“Is Gyver here?” I asked Nurse Snoopy when I woke to see her adding a bag of fluids to my pole.
“Right here.” His voice circled from my other side. He had a tired smile on his face. “Your mom’s getting lunch.”
Nurse Snoopy asked, “How are you feeling? I know you were uncomfortable this morning, but that shot of pain meds I gave you should have kicked in by now.”
“I’m okay.”
“That’s a good friend you’ve got. I think he spends more time here than I do.”
“Possibly,” Gyver conceded.
“Gyver’s the best,” I cooed.
Nurse Snoopy smiled. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what kind of name is Gyver?”
I giggled. The sound startled me and I giggled more. “Ask him what it’s short for.”
Gyver snorted. “What’d you give her? She sounds wasted.” “Morphine. What’s Gyver short for?”
“MacGyver!” I crowed.
“Like the show? Say, if I gave you a paper clip and a stick of gum, could you build me a hang glider?”
“Uh-oh, Gyver doesn’t like those jokes,” I warned.
“I loved that show—or I loved Richard Dean Anderson. He was gorgeous.” Nurse Snoopy fanned her face.
“My MacGyver’s gorgeous too,” I protested.
“Yes, he’s very handsome,” the nurse agreed. “Why don’t you go by Mac?”
“There was a nickname in middle school,” he explained, sucking air through his teeth.
“Mac ’n’ cheese,” I helped. “Gyver hated it.”
“And Hillary loved it.”
“I like Gyver better anyway. I don’t care what Hil says. She’s wrong, you’re cool.”
Gyver shook his head and laughed. “At least I’m cool.”
“Very,” I reassured him. “You always were. And then you got hot—”
“Baby girl,” Nurse Snoopy interrupted, “why don’t you save your confessions for when you’re a little less medicated? How about you and Gyver watch TV?”
“Okay,” I agreed. I handed a grinning Gyver the remote she’d given me.
“And I’ll make a note on your chart that you’re very sensitive to pain meds.”
***
Ally called sobbing the day she got home from camp. “I heard!”
My heart raced—I wondered if I would set off a monitor. “What’d you hear?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Ally paused to blow her nose. I clawed at the blankets, sweaty and claustrophobic. “I shouldn’t have had to hear it from Ryan.”
“Ryan?” He knew too? My throat tightened.
“I am so sorry about your pops. Are you okay? When’s the funeral?”
“Pops?” I was swept up in a flash flood of relief and confusion. “He didn’t—he’s not dead.”
“But Ryan said—”
“Ryan’s wrong. Pops is fine. Fine.” I repeated the word to reassure myself.
“So can you come home soon?”
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...
