Page 16 of When I'm Gone
I’m writing this as I’m getting my third treatment. I remembered to bring a sweater today. Too bad they can’t warm the infusion before putting it in your port. Room temperature is definitely not 98.6 degrees. Brr.
I thought I’d write to you now since I’ll probably be sick later. This is what I get for wanting to lose ten pounds, isn’t it? I’d definitely take fifty extra pounds over this. Turns out skinny isn’t my best look. Maybe it’s the baldness, but I think I look like one of those aliens from your sci-fi movies—gray skin, no hair, and bulging eyes. Thank heavens for wigs, fake eyelashes, and drawn-on eyebrows. I think I do a good impression of human on most days.
I hate this. I want to feel better. Will I ever feel better? If you’re reading this, I guess the answer is no. I’ve been thinking about my prognosis lately. Why did I have to get some crazy rare type of soft tissue sarcoma? Why couldn’t I have found that lump on my shoulder blade before the cancer got into my lymph nodes? Stage III. Beatable? For sure. Scary? For sure.
Even if we get through the next two rounds of chemo, we still have surgery and radiation and then even more rounds of chemo. This time last year I was floating blissfully along, teaching double-digit subtraction, getting ready for spring break in a couple weeks. And next year or the year after, I could be dead. Gone. Forever, according to you.
I don’t know what I believe about death anymore. For a long time, I could see the logic of your beliefs even though I clung to the idea of God like a child with a teddy bear. But I don’t know how to face death like that.
So I have a plan. If I die and if thereislife after death, I’m so coming back to haunt you. I mean, full-on “our house was built on an Indian burial ground” type of haunting. I’ll whisper things in your ear like, “I was riiiight. You were wroooong,” in an awesome ghost voice.
He laughed out loud as the office door in front of him swung open and people spilled out. Luke folded up the letter and quickly hid it in his pocket, hating that he didn’t get the chance to finish.
He recognized Will’s guidance counselor immediately. She was at least a head shorter than everyone in the group, even with her six-inch zebra-print heels on. She had long unruly curly hair, with the ends a light copper in contrast to the deep-brown roots.
Ms. Mason had come to the wake and the funeral. When Luke was in high school, all his counselors ever did was make sure he got all the credits he needed for graduation and nagged him about applying for colleges. He’d always thought that was the norm, but maybe they tried harder when you weren’t a foster kid who could move to a different school at any time.
The other two adults in the group exiting Ms. Mason’s office were clearly a married couple. Their two rings flashed in the light announcing “man and wife.” They quickly shook hands with Ms. Mason and made their nose-pierced, hair-dyed son do the same. Ken and Barbie got married and had an Emo child. Once they conducted another insufferable round of good-byes, Ms. Mason turned to face Luke.
“Mr. Richardson, thank you for coming. Sorry for the late notice. Please, come into my office.” Her voice was professional, but with her sparkly shirt, dangly earrings, and short stature, she could easily be mistaken for a student.
“Thanks again for coming in.” She picked up a silver pen and clutched it in her hand, long manicured nails catching his eye from across the table. “How are ...” she paused awkwardly. His stomach was churning, already knowing what she was going to ask. “How are you all doing?”
Everyone asked this question. It must’ve been on a brochure at the funeral with the title “Things to Say after Someone Dies.” He was fairly certain no one wanted to know the real answer to that question. Luke always said the same thing.
“Oh, you know, there are good days and bad days.”
Ms. Mason’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true. Hard times. Hard times.” She continued with some extended eye contact that made Luke uncomfortable. When he didn’t respond, she took a deep breath and continued, “How about Will? Have you noticed any drastic changes in his behavior lately?”
“He’s been fairly withdrawn since losing his mom.” There. He’d said “losing his mom” without flinching. It got easier every time. “He doesn’t talk to me much, but he has a pretty good relationship with a family friend. She seems to think he’s managing as well as can be expected.”
Ms. Mason tapped her pen on the table before clutching it under her chin.
“I’m afraid he’s not doing well at school,” she said, pushing the words out.
“What do you mean? Like his grades?” Luke leaned forward. “He has a tutor.”
“I know he does. His grades are going to be fine.”
“Going to be? What do you mean?”
“Well, he hasn’t been turning in his assignments, but yesterday we went through his locker together and they were all there.” She shuffled through a stack of papers on her desk, her reddish brown eyebrows crunching together. “I’m more worried about what he said when we sat down yesterday to talk.”
Luke felt like he’d swallowed a stone. “What did he say now?”
“Uh, it’s a bit difficult to explain, and I’m hoping you have more information for me ... I brought Will in for a chat after finding all his missing assignments, and we got to talking.” She put her elbows on the table and crossed her arms, picking at the loose knit of her shimmering sweater nervously. “He told me he’d recently discovered he’s adopted.”
“He said what?” Luke couldn’t hold back a loud snort, sitting up straighter in his seat. That was the last thing he’d expected her to say.
“But ...” she said, clearly relieved, “I’m guessing from your reaction, he made it up.”
“Yeah, he’s definitely not adopted.” Luke ran a hand through his unruly hair. There had to be more to this story. “What exactly did he say?”
“He said he was looking through a box of his mother’s things and found some adoption papers. It didn’t sound right; that’s why I called you.” She cleared her throat and reset her facial expression to serious. “Have you considered taking Will to talk to a professional?”
A box of his mother’s things. The phrase jumped out at him as her words ran through his mind one more time. He’d seen a box peeking out from under Will’s bed when he went in to wake him up for school a week ago, but didn’t think much of it. Why didn’t he look closer? Why was he always in a foggy tunnel of thought that only seemed to clear out when he was sitting and reading one of Natalie’s letters?
“Mr. Richardson? Did you hear me?” She waved her hand, dropping her silver pen on the desk with a loud thump. Luke shook his head to clear it.Focus. Focus on what Will’s counselor is saying.
