She released one song when she was younger. Then another, then another. Three of the biggest hits ever to be played on the radio by a teenager, then suddenly…nothing.
Radio silence.
The girl everyone expected to be a superstar dropped off the face of the earth, and nobody knew why.
But then one day, she was back with a vengeance.
Smash hit, after smash hit, no one could deny her talent or success anymore.
"You have this tour to show the label why they should sign you for your album. If not, you may as well bid farewell to your singing career, and hello to the washed-up music teacher." She turns her back to me, her black suit jacket without a wrinkle in sight, her natural blonde hair slicked back and fused to her scalp.
She saysmusic teacherlike it wasn’t the best job I’d ever had. As though leaving it behind didn’t feel like I was abandoning a part of my heart, along with the town I miss so much.
You’ve been gone two days, the bird on my shoulder likes to remind me. But how do I leave a place that’s always been my home, not knowing if or when I’ll return?
"You have a bunch of interviews lined up for the next few days, Olive. Don’t book anything unless you get the okay from me. Got it?" She turns, facing me, her tall, thin frame towering over mine, and I nod as though I’m terrified of her, cowering away from authority. "Good."
She continues talking and walking ahead of me, her voice growing so distant that my eyes wander on their own.
Making a mental note of my surroundings, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I swallow hard when I see the Grangewood Creek area code appearing on the screen, followed by a number that isn’t saved in my phone.
That alone is enough to tell me that this is a conversation I was expecting today, but not ready for. I veer left toward my dressing room, watching as Josie carries on talking to herself, not noticing my absence. I close my door quietly, lock it, clearing my throat before I answer.
"Hello?" I croak out.
"Ms. Herring?" A female voice greets me, but it’s familiar. I’ve spoken to her on multiple occasions by now, in person, and on the phone.
"Hi, Annie." I don’t ask how she is, I can’t bring myself to say much else.
"I have Doctor Minton on the line for you. Transferring you now." I hear a quiet beep, then silence, then elevator music, and then the deep tones of Doctor Minton’s voice humming through my ear.
"Olive, glad we got a hold of you. I know how busy your schedule must be right now." He laughs, trying to lighten the mood, but I don’t care to be amused. I just want him to tell me, no bullshit.
"Is it what you thought it might be?" I ask him straight out, not at all wanting to beat around the bush. I want him to give it to me like he would any other patient. I’m not a child, I don’t need coddling, I just need to know the facts so we can figure out the next steps.
"Olive—"
"Is it…what you…thought it…might be?" I ask, my tone is harsher than I intended. He’s been our family doctor since I was a kid, so he knows us all well. He’s trying to lessen the blow, but he should know better.
When I went in to see him originally, I thought it was just a minor cold. He could prescribe me some antibiotics, and I could get on with my day. But then I mentioned that I had a strange feeling in my feet, and his eyebrows pinched together, and asked if there was any history in my family of a particular chronic illness.
One I’d heard about in passing, but never felt the need to do research on. When I said no, he almost sighed in relief, but my mind kept wandering back to that particular moment.
I sit down on the leather couch in my room and stand back up almost instantly. I don’t know how to be.
I don’t know what to do.
I pace as I listen to him tell me that my MRI results came back.
That I’m notdying—at least not yet—but I am sick, and can never be cured.
I listen to him tell me that there are many,manytreatment options for me, and that medicine has come a long way in the last twenty years, but it doesn’t lessen the blow.
Not even a little bit.
"Olive?" Doctor Minton says, after relaying all the information and getting not even a single word out of me. "People with—"
"Don’t say it. I don’t need to hear it again." I shake my head, wiping the free-flowing tears off my cheeks, thankful that my door has a lock on it and that I’m alone where nobody can see me break.
