“It was no trouble. Elliot’s a great kid and—”
“Ellie,” both women correct me.
As swiftly as they’ve corrected me, I could just as swiftly remind them thatEllieprefers to be calledElliot. It’s not worth my time or energy though, so instead, I say, “She really wants to go on that trip.”
Angela laughs, but it’s an empty, defeated sound. “Did she tell you why she’s not going?”
I shake my head, and suddenly I’m wary of the information coming my way.
Angela bites her lower lip, her gaze going somewhere beyond me. Her eyes fill with tears, and I look to Wilma for understanding.
Wilma swallows, looks me in the eye, and says, “Ellie’s in the middle of chemotherapy.”
15
Now
I thinkabout it while I shower. I think about it while I blow-dry my hair, a long and painstaking process. I think about it as I spend too much time picking out an acceptable outfit for dinner at Brady’s.
Elliot has Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Of all the types of lymphoma, apparently this one is the most desirable.
Despite Elliot’s insistence that she feels well enough to go on this trip (which I’ve learned is a church youth group trip to a theme park in Southern California), Angela isn’t allowing it, and neither is Elliot’s doctor.
I feel terrible for her. Girls her age are supposed to be worried about school and grades, whether their crush likes them, and making friends. Instead, Elliot spends her time going to chemo, and then attempting to recover from it.
I see myself in Elliot. Her restless energy matched my own at that age. Listening to her lack of confidence was like looking into a mirror. I barely know this older version of Elliot, but I feel oddly protective of her. I want to wrap her up in my arms, shield her from the pain of adolescence.
And on top of it all, she’s going through it with a cancer diagnosis. She drew a shit hand.
I’ve been trying to figure out if there’s anything I can do for her, but I’m coming up empty. My ear is the best thing I can lend her.
Before I leave for Brady’s, I take a good, long look at myself in the mirror. My hair is long, almost to my belly-button, and straight. It hasn’t been short since that first time I grew it out after convincing my mom she wouldn’t have to style it anymore. Now it’s become my calling card. I’m the girl with really long hair. Like a child with a lovey, my hair brings me comfort.
On the way to Brady’s house, I glance at the grocery stores I’m passing. I could stop and pick up something, maybe a bottle of wine or flowers, but I can’t afford the nice stuff Mrs. Sterling is used to and bringing her shitty wine and carnations with baby’s breath seems worse than showing up empty-handed.
I’m climbing from the car when Finn’s truck slows to a stop behind me. He gets out, his arms full of wine and flowers.
“Oh, thank God,” I breathe, looking over his purchase. The wine doesn’t look cheap and the lilies are white and fragrant.
“They’re from both of us.” He winks at me.
I smile gratefully at him as we make our way to the front door.
Brady answers my knock. He’s wearing a collared shirt, the shade of blue the exact match of his eyes. If I had blue eyes, I’d do that too.
Brady extends a hand to Finn, and they shake and do a half-hug.
“Lennon.” His eyes are on me as he pulls away from Finn. He brushes a light kiss on my cheek.
“Thanks for having us.” I glance over his shoulder to be certain his mom or dad isn’t hovering nearby, and murmur, “Although I’m still not surewhywe were invited.”
Brady chuckles. “It’s not clear to me either.”
Pulling on a bright smile, I decide to make the best of it. Taking the wine and flowers from Finn’s hands, I sidestep Brady and say, “I’m going to find your mother and give her the hostess gifts I brought.” I look back at Finn. He narrows his eyes and I playfully stick out my tongue. Brady laughs, and for a glimmer of a second, it feels like old times, like we’re in sixth grade again and I’ve stolen the second scoop from the top of Finn’s ice cream cone. I’ve always stolen from Finn, and he’s always let me. Does it make me a thief if the rightful owner allows me to abscond with his things?
I find Mrs. Sterling in the kitchen. She stands on the far side of the island, arranging a charcuterie board. It looks so delicious I could dive headfirst into it, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I say, “Hello Mrs. Sterling. It’s nice to see you again.” I clear my throat lightly, willing away the tentative tone of my voice.
Brady’s mother looks up. She smiles, and although it’s not genuine, it’s better than I expected. Perhaps in her own way she is trying.
