Page 17 of Part of Forever
“You okay, Rosie?” My brother jostles my arm with his elbow.
“What? Fine,” I say and pick up my knife and fork, taking a bite just to prove it. But inside, I’m not doing fine. So much for pretending I’m not sick.
Dad reaches across the table and gently squeezes my hand. “It’s okay to not be fine, Rosebud.” And just like yesterday, when everything went fuzzy after I heard the news, the clatters from the kitchen and the chatter around us fade away and it’s like we’re the only people here.
“I’m scared,” I admit, and immediately Nathan has an arm around my shoulder.
“You should have stayed home last night,” Mom says stiffly, but she won’t look at me, and that’s when I realize that even with all of her makeup, her eyes are puffy. She must have spent most of the night crying. I want to call her out, since she was the one who told me to go out last night with Shawn. She told me several times that it was “a great idea.”
Instead, I look down at the table. “I don’t want to think about what Doctor Barker said. I can’t think about what she said. I feel fine.” Which is true, because the last time I was sick, we knew something was wrong because I felt tired and sore all the time, and, well—sick.
Right now though, I feel fine. Physically, anyway. A little more tired than normal, but I’ve also been dancing a lot more than usual.
“Maybe you just think you feel fine,” Mom says.
“I feel fine,” I snap, because I need her to believe me. “Maybe I do have a tumor, but all I know is that right now I feel healthy and fine and on top of the world because I know I’m going to get into the Paris Academy.” I swallow back a sob. “But we don’t know what’s gonna happen with my cancer and it’s all kind of shitty.”
“Rosie,” Mom cries. She hates when we swear and the couple at the table next to us glances our way. But this whole situation isn’t exactly sunshine and roses, and while I want to pretend that I’m not sick, maybe facing reality would be better.
“What? It’s true that I feel fine. True that my chances of getting into Paris are high. I don’t want to have cancer because that will only set my career back.”
Everyone is quiet for a moment.
“You have to do whatever Doctor Barker says,” Nathan says, so quietly that Dad leans forward to hear better. “So that you will be okay.”
I give a jerky nod. “Okay, then what? What if it’s more thanjust a tumor? Then all of my training the last nine years will be for what? Nothing? I might not be strong enough to dance in the fall even if the cancer goes away completely. Paris is over.” The tears fall then and I know I’m not crying about the cancer or the possibility of it being worse than we know right now. I’m crying because my one and only dream is being taken from me, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
“It’s not over,” Nathan says, his voice calm and soothing. “We’ll help get you back to where you are, even if it takes a little longer to get to Paris.”
I nod, even though I know that if they find out I’m sick, they’ll fill my spot, and if they don’t take me this year, I’ll be too old to join the program.
Mom knows this, too, but thankfully, she stays silent.
“Let’s just wait and see what Doctor Barker says. She mentioned that surgery would be the best option, and maybe the only thing you have to do since there was no evidence of cancer anywhere else,” Dad says finally. “Let’s not worry about ballet until we know more. And, who knows—maybe they’ve made a lot of great strides in the past eight years.” Dad smiles, optimistic. “So even if it’s more than a tumor, it’ll be faster and easier to kick cancer’s butt.”
But I know that now he’s just lying to himself. He may be the artist of the family, but he reads nearly every article that comes out about treating the cancer I had as a kid, even if I have been in remission for nine years. He knows that while they’re learning new things, there still isn’t a guaranteed cure.
“Maybe,” I say finally, because I’m still crying and I can’t stand to break his heart, too. That would be too much, and it all feels like too much, and even though there’s the nagging part in my brain telling me that I’m making it worse than it actually is, it still feels bad.
I eat what I can of my lunch, and Nathan’s arm stays around my shoulders the whole time. Mom avoids eye contact with all ofus, and Dad smiles and talks about his favorite memories and tells us about his next art show. There are a few brief moments where everything feels like a normal Saturday afternoon, but they are fleeting because my brain won’t shut up.
I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer.
8
Dad’s readingthe newspaper in his oversized chair when I get to the bottom of the stairs. I’m wearing my favorite floral dress and denim jacket that Nathan found at a yard sale two years ago.
“Hey, Rosebud.” Dad gives me a cheery smile that brings a lump to my throat. No matter what happens in the next few months, I know he’s going to handle it all with a smile. That’s just how he is.
“Hey, Daddy,” I say, feeling like a little girl again. I give him a quick hug before I plop on the couch next to him. Nathan is still upstairs getting ready and I’d rather sit and wait than stand in the hallway and wait.
“You going to tell them tonight?” he asks, watching me intently. My heart stops for a second; how can he know that I want to tell Tucker my feelings for real? Then it hits me—he’s asking about the tumor, not my crush. He saidthem,as in Grace and Tucker, not justhim. I shake my head.
“No, not yet.” I run my hands over my legs, one of my anxious habits. I’m not ready to have a conversation with them about the tumor. “I just don’t know how to tell them. It doesn’t feel real yet. I think I’m still adjusting to the news, ya know?”
He nods. “I am too.”
I think of lunch, how the mood felt so somber as we left because there are still so many unanswered questions.
