She’s a hugger. I once saw her hug a stranger at the grocery store. She didn’t walk up to him and randomly hug him. Nope. He was standing behind us in line, and, of course, started telling her his life story. This is just something that happens to Mom, too. People tell her the most bizarre, personal things. It’s like a superpower or something. So, while we stood there waiting on the slow cashier, the man proceeded to tell us all about how he’d just lost his son to leukemia. I don’t blame her for hugging him. I probably would have too, if I hadn’t been so frozen in place by the story. It was so sad, it nearly stopped time for me.
“We’re so happy you’re here.” Her eyes turn to me. “Have you met Brice?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he answers, his smile so genuine, I almost forgive the pie. Almost.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” I say, offering my hand.
He takes it between both of his, smiling at me kindly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young lady,” he finishes, giving my hand a final squeeze before he releases it.
I cross my arms as a small smile takes over my face. Maybe I can forgive the pie. I’ve always had a soft spot for the elderly, and he’s adorable. I want to know more about him. I’ve never been one to hold a grudge, and it’s not like I’m the only person here. I’m sure they’ll all enjoy the pie.
“Is Jayden coming?” Mom asks.
“She’s babysitting this evening. Mr. Tillman’s supposed to drop her here after,” I tell her. Sometimes I wonder why Jayden’s my best friend—we couldn’t be bigger opposites. But I love her to pieces; everyone does.
“I don’t believe you,” I say, because it’s true. Jayden can tell some whoppers. She plumps her stories, always adding just enough color to make it more fascinating. But, sometimes she takes it over the top.
“It’s true.” She points her fork at me while she chews the roast beef she just tucked into her mouth. Roast beef has always been my favorite dinner. I love everything about it.
“How many of you believe this story?” I ask around the table. My gaze sits a moment too long with Harrison, his amused smile making me falter, but when he sends a playful wink my way, I find courage and continue around the table. “Anyone?”
“I think it’s possible. It could have happened,” Jesse says, a mischievous glint dancing in his eye. I know he’s just saying it to challenge me. “What is it you find so hard to believe?”
“For starters, the whole mouth-to-mouth bit. We all know there’s no way Mr. Tillman is going to put his mouth on a dog’s. Period. No way,” I say, pointing my fork at Jayden. “That’s where you lost me. You took it over the top this time, Jay.” I laugh. Her porcelain-white skin colors, and she laughs, too.
“Okay, but he did hit a dog. And we did get out to see. And the dog did run off,” she says, midchew. “So, the story is mostly true. Mostly,” she finishes, with a dramatic sigh, rolling her big, blue eyes at me.
“I think I may have retired a few years too early. You two would have been fun to have in class,” Bernard interjects. The creases around his mouth deepen before a big belly laugh breaks free.
His laugh is contagious, everyone in the room on the brink. As we all give in to the titter, I realize that this is the first time since my diagnosis that everyone has let go of the fear and sadness. We’re enjoying ourselves. I think the worst part of all of this is the hollow ache in my gut that says I’ve made them unhappy. I’ve caused this sadness to fall over them, and now they’re living in constant worry. The rational part of me knows it’s ridiculous. I know I didn’t cause this—at least that’s what the doctors say—but there’s this little part of me that feels like maybe I did.
“Whew, I haven’t laughed like that in ages.” Bernard takes a big breath, shaking his head. “Brice, where you at tonight? Do you think you can have some pie?” he asks, taking me off guard.
“No, no, thank you. I can’t have pie.” I smile politely, picking at the hole in my jeans.
“Why not? This is a special pie, no sugar. Just apples, cinnamon, and a couple of teaspoons of apple juice concentrate, and of course, a little butter. You gotta have butter. I was 103 when I left my apartment, so I’m having pie.” He winks, rubbing his hands together in front of his face.
I’m stunned. Is he diabetic? He’s not overweight. “You’re diabetic? But you’re so thin. I thought type 2s were bigger?” I realize, as the words escape me, how insulting they sound. “I’m sorry, I just haven’t met anyone else.”
He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. The expression on his face is still amused, but I can tell things have shifted. He’s gone from guest to teacher, and I’m about to be schooled.
“Do you think that only young people have type 1? Is that why you assume I’m type 2?”
His question surprises me, and I nod, even though I realize as I do, this is a ridiculous notion to have.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think about that. They call it juvenile diabetes. I guess it didn’t dawn on me. Of course, there would be adults that have it. How old were you when you were diagnosed?”
“I was twenty-seven. They misdiagnosed me at first with type 2. The doctors sometimes think the same way you did—type 1 is only for juveniles, when that simply isn’t true.”
I’m amazed at the level of quiet around the table. I’m not sure it’s ever been this noiseless in here. Normally, everyone has something to say—an opinion on everything. Especially Jesse and Jayden—neither one of them know how to stay still for more than a moment.
“You’ve lived with it for a long time.” Again with the insulting comments. I should really take a hint from the rest of them and just be silent.
“Yes ma’am, and I’m not dead yet,” he responds, chuckling quietly.
“Let me get some plates for this gorgeous pie,” Mom says, standing to head to the kitchen. “Brice, I don’t see why you can’t have a small piece.”
I chance letting my eyes meet Bernard’s and relax as I do. He doesn’t look angry at all. If anything, he looks a little amused, his eyes full of understanding. “Don’t beat yourself up for not knowing everything there is to know about this disease. Hell, I’ve had it for over forty years, and I’m still learning.” He winks, rubbing his hands together as Mom sets a piece of pie in front of him.
8
Ready or Not…
“Where are you going?” Jayden asks.
I look at her chin. How can she hang her head upside down like that without getting a headache from it? Her blonde hair hangs straight to the floor, its corn-silk straightness looking the same upside down as it does right-side up. Perfectly in place, just standing on end.
“It’s in the basement of the library,” I tell her for the third time. Maybe the words don’t stick because her brain’s upside down. “Wanna help me pick something to wear?”
She rolls over and hops up so fast, you would have thought I just told her Brad Pitt walked through the door. He’s this super hunky new actor that she’s been hung up on ever since we saw the movie Legends of the Fall. I totally get it.
“Will you actually wear what I choose?” she asks, her eyes conveying her skepticism. She’s right to not trust me. I’ve never gone along with one of her choices before.
I look her over carefully before I answer. “That depends… Will I be dressing for a meeting in the basement of the library, or am I going to look like I’m getting ready for the prom?”
She bites her lip as she studies me. “Okay, okay. I’ll try to tone it down, but there’s never a reason to be drab. You could use a little color in your life. This is a new experience; these people don’t know boring you. Thi
s could be an opportunity for you to be exciting.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me, turns, and begins rifling through my closet. “And who knows? Maybe there’ll be a cute boy there.”
I feel dread building in the pit of my stomach as I walk backward toward the bed. The back of my legs hit, and I sink down on the mattress, watching her continue the search. At least she’s not foraging through her closet—who knows what I would end up in, then. I study the outfit she’s wearing today. “Are those bell-bottoms?”
“Yes! Don’t you love them? They don’t call them bell-bottoms though; they’re flare-legged. Aren’t they great?!” she squeals, propping her foot out, moving it back and forth, the loose fabric floating all around.
I shake my head. “Only you could get away with something like that, Jay.” She makes everything look adorable. Everything—even the hideous silver bowling shoes she has on. When did they start making silver shoes? “New shoes?”
“Yes!” she squeals, jumping up and down. “They’re great, right?”
“They’re something else.” I smile, hoping she doesn’t see what I really think.
She smiles her bright, beautiful smile at me and turns back to the closet. I lie back on the bed, willing the dread to go away. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about this. It’s not like I don’t know Bernard now. We’ve been keeping each other company on the days when there’s no one here. He’s actually a really cool guy, and I can see why the boys like him so much. I hate meeting new people, though, and I think I may actually have to talk to people there, too.
“So, whatcha think?” Jayden asks, holding a forest green sweater and a pair of faded blue jeans up to herself, as if the outfit were for her.
“That’s it? That’s your choice? Seems a bit…understated,” I say, getting up. I didn’t even know I had a sweater like that in my closet, but I love the color; green’s always been my favorite.
I run my hand over the sweater’s soft texture. I get to the sleeve and notice a tag hanging at the cuff. I look up at her; she grins sheepishly. “Okay, so I may have picked this up for you at the mall yesterday. But, you have to admit the color is gorgeous, and it’s going to make your eyes look amazing.”
“I don’t deserve you,” I say and mean it.
She waves her hand, brushing off the comment. “Try it on, I can’t wait to see it.”
I pull the soft fabric on over the tank top I’m already wearing and step in front of the long mirror on the back of the door. It’s gorgeous. I think I’ll live in this sweater from now on. Turning, I throw my arms around Jayden as she squeals in delight.
“I knew you’d love it. I just wanted to make you happy, Bri. You’ve had a really crummy month. You deserve something to smile about.” She pulls back from the hug to look me over. “I made you something, too.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a green beaded bracelet. Holding it out to me, I see she has a matching one on her wrist. “This way, we’ll always be together. Now, will you let me do your hair?”
“Ugh, that’s even worse than you picking out my clothes,” I groan, rolling my eyes at her.
“You are such a child sometimes.” She laughs, shoving me toward the stool in front of my vanity.
She runs her fingers through my tangles as I watch from the mirror, the look on her face comical.
“How do you even manage to work with this mess?” she jokes. I cringe as I feel the cold water from the spray bottle shower my head. I close my eyes, fingering the beads on my wrist. Emotion swells within me as I toss her words around in my mind.
Gentle tugs carry me away as she twists and pulls, working her magic. All movement stops and I open my eyes. The front of my hair has a small French braid, effectively holding it out of my face. It’s perfect.
“Jay, you know I don’t want to meet any boys, right?” Our eyes connect in the mirror. She lets out a disheartened sigh, her gaze falling down to the floor.
She looks back up, her smile firmly back in place, but different somehow. “I know, Bri, but sometimes fate has a different idea. Who knows, maybe this is one of those times.” She shrugs, a hopeful gleam in her eye. She thinks my crush on Harrison is hopeless and I’m wasting my heart on an impossibility.
“Thanks. For the sweater, the bracelet, and for just being you. You’re the best.”
I can’t hold back my laughter when my eyes meet hers in the mirror.
She gives a little wink as she fluffs my curls again. “I am, aren’t I?” A devious smile lights her face, and I know that I’m in trouble. “You know what you need?” she asks, sitting down on the edge of my bed and slipping her feet out of her shoes. “These will look fabulous with your outfit. Just a touch of funk.”
9
Wednesday Evening Meetings
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I ask Bernard as he slides in behind the driver’s seat. The look he gives me says I’m out of line. “I’m sorry, I’m just nervous.”
“What are you nervous about? My driving?” he asks, shaking his head. “Girl, I’ve been driving at least twice as long as you’ve been alive. Actually, I take that back, probably more than three times as long.”
“It’s not that, it’s this whole thing. Meeting new people is hard for me. My favorite people are all book characters.”
“I understand that, but the problem with those people is they can only say what they’re destined to say. I personally like a live conversation sometimes. I like it when people surprise me, and if I don’t ever talk to anyone, how are they going to surprise me?”
I study him as he drives. He’s wearing the same little hat he was the first time I saw him—the day my life changed forever. Will I always think of it like that, before and after? My life has a definitive line down the middle now.
“It gets easier.”
I swear this man is a mind reader. He’s always doing that—reading my thoughts, answering my unspoken questions.
“What does?” I question, even though I know what he’s talking about. I need to hear him say it. I spin the beads at my wrist, marveling at the different textures beneath my fingertips.
“This…all of it. Pretty soon, the shots and finger pokes won’t be any more troubling than tying your shoes. Just another part of the day. At least I hope that’s the case for you.” He glances over, making sure he has my attention. “The way I see it, when you get this disease, you have two choices, and it’s up to you which one you choose. You have the right to choose either, but there’s only one right choice. You can fight each and every day. Fight to live a happy, healthy life. Or you can ignore it—rebel against it—and die a slow, agonizing death. It’s not much of a choice, really, but there are some who will choose the wrong path.”
I look away from his piercing gaze, wiping sweaty palms on my jeans.
“Not you though. I can see it already. You’re stronger than that.”
I’m quiet as the severity of his words sink in. I think about all the horrible complications the doctors have been stressing to me since day one. Kidney failure, blindness, amputations, the list goes on and on… I’m not even sure what all of it is. The one thing I knew right from the start was, I didn’t want any of it to happen to me. Who would?
I look down at my sore, bruised fingertips, slowly running the pad of my thumb over them. I can understand wanting to ignore it, too, though. It may not be my choice, but I understand it.
“That gets better too,” he says, holding his hand out so I can examine his fingers.
Unlike mine, I see no bruises at all. Instead, the very end of his first three fingers have a hard callus on each side. Looking closely, I see countless little dots—poke marks.
“The calluses make it nearly painless. I really don’t even feel it anymore—” he pauses, putting his hand back on the wheel. “I do suggest that you stick with just a few fingers…makes it a little more bearable while they’re still tender.”
The pain in my fingers is a constant reminder of everything. Every time I try to pick something up—hold
a pencil, fork, or hairbrush. It’s not excruciating, but it’s painful, and it’s been one of the hardest things for me to get used to.
“Thanks for the tip.” I smile, glad for the shared knowledge.
“I hated the finger pricks the most, too,” he says softly, seemingly lost in the past. “But don’t you ever forget what those tiny drops add up to.” His words become stronger, challenging me to listen, begging to be understood. “Those tiny drops of blood are a small sacrifice for the years that you’ll get because of them. You can and will have a full, healthy life if you do what it takes.”
“I will,” I whisper, suffocating on my emotions.
I turn my attention back to the window, surprised to see that we’re already pulling up to the building. The front of it is lined with massive windows—allowing the readers inside to have natural light by which to travel through their stories. I take a deep breath, willing myself to relax. This will be all right…good, even.
I’ve always felt a calm when walking into a library that I’ve never felt anywhere else. This one is no exception. I love the sacred silence, the smell of the old books, and the faint giggles of children—breaking the quiet with their unbridled joy. And the inevitable shh that always follows their laughter. I remember being one of those children, and I’m thankful my mother loves reading as much as I do.
“Shall we?” Bernard says, breaking the magical hold the library has over me. He extends his arm out for me, and we walk toward the door that leads to the basement. “You’re in for a treat. J.C. is quite a guy. You’ll make a lot of friends here,” he assures me. I know he’s smiling, even though I can’t see his face—I hear it in his voice.
I’ve never been in the basement before. I imagined a dark, dank space, so what I find surprises me. We walk through a large, arched doorway, and I’m met with a warmth that begs you to come closer, to be wrapped up in it. The source of the heat is a large fireplace. The flames dancing within are small and the coals are burning brightly. The room is so cozy, I want to find a comfy chair and curl up with a book. That would be heavenly.