Page 14 of Part of Forever
“Just a few more minutes,” the tech says into the microphone. I don’t respond, since I’m not supposed to move. Instead, I close my eyes again. I force myself to think of ballet shoes. I tune out the music and mentally go through the first three minutes of my audition routine until the whirling of the machine finally stops.
I follow the tech back to the room where my parents and Nathan are waiting. I’m glad that they were all able to come today. Dad’s sketching something on his iPad and Mom is holding one of those gossip magazines that she pretends to hate but actually loves. My brother is on his phone and he is the only one who looks up when I enter.
“The doctor will be here in a few,” the tech tells us, but we all know that we could be sitting here for another hour at least. The MRI was the last part of my actual testing. My arm is already bruising where the nurse, new I think, had to poke me three times to draw the blood they needed today.
“How was it?” Nathan asks, and for a second I think he’s asking about my kiss with Tucker, because that’s where my mind still is. I blink the memory away; it’s been eight months, you’d think it wouldn’t be so burned into my mind. You’d think I could think about something else.
“The MRI?” I ask. He nods, and Mom looks up at me as I shrug. “Fun as always.”
“I know you hate those things,” she says, then goes back to looking at her magazine. I’m grateful she’s here, but it stings a little that she doesn’t seem to want to be here. Finally, Dad looks up. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. He’s been my biggest cheerleader in the dancing world, and when I was sick before, he spent every single day and night at the hospital. He even used my tiny bathroom shower so he didn’t have to leave. We ate the not-too-terrible cafeteria food together when I could stomach it. He was always there for me, and today he feels like the one solid thing I’m holding onto.
“It’ll be fine, Rosebud,” he says quietly, his blue eyes peering into mine. My heart rate slows a tad with the nickname that’s always been just his.
I nod, though I don’t quite believe him, even if his words somewhat calm me. We go through this routine every year. He’s calm and steady, while Mom reads the latest celebrity gossip theyalways leave in the rooms—pretending not to be anxious while we all know she actually is—and Nathan moves his leg up and down, no hiding how he’s feeling.
I’m a ball of nerves, too, as I twist my hands in my lap and we wait for Doctor Barker to come in with the preliminary results.
Finally, the door opens, she says hello to all of us, asks Dad how painting is going and Mom about ballet. She asks about my audition and then she sits down on the rolling stool that I used to love playing on as a kid.
“Okay,” she says, after Nathan cracks a joke about how school is going. We all go still, just like every year. I’ve been holding my breath and I know I won’t let it out until she says I’m clear.
But the words don’t come. Not those ones anyway.
There’s a faint buzzing noise that seems to fill the room right after she says, “I’m so sorry, Rosie, but you’ve got one tumor…” Then all I can hear is the buzzing. I see her lips moving, and Dad’s face go white, but I can’t hear anything else.
All I can think isthe cancer is back, the cancer is back, the cancer is back.And I am not okay.
I’m quiet on the way home. Nathan holds my hand as we take the freeway back down to San Clemente. Doctor Barker promised that she’d call about my treatment plan on Monday.
I’m going to die,I think, even though I know that’s not what Doctor Barker said. She said it is common for cancer to show up again. It doesn’t always happen, but it isn’t surprising when it does. She promised I’ll get the best care and treatment and that first they’ll remove the tumor to see if any other treatment is even necessary—like possible radiation—since that’s the only thing that came back on the scans and bloodwork, and Dad promised we’ll fight this together.
My phone vibrates in my lap; Nathan reaches for it and types in my passcode. I’m not even mad because my whole body seems to be frozen.
“Grace and Tucker want to know how it went.” Suddenly, energy zaps back into me and I grab my phone from his hands.
The Four Musketeers Group Chat
Grace
Any word?
Tucker
Rosie???
All clear. :)
I send the text and turn my phone over, ignoring the concern on Nathan’s face.
“Why did you do that?” he asks, and Mom turns to look at us. “She just lied and told them everything is fine.” Nathan is mad, and Dad glances back at me for a split second.
I swallow hard. “I’m still processing.” Which is true. “I will tell them, but not over text. Not today.”
“You need to tell them,” he says gently, but I can feel his anger beneath the words.
“I will,” I promise. I hope the words don’t sound as empty as I feel, because I have no intention of telling them yet. Maybe I won’t even have to, maybe after the surgery, I’ll get the real all clear, and I’ll be completely fine and won’t have to share anything.
“Okay,” he says, and I know he doesn’t believe me.
