I’m glad to have two big brothers. One could never be enough,” I say playfully, bumping into him.
My monitor beeps, displaying my reading on the screen—109.
“So, is that good?” he asks.
“I think it’s right where it should be.”
“Great, let’s get out of here.”
I follow him back to the door and grab my coat. “So, what’re we going to do?”
“It wouldn’t be any fun if I told you,” he replies, making quick work of the steps leading to the building’s front entry. There isn’t much to it. One wall is lined with locking mailboxes, and in the opposite corner, there’s an old, sad-looking chair. I couldn’t imagine sitting in it, and often wonder why it’s even there. There’s a long rip across the seat, causing the stuffing to spill up and out of the wound. Its wooden legs look uneven and wobbly, and the fabric that isn’t torn is a dull, dirty pink—the color my mom would call dusty rose.
Exiting the lobby, I wrap my arms around my middle as a strong shiver courses through me. It’s so cold. On our way to Harrison’s pickup, we run into the man I saw on the way to the hospital. I don’t remember what his name is. That whole day is pretty hazy.
“Hey, hey, Mr. Shelton, do you need a hand with your groceries?” Harrison asks him.
He stops in front of us, a playful smile on his face. “Now, how many times have I told you to call me Bernard or Bernie? I retired, remember? I left that name at the school.” Walking to the door, he sets the bags down to open it.
As soon as they’re out of his hands, Harrison swoops over, gathering them up.
“I’m just going to take these up. I’ll be right down,” Harrison says. Setting down the two from his left hand, he reaches into his pocket for the keys to his truck. “
Go ahead and start it, warm it up.” He throws me the keys.
I make a lame grab for them, but my attempt falls short. Truth is, I tend to lean the other way when things are flying at me. I’m not sure why, but it’s a bit embarrassing. I scoop them up off the ground and run across the parking lot. The cold has completely seeped into me now, and I can’t stop shivering.
Once I get into the truck and turn it on, I slip across the bench seat to the passenger side. Harrison knows my mysterious neighbor, too. I wonder why I’ve never talked with him before. I look around the inside of the truck. It’s the first time I’ve been in it—Harrison and I don’t hang out. As frustrated as I am at the fact that my family thinks I need to be watched, but didn’t think they should discuss it with me, I’m totally psyched to get to hang out with him. It’s clean in here, and there’s a faint smell of coconut. The little orange tree that’s hanging from his radio knob is likely responsible for the smell.
I glance back to the front of the apartments just as he opens the door. Harrison. He’s been a fixture at our house since he and Jesse both sat on the bench for nearly the entire season they played football when they were twelve. It was the same year my dad died, and I think his friendship really helped Jesse. He lost something that year—we all did—but he gained something, too.
It’s a well-known fact that Harrison’s mother loves all things Star Wars. Her favorite actor? Harrison Ford. I’ve only met her once, but the whole time I stood in their living room, waiting for the boys to grab whatever it was we stopped to get, she went on and on about her favorite hunky heartthrob. It was hilarious. Most people call him Harry. Except my idiot brother, who has always called him Ford. And me. I like the way Harrison sounds. It’s a great name, and calling him Harry cheapens it, makes it less than what it is. Some things don’t need to be changed.
“Sorry about that. I couldn’t let him carry that all up on his own,” Harrison says, climbing into the truck.
“Of course, I should have thought to offer,” I reply.
“You haven’t met him yet, have you? On the way upstairs, he was asking about you. Said he hadn’t had the pleasure to meet you yet. He retired before you got to the high school. It’s a bummer; I know you would have loved him.”
“Oh, he’s a teacher? I was wondering how you guys knew him. What’d he teach?”
“He taught English. Introduced me to a lot of the greats in literature. He really inspired me because he could stand in front of this group of kids who didn’t want to be there—kids that were too busy paying attention to each other to pay attention to him—and all he had to do was begin speaking,” Harrison begins, a fire in his eyes I’ve never witnessed before. His voice so full of admiration. “He was captivating. So passionate about everything he was speaking of. That kind of self-assurance demands attention, and it didn’t take long for him to transform the whole class. He made English cool,” he finished, bobbing his head to the music playing in the background.
The world is a vampire, sent to drain.
“What is this?” I nod toward the radio. “I’ve never heard it before, but I kinda like it.”
“Smashing Pumpkins’ ‘Bullet with Butterfly Wings.’”
“What?” What did he just say? “Is that the group? Smashing Pumpkins? Weird…” I hope that didn’t sound offensive; my luck they’re probably his favorite group.
“It’s a weird name, but that’s their style. Out of the ordinary. That’s why I dig it, you know?” He smiles, and I reach over to turn it up.
Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage.
My body moves slightly with the music as I think about the lyrics. I feel that way now—a rat in a cage, absolutely no freedom. But I don’t mind—at least not today—in this moment, here with Harrison. I reach over and absently draw a heart with my finger in the window steam, before rubbing my palm across it. I hope he didn’t see that.
My mouth pulls up when he turns into the parking garage behind the mall. I sort of thought we might end up here. Jesse told me more than once that Harrison loves the bookstore as much as I do.
“I was thinking you might like something new to read. My treat,” he says as he puts the truck in park.
“Are you serious?!”
“Totally serious. You’re the only person I know who loves to read as much as I do. I thought this might take your mind off things. Besides, I needed to pick something up, anyway.”
“That’s so kind of you,” I say, my heart melting into a gooey puddle of unreciprocated feelings. Oh well, at least he doesn’t know how I feel. I think I’d die if he ever found out.
Waldenbooks has always been my favorite out of the two bookstores in the mall. It has more of the books I like to read, and there’s a whole shelf of Christopher Pike books. I pull three from the shelf that I haven’t read. This is my ritual—I read the back of each, then place them behind my back and awkwardly try to shuffle them around. Then I move two to one hand, and the third to the other. Whichever one is by itself is the one I choose. I have a hard time deciding things, and this sort of takes the pressure off—leaves it to fate.
I finish with my weird little routine and glance down at the book in my left hand. Remember Me. I hope it’s good.
“Did you find something?” Harrison asks, breaking my thoughts, startling me. I’d been alone in this section just moments before.
“I did. Are you sure you don’t mind getting it for me? I actually think I have enough at home. I’ll get you back when we get there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, what is it? Four dollars? I think I can handle it, Rice,” he replies, the easy smile on his face making my knees wobble.
6
Christmas Vacation
Alone. It’s the first time I’ve been completely alone in almost a month. It feels really good. I enjoy solitude, complete silence. I’ve always found it sort of rejuvenating, and I’ve craved it for the last several weeks. It’s time to fill myself up with the kind of quiet that is needed to deal with all this noise.
Going back to school was a nightmare. Everyone wanted to talk to me. Normally, the only people I talk to regularly are my teachers and my best friend, Jayden. I mean, I’m casually friendly with a few other people. And if I get paired up with someone for a project, then of course I’m cordial, but I learn better when I’m not distracted by everything else. And unlike most of the inhabitants at my school, I actually like to learn.
There’s an endless amount of knowledge, and I wish I could learn it all. I used to wish that I was one of those savants. I mean, if you’re going to get stuck with a disability, wouldn’t extreme intelligence be the way to go? But nope, fate didn’t smile on me. Instead, it left me with this lame disease. Guilt trickles in as soon as I have the thought. I don’t want to feel bad about it because I’m going to have it forever, and I don’t want to feel like that forever, so I better not feel like that at all. I’m sure this wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, which is why I keep these thoughts to myself.
Every time I’m with my mom and brother, all they want to do is talk about it. How am I feeling? When did I check my sugar last? What was my sugar? Did I have a snack? I should have a snack. Snacks are important. It feels so bizarre. So unlike my normal life, just a month ago. Back when my meals were my business. Of course, they made sure I ate, but no one really cared what. We don’t eat meals together often. Everyone has a busy schedule. My mom works mornings at Mel’s, and she’s been working in the evenings at Shopko, stocking shelves for Christmas. Jesse is here sometimes, but he’s been spending a lot of time with his new girlfriend, Tori.
My mom just left for work, and Jesse didn’t come home last night, so I’m blessed with time to myself. I walk into the living room, knowing exactly what I need to do today. It’s time to make Christmas come to life in here.
We have a tree, with pretty, little twinkling lights, and we all hung the decorations on it together, but besides that, nothing’s been done. My mom normally sets up her village that ligh
ts up and tells its own Christmas story—it’s always been one of my favorite parts of Christmas. But this year, she hasn’t had time for anything, and she’s been so stressed out. Maybe if I do this, it’ll make her feel better.
It’s only 7:30 in the morning. I should have loads of time before anyone gets home. Satisfied with my plan for the day, I pull my hair back using the scrunchie on my wrist and head for the hall closet. The closet is as deep as our bedrooms and about half as wide. I always thought it would make a good office, but then where would we put all this stuff? There’re so many boxes in here; it’s going to take some work to find the right ones. Good thing I had a big breakfast before Mom left.
I’ve gained nearly ten pounds since I was diagnosed. I had been losing weight for months, but I didn’t realize when they admitted me to the hospital I only weighed sixty-five pounds. I looked like a skeleton, and I hadn’t even noticed. There were so many signs I should have seen. I don’t know why I let it get as bad as I did before I asked for help. But, now I’m eating a ton and feeling so much better. I’ll be back up to a healthy weight in no time.
My mom’s been waking me up at 6:00 a.m. every morning and feeding me eggs, toast, and whichever breakfast meat she decides to make. There is always fresh fruit on the side. When she’s short on time, she makes me apple cinnamon oatmeal. Not everything about this disease sucks. It does have its perks. Spending time with my mom is definitely one of them. I try not to complain because she works so hard, but sometimes I really miss her.
Standing just inside the closet, I know why we haven’t done any more decorating. I’m going to have to move at least ten boxes to get to the red totes in the back. They hold everything I need to turn this place into a winter wonderland. If I get this done in time, I think I’ll make some snowflakes to string from the ceiling, too.