“Your brothers are also worried, so you might want to text them.”
I groan. “You told the boys?”
“They have a right to know if you’re in trouble.”
“They should be enjoying college, not worrying about me, especially when they’re already upset because of Farmor. It’s just strep throat, something most people take less than a day to heal from once they get antibiotics.”
“Well, you’re not most people.”
“Don’t I know it.” I exhale. “Can you please text them and tell them I’ll FaceTime them later tonight? I want to rest for now, if I can.”
I’m not even lying—I feel awful. My head pounds, my throat burns, my body aches, and I’m alternating between being chilled and too hot, yet I still have a flash of guilt when my mom jumps to her feet.
“Oh, of course, honey. I’m sorry. You know how I get. I’m not even thinking. I just like being near you. But you rest. I’ll let everyone know how you are and go find a drink or something. I’ll be back in a bit.” She leans over to press a brief kiss to my forehead.
“Thanks, Mom.” She’s almost to the door when I add, “I hope you know how much I love you.”
“Always, sweetie.” She smiles, a tired but relieved upturn of her lips, and then she’s gone, softly closing the door behind her, leaving me in this hospital room that’s as familiar as the scar on my sternum.
Alone for the first time, I stare unseeingly at the wall in front of me. I put my hand on my chest.
Keep beating. Keep me alive.
A prayer, a plea—and a command.
Please, God, don’t let me die.
I’m not ready to be done. But then again, will I ever be? At what point will I think:There, that’s it.Thisis the moment when I’ve lived enough to be ready to go?
I’ll never see eighty.Sixtywould be another miracle when I’ve already snatched more than my fair share of them. I’ll never have a normal life expectancy. No matter how much I wish I could look at my future and hope for marriage, children,grandchildren, for white hair dusted with cinnamon and aching feet from seventy years of holding me up, that’s not in the stars for me.
And I hate it. I’msograteful to be alive,andI absolutely hate that I will never have an entire lifetime to look forward to.
I hate that if I want to live longer than my mid-thirties, someone else will have to die for meagain. How can I possibly hope forthat?
I hate that every guy I’ve ever started to love has broken up with me because this is my reality.
I hate that Farmor wanted me to make a promise Ican’tkeep because no one should spend a shortened life with someone who is fundamentally broken.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears still leak out, slipping down my cheeks. Anxiety as familiar as this room surges, and my heart rate jumps, threatening to set off the alarms and send my medical team rushing into the room.
I clutch my medical gown and will myself into the here and now.I’m on my hospital bed. My fever is coming down. The antibiotics are working. It’s not my time—yet.
And for now, that is enough. It has to be because it’s all I have to cling to.
16.
Lou sits at the dining room table with her laptop open and papers strewn around her when I walk downstairs. It’s almost eleven at night, and she’s in sweats, with her hair piled on top of her head, wearing blue-light glasses that reflect the screen.
“Burning the midnight oil, huh?” I head into the kitchen, pull out a mug, and set the kettle on the stove to boil.
“Trying to get this loan closed tomorrow, but the lender had all sorts of last-second requirements.” Lou heaves a sigh.
I sit in the chair next to her while I wait for the kettle to whistle.
“What areyoudoing up? Shouldn’t you have been in bed hours ago?” Lou pushes the blue-light glasses up into her hair.
“Who are you, my mom?” I pull one knee up and wrap my arm around it.
