“Where’ve you been? I thought you were coming from work— didn’t your shift end an hour ago?” I’d worried his tardiness was a sign he was tired of visiting.
Gyver laughed. “That’s an intense greeting.”
“Someone’s a bit bored today.” Nurse Snoopy smiled as she checked my chart.
“Very bored. I felt gross this morning, but I’m okay now and I’ve been dying for you to get here.”
He leaned in to give me a hug, but I held him off. “What happened to your arm?” The crook of his elbow was iodine orange and bandaged.
“She’s a perceptive little bug, isn’t she?” The nurse patted my knee on her way out.
“I stopped to donate blood. You have to be nice to me today—see?” He pointed to a sticker on his shirt proclaiming the same fact.
“You did? Why?”
“Well, I am the universal donor: O-negative. What are you?” He looked at my hospital bracelet.
“It figures, you’re an A-plus. Do you ever do anything that’s not perfect?”
“I’ve got about a billion mutant white blood cells.”
“Yeah, the first nonperfect thing about you, and we’ve got to destroy it. I figured if you had to get blood, some of it might as well be mine.”
“The song,” I muttered, thinking out loud.
“What song? Do you need a new playlist? I’m working on Ballads for Battling Blasts. It’s all eighties bands like Aero- smith, Danger*Us, Whitesnake, and Foreigner. I’ll bring my laptop tomorrow and put it on your iPod.”
“No, the song from that night. ‘I’m willing to bleed for days . . . so you don’t hurt so much.’ It really was a sign.”
“Mi!” Gyver groaned and slid his grip from my bracelet to my hand. “No more superstitious crap. I mean it.”
***
Day four of chemo was worse. It hurt. Like frostbite in my veins.
I writhed, but it didn’t help.
Lying still didn’t help.
Holding Gyver’s hand didn’t help.
Prayed for sleep. It didn’t come.
Asked for sleep meds.
Those helped.
***
My head was heavy. The room was bright. Shut eyes.
“Mom?”
“Right here, kitten.”
“Gyver?”
“I’m here, Mi.”
“Okay.”
Sleep.
Wake. Tired. Tried to eat. Too tired. Sleep.
***
“Where’s your handsome boyfriend?” Nurse Hollywood attached another bag of chemo. I flinched, though this part didn’t hurt.
YOU ARE READING
Send Me a Sign
Teen FictionMia is always looking for signs. A sign that she should get serious with her soccer-captain boyfriend. A sign that she'll get the grades to make it into an Ivy-league school. One sign she didn't expect to look for was: "Will I survive cancer?" It's...
