Ten Things

Ch.2-Just Don't Think About It

Grace

“Just don’t think about it.”

 It’s what my doctors told me. What my mother told me. Heck, it was even what my Aunt Larissa told me when she had to drive me to one of my doctor appointments a couple years back. Just don’t think about it.

I was pretty sure nobody understood the magnitude of that statement.

Telling me to “just not think about it” was indicating that I “not think” about the fact that there were cancerous cells eating away at my body. It was telling me to “not think” about the days I would lose, the months, the years, the entire future I wouldn’t get to dream about. It was telling me, even though I was finishing out my final year of high school with no idea if I would even finish it, to “just not think” about my sickness.

I was sick.

It was awfully hard not to think about that.

I hadn’t wanted to move to North Carolina. I liked living in Tennessee, home of the country music stars and great home brisket. I liked knowing Nashville was only a three hour car ride and that Carrie Underwood and Tim McGraw passed through every now and then. I liked the t-shirts my mother bought me from all her Keith Urban concerts because she held an unhealthy obsession for him. I liked falling asleep to the banjo or the country song about a drunk and a lost girl finding love and getting married. That was home.

But it all changed.

Keith Urban didn’t make regular trips out to old rural North Carolina. And neither did Carrie Underwood or Tim McGraw. At least, not out to where we were. It was just us, the trees, and a community.

Moving into the humble one-story house wasn’t too bad, I supposed. It was smaller than our Tennessee residence, but still homey and inviting, with pale yellow siding and a porch with a swing. I could see space on the steps leading to the front door for potted plants and I could tell my parents saw the potential in the home, too. That was really all they talked about in front of me. Redecoration, or what was for dinner, anything like that. If it was the least bit stressful it was discussed behind closed doors. They didn’t think I could handle it. I knew that to be the truth, even if they hadn’t told me so directly. They didn’t want to burden me with anything else besides my sickness. That irritated me. I always thought they should take their own advice and “just not think about it."

It would save them the grey hairs, if nothing else.

“You should leave your hair down,” my mother suggested as we sat at the table that morning for breakfast. It was the first day of school and though I was nervous on the inside, I tried my hardest not to show it on the outside.

“No, thanks, I like it in a braid,” I replied politely, biting into my muffin.

She pursed her lips, pushing her wiry spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “Are you sure? It would look really pretty down.  . .”

I sighed. “I’m sure, mother. Thank you.”

She huffed but resigned, nodding. “Okay, then. It was just an idea.”

I spared her a smile. The truth was, I didn’t want to do anything that might attract attention. I wanted to be as subtle and nondescript as possible. As horrible as it sounded, I didn’t want friends, I didn’t want people to like me . . . I didn’t want any reason to regret leaving prematurely. And ratty clothes and a subdued hairstyle would aid in that goal.

I heard a door creak open down the hall. Heavy and slow footsteps made their way down. My father appeared in his robe and slippers. He plopped a kiss on my mother’s head, and then mine, before grabbing the newspaper and some coffee and sitting across from me.