“Or”—Luke swings his backpack around to his front and fishes out a couple containers of food and a bag from Lorell’s—“we could eat on the quad.”
“Sounds amazing.”
He lays out a beach towel on the grass in the shade of a big oak tree. He’s packed drinks, sandwiches, fruit, and pastries. We keep playing thewhat-ifgame, spinning imaginary scenarios of us together here or him visiting me in Brookline, or even in Paris next summer, now that my application is fully submitted. Something about having plans in place makes it easier to invent dreams about the future, even if they probably won’t come true.
“Maybe we could do our own study abroad together. After I go to Paris with Maddy, I’ll know my way around, and we can see the art and soak up the culture.”
“If bycultureyou meancheese, I’m in,” Luke says, grinning. The sun reflects the strands of copper in his hair. I reach out and play with it, and he closes his eyes.
“I want to go so badly.” I whisper it, in case the universe can hear and is keeping tally on my wishes.
“You will,” Luke says, opening his eyes.
“Maybe.” It’s as much as I’m willing to admit for now.
Luke is itching to sign up for classes, so while I polish off my sandwich, he creates his student account on his phone with the paperwork he was given and starts picking courses.
“Does this sound like too much?” he asks, passing his phone over. “They say to start with three classes if you’re doing part-time like I am, but that feels like so little.”
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Abbi would know. Or you could ask Izzy.” He nods and goes fishing for the last pastry before I get my hands on it. I scroll through the list and frown. It’s all basics and business classes, nothing art, nothing literature, nothing that I know will interest that curious, visual part of his mind. I find the course lists and look through them quickly.
“You should take this Graphic Design 101 class.” I show him the screen. “It fits with the days you’re here, and it’s only a pass/fail.”
Luke’s face falls a little. “I don’t know, Sera. I don’t really have the time…”
“Do it for me?” I finally ask, pushing past the silliness of our fake game to the reality ahead of us. “Take it for me. Just the one class. And if you like it, take another, but if you don’t, then you don’t have to. I just…I just don’t want you to miss out on a great opportunity. AndImight not be able to take classes like that, so maybe it’s selfish, but if not this first semester, at least in the first year? Promise? Just try?”
Luke watches me rambling. His green eyes are sad, like there’s a shadow over them. He takes his phone back and adds the class to his schedule.
“I’ll let you know how it goes,” he says as he pulls me into his arms and kisses me. This kiss is small and simple, not hot and desperate like earlier. This kiss feels like the kind we’d have ten or twenty years from now, comfortable and accepting, honest and real.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sera
At my next appointment with Dr.Lee, my parents and I learn that nothing has changed. Like always, I have my vitals, EKG, echo, and all the regular tests first. I change into the papery hospital top and slip on my headphones and listen to the podcast Maddy sent me about ultraviolet light’s effect on vegetables. At some point I switch to an audiobook about the intersection of art and the environment that Abbi has been bothering me to read so we’ll have something to talk about the next time I see her. She’s still up in Maine with Cam. She’s sent a few pictures to the family group chat that I responded to, but other than that, we haven’t talked.
The nurses and techs are quiet and quick. In less than an hour I’m back in my clothes, my chest still a little sticky from the ultrasound gel, sitting in Dr.Lee’s corner office, hearing the same info all over again. None of this is new, and yet the wound is made fresh again. My heart is failing. My name is toofar down the list for real hope, but we all claw at it anyway. My parents ask Dr.Lee to repeat things, but I never need any of the bad news repeated. It sticks in my mind after one utterance, like useless lyrics to a generic pop song. I have time to look around her office and spy on the shelves of books and the photos and knickknacks from all the patients she’s had over the years. Time to wonder what I’ll give her if I get another heart, what my family might send if she tries but can’t save me.
If I stay stable, my next visit will be in three months. In the meantime, because things could move fast if I don’t, I’m given a bunch of paperwork to do and numbers to call, along with a binder to fill out with my end-of-life wishes.
“It’ll feel good to be prepared,” Dr.Lee says.
I flip through the binder in the back seat as we drive home and start a section for each person I want to leave instructions or notes for: Mom, Dad, Abbi, Maddy, and Luke.
My hand shakes a little as I write his name. The papers suggest I write whatever I want to, not to worry about how the other person might take it or interpret it. Still, it’s hard not to imagine everyone’s reactions, particularly Luke’s. It feels like I could have a lifetime to say goodbye to him and it still wouldn’t be enough.
When we cross over the Sagamore Bridge, the sun is out and reflecting off the canal in bright flashes of white gold. I roll my window all the way down, breathing in the salty air. It’s weird to think about whether I want a death doula or if I want to be cremated or turned into a tree when I feel so alive. All I know for sure is that I don’t want to be plugged in andhospital-bound for long stretches of time. For some reason, that’s easy to know, and I write it quickly on the first page before putting the binder aside.
Without work, I fill the days with painting new pieces. Mostly I paint by myself but sometimes with Luke. I play games and watch movies with Mom and Dad, hang out at the beach with Maddy and Luke. I go to a few bonfires with the whole crowd of Northport kids, but don’t stay long. Most of the town has gotten wise to my situation, and it feels like I’m a sad sort of celebrity. Everyone is a tad too nice. They get quiet about their joys when I join around the fire, even though I tell them it’s fine. They give me free pizza at Dockside, and the clerks at Lorell’s put aside the best muffins for me. It’s nice, but it’s also a lot. I no longer feel like it’s just me and my family waiting for my heart to give out. It feels like all of Northport is holding its breath too.
When someone from my health insurance calls to ask if I want a home visit to evaluate home care options in Northport, I say yes, because it seems like the smart thing to do. But we’re all left a little worn out after their visit, even though it’s barely past noon. To get through the day, Mom suggests we make a big, complicated dinner, taking out a recipe for homemade tacos that involves a lot of different marinades and salsas and giving everyone a task. I miss Abbi when it’s time to slice the peppers and Mom makes me wear two layers of gloves and an old pair of her giant sunglasses.
“I’m not allergic to spicy peppers, Mom. This is ridiculous.” The glasses are heavy and stretch way up past my eyebrows.
“Trust me, those things will make you cry buckets,” shesays, so I leave it, and crack old-timey movie star jokes until I’m done.
Dad makes margaritas and pours me one with a small splash of tequila so I can “understand the experience better.” We’re finishing up the last of the tacos when there’s a knock on the front door.
