Page 71 of Part of Forever
“How did it get this bad?” I whisper.
“Sometimes these things just happen,” Doctor Barker says, sadly. She lets my dad know she’ll be back to check on me, but that I should rest if I can.
If I can. I just found out I don’t have much life left. How can I rest?
“Any word from Tucker?” I finally ask. It’s as if the room fills with ice—no one moves or talks. “Can I have my phone to call him?” I ask this question to Nathan, since he’s been in charge of my phone while I’ve been at the hospital.
Grace comes to the other side of my bed, her eyes full of tears. “I’ve tried, his cell must be off.”
My heart clenches. “Any word from his mom?” Grace reached out to her as soon as Tucker left.
“We haven’t heard from her either,” she says.
“Can I still try to call him?” I ask, and Nathan hands me my phone. I hit Tucker’s name but it goes straight to voicemail. “Um, hi,” I say into the phone. “Things aren’t great over here, um, with the cancer, I mean. Not that I’m doing great either. I, uh, come home, please? I need you here.” I hang up and sink back into my pillows.
“That was not the best message,” Nathan says jokingly.
“I…” I begin, and then I start to laugh, too. “Apparently I can’t talk right now.” That seems to be all that everyone else needed, because then we’re all laughing.
“Why are we laughing?” Nathan asks, wiping away his tears.
“Maybe we’re all just in denial?” Grace offers.
“Or maybe it’s like inGrey’s Anatomy,when they’re at the funeral and everyone can’t stop laughing, even though it’s a totally inappropriate time to be laughing,” Dad says from the corner, which for some reason makes us all laugh harder.
When the laughter finally runs down, I ask, “Maybe he went to the cabin?” Tucker has to be somewhere.
“My dad checked on Monday and it was empty. He’s going to go up again tomorrow,” Grace tells me.
“He was worried that he’s like his dad,” I say suddenly.
“What?” she asks.
“Once, he told me that one of his fears is that he’d just grow up and walk away from the people he loved, just like his dad. That music would become so much of his life, he’d walk away from everything else. He was worried he had the running gene in him,” I say, and the words feel heavy on my tongue.
“He’s not like his dad,” she assures me. “Get some sleep, we’ll find him.”
“You get to go home,” Doctor Barker announces.
Mom bursts into tears and Grace collapses on the bed beside me and says, “Thank you, God.”
I’m glad I’m going home. It’ll be nice to be in a place that isn’t this white, sterile room, surrounded by all the beeping, though Doctor Barker assures Mom that some of the equipment will be coming with me so the nurses who are coming home with us will be able to monitor me.
This isn’t the end—not yet—but the end feels suffocatingly close.
And we still have no idea where Tucker is.
I fall asleep before the conversation is over.
letter to tucker
Dear Tucker,
I had to write you another letter because you won’t answer my calls and I need to tell you a few things.
Again, I need to say that I’m sorry. For not being with you and loving you sooner. For getting sick; I know that’s a lot to handle. I don’t blame you for leaving, but I still hate that you did.
My cancer is bad. I’m home now, with a nurse that comes over a lot, and not officially on hospice, but that’s kind of what it feels like. And while no one says it, that’s where this is headed. Whether it’s next week or even a year from now… Basically, I just get to stay home instead of living at the hospital like Lucy did. It’s kind of insane how quickly I went from feeling fine to feeling so sick all the time. That’s where I’m at right now, sick and weak. And I’ve got headaches nearly all the time. I’m not really sure how Lucy was so happy all the time if she felt anything like this. I’m grouchy and snap at everyone, so while I hate that you aren’t here, I’m glad you don’t have to see me like this.
