"In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace" ~Ephesians 1:7
➳♀♁➳
I hate the smell of hospitals. Bleach, blood, and bodies. Tall and looming, the buildings reek of cleaning products that scrub away the dirt and grime, but do nothing to wash away the stains of the memories you make during your stay.
Molly didn't mind. She was happy wherever she went, always lighting up the room with a smile, even in her worst condition.
There's not much to do in a hospital - except to cry, which gets old after a few hours. When Molly was in for her brain tumor, the initial surgery took fourteen hours. The time it took her small brain to recover was going to be, they said, nearly her entire childhood. She stayed in the hospital for three months.
The tumor was the size of my thumb nail, and was mostly referred to as "Gary." Apparently giving a name to something makes it less scary, though I've never found this to be true.
It was located in the left hemisphere of Molly's brain, towards the center. It hovered between Wernicke's Area and her temporal lobe.
"The procedure is guaranteed to negatively affect her speech and hearing," the main oncologist told us after the first scans were printed. "It's in a tough spot."
I looked it up, because if the doctor is about to sauté your little sister's brain, you at least want to know where he's doing it. According to Google, Wernicke's Area involves the understanding of speech. After the surgery, after they nicked her brain in two important places, Molly couldn't comprehend the words we spoke to her.
"How are you feeling?" My mother asked the moment Molly's small eyes fluttered open after the long surgery.
Molly blinked and furrowed her brows, looking nervously at the doctor. My mom asked again and whimper escaped my wide-eyed little sister. The doctor cleared his throat.
"Mr. and Mrs. Lane, I regret to inform you that Molly cannot, at this time, understand speech," he announced in monotone, as if he was talking about the weather.
My mom, who'd been holding my hand, pulled away, face collapsing, and rushed out of the room. You could hear her shoes clack against the linoleum as she fled down the hallway. My father, who stood in the corner, gave me a long look. You could watch the wrinkles forming on his face.
Molly couldn't understand the words I spoke to her. She couldn't hear out of her left ear. She could speak, but barely.
I'd say "I love you," and she would cock her head in confusion. I'd tell a story, and all the while her brain fought to understand the words. Letters were pulled from our mouths and pushed into her little ears, without much success of getting through to her.
The stress of being at the hospital for three months pushed my parents apart. The stress of those three months pushed me under.
You think you know how to swim until the undertow grabs you in it's wake, dragging your body under.
You think you can weather the storm until the tsunami hits, gigantic waves plummeting down on you from above.
I tried to visit her, I really did. I went every day the first week. I'd show up crying and leave in the same condition. "She's going to be okay," the doctors working with Molly would say. But talking to Molly was like talking to someone who didn't speak your language. My little sister was gone.
As the weeks went on, I visited her less and less. The last month she spent in the hospital, I didn't show up a single time.
My parents took her home and she refused to even look at me.
Molly's hearing came back, and so did her ability to understand words. The brain is malleable at a young age like that, the doctors told us. After three months in the hospital, and another three at home, her brain had fully healed itself.
And she was young, only three years old. She grew up and eventually loved me again, having forgotten most of her stay at the hospital, including my betrayal of never visiting. She asked for me to tell her stories, and I did. I told endless tales of dragons and princesses, using stories as my currency to buy back my little sister's love.
She forgave me, in time. The tumor was gone and our family slowly stitched itself back together. I never really forgave myself, though. Looking in the mirror, there's a bitter taste in my mouth. Who I see is trying her hardest to be good, but she is failing.
She pushed away her parents, ignored her sister at the worst point in her young life, and allowed herself to be pushed around by the only boy she thought she deserved. She drank, partied, and let herself be beaten by monsters disguised as Prince Charming.
Sometimes there's a hole in your chest that needs to be filled, and in trying to fix it, you make it deeper.
Sometimes it's hard to let other people love you when you know you don't deserve it.
➳♀♁➳
Oliver, it turns out, is a bit of a tentative teacher. He started out his motorcycle driving lesson with the words, "If you crash my baby, I don't care how cute you are, I'm throwing you in the nearest ditch."
But I was determined. Ever since we'd ridden the motorcycle to the fair, I'd been craving to do it again. There was nothing else quite like the feeling I got when I rode. It's a close second to flying.
I sit in the first seat, Oliver in the one behind me. His sits up close, his legs encasing mine, hands holding mine on the handlebars. My feet are on the foot pegs, but Oliver's are planted on the pavement in an effort to steady the bike.
"So your right hand is on the throttle," Oliver says. He closes my hand around it, the rough rubber scratching the palm of my hand, and pushes forwards. The bike clicks. "If we started the engine, you'd pull the throttle to accelerate."
I examined my hand position. "Used to accelerate. Got it." I moved my hand toward the ignition switch. "Okay, let's start her up."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy," Oliver murmurs in my ear. His hands drop to my waist, heat exploding everywhere, and he starts pointing at something at the bottom of the bike. My eyes flutter closed as I take in his scent, mint and the rustic smell of the outdoors. I feel safe enclosed in his arms.
"Sorry, are you even listening to me?" Oliver leans forward. "I put the bike in neutral, but you have to hold the clutch."
"Huh - what?" I shake my head to clear it and look back at him, twisting my body.
Oliver smirks, like he knows what I was thinking. A breeze slides through the air, cooling my skin and ruffling the brown mop atop Oliver's head. A piece of hair slides down and curls in front of his eye. Without thinking, my hand reaches forward to intercept the lock, and I push it to the side.
Oliver's grip on my waist tightens. I'm close enough to see the intense details of his eyes - vibrant green with flecks of brown shooting from the center like rays of the sun. His eyes, bustling with emotion, drop down my face. My lips burn under his gaze.
Oliver leans forward a fraction of an inch, so slightly that I barely notice. He freezes, and I know the next move is mine.
Every part of my body hums, pleading me to kiss him. My body burns in the places our skin touches, and I find myself leaning in.
Then I remember the fair, how we'd been so close to kissing until Oliver pulled away with a smirk. Well, two could play that game, and if the ball was in my court, I wasn't going to pass up a shot.
I lean my face closer to his, until we're barely two inches apart. Just kiss him, every part of my screams, but I can't let him get the last laugh. My finger hovers above the ignition switch, left hand pressing down the clutch.
Just as our lips are about to touch, as the energy crackles between us, I pull away and whisper, "Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines."
And I push the switch. The bike roars to life. I grin as I watch Oliver's face go from surprised, to slight annoyance, to disbelief.
A smile cracks the edge of his face and soon it morphs into a laugh. Oliver gives me a long look and I can see the thoughts playing through his head. In his eyes is an emotion I can't place, but he shakes his head and smiles at me.
"You are one mean Cuddle Buddy," he says.
Oliver spends what feels like an eternity teaching me the ins and outs of riding. By the end of it, I know how to rev the throttle and let down the clutch when shifting gear, get the bike up to 50 mph, and how to pull the kill switch when I'm about to run into a tree. I've driven down the same stretch of vacant highway a million times, learning ever dip or crack in the road. The trees watched as I blew past them, sun beating down on my excited face. I feel, by the end, light as air.
After I slow the bike down, shifting from third to second to first, Oliver puts the machine in park. I sigh as the engine clicks off, energy draining from the long day.
"Thank you," I say, turning around once again to look at Oliver. "That was the best day of my life." And I mean it.
Oliver gives me a slow grin, standing up and sliding himself off the bike. He reaches his hand out, which I take, and helps me to my feet. My legs feel unsteady on the solid ground after speeding around on the bike all day. Oliver reaches up to pull a twig from my hair. "Now we just have to get you your own bike."
I laugh, cheeks almost hurting from the smile that refuses to leave my face. "Yeah, my parents would love that."
Oliver looks down at the watch wrapped around his wrist. "Speaking of," he starts, "your parents are probably wondering why you're missing dinner at 6:02 on a school night."
My mind flashes to my parents. They probably had no idea where I was. I check my phone and see a text from my mom, "Dinner at 6. I'm making Lasagna."
A new text pops on the screen from my dad. "Skybird, you're late... The lasagna's getting cold."
"Skybird," Oliver comments with a smirk.
"Oh shut up," I say. "It's a nickname from when I was a baby." I step towards where my car's been parked and Oliver follows me to the door.
"I hope my lessons were satisfactory, miss," he says in a faux British accent. I laugh because it's way off.
"Oh, thank you, sir," I say back, in an equally bad British accent. "They were indeed satisfactory." I lean against the side of the car and the metal is warm beneath me. A bird chirps and the sun casts a warm glow on the tops of the trees.
Oliver smiles for a moment until his lips straighten, his face becoming more serious. He clears his throat. "Skylar, I think I really like -"
Something in my chest cools, like freezing cold water being injected into my blood stream. Everything freezes, shuts down, restarts. I remember who I am and what I don't deserve, and that bitter taste returns to my mouth.
Out of the blue, this awesome guy is about to confess his feelings to me and all I can think is, you're not good enough.
My head screams.
Before Oliver can finish his sentence, I mumble out, "I have to get home," open my car door, climb in, and slam it shut - all within a few hurried seconds.
Oliver startles and steps back from the car, my name on his lips. I slide the key into the ignition and the engine comes to life.
The hurt in Oliver's eyes flashes in my brain, making my heart ache, before I slam down on the peddle and rush away without a word.
I drive in the opposite direction of my house for ten whole minutes before I realize.
To keep my brain from crying, I crank the music volume up to 40. The speakers buzz, nearly unable to handle the noise. I think I'm speeding.
My chest tightens and so does my throat, and I struggle to slow down and stop the car as I register the panic attack that's about to overtake me. I pull off to the side of the road and switch off my vehicle. Silence hits like a brick wall as the radio shuts off, the bleak nothingness screaming louder than the music had been.
I can't breathe. My fingers shake. My jaw is clenched shut, the pressure overpowering in my temples.
I haven't had a panic attack since last year. My chest heaves, but takes in no air. I curl into a ball.
Seconds, minutes, hours pass and I sit, arms wrapped around my legs. Two tears slide down my face and I bite my lip so hard it bleeds. The metallic taste seeps onto my tongue as black specks dot my vision.
Sometimes things just aren't okay. Sometimes life throws you a curve ball and you strike out.
Sometimes life isn't fair.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, I think. Other people have it worse.
Cora and Park come to mind. Their tyrannical father. The abuse Cora experiences but won't talk about. The hateful words yelled into Park's face that he tries not to be affected by but can't stop listening to. The hurt encasing their entire family.
Life isn't fair. Abuse, cancer, hurt.
I exhale every ounce of air left in me. My body feels raw, exhausted, like I've just carried around a huge bag of rocks for the day and my muscles are finally collapsing.
I need oxygen. I need -
There's a knock on my window. My lungs tighten.
Another knock. A pounding fist.
"Skylar."
Pound. Pound.
"Skylar, open the door."
Pound. Pound.
It's James. My finger presses the button to unlock the car, and my brother flings the door open. I look up at him, at his dark hair and strong jaw and familiar eyes. More tears escape down my cheeks.
He sees my face and his reaction changes from annoyance to sympathy.
"Sky," he whispers, face softening. Then he kneels, reaches into the car, and wraps his big arms around me. The tightness causes my muscles to relax. My chest becomes lighter and the hammering in my head is slowed to a dull tap. I breathe into his hoodie.
"I'm so," I start, interrupted when my body is wracked with a sob. I cry for a moment, then breathe deep. "Sad."
"I know," he just murmurs. "I know."
He holds me for who knows how long. The sun slides all the way down in the sky, changing the hues of the earth with every shift in positioning. Darkness completely settles in, disturbed only by the headlights of Jame's car, parked behind mine.
"How did you find me?" I manage to ask.
James pulls away slowly, examining my face. "Oliver texted me." He waits for me to react but I don't. I focus on breathing steadily. "He said you looked upset when you left, and when you didn't show up at home, I asked him if he knew where you were. He gave me the road he'd last seen you on and I drove for a while to find you."
I exhale. "Thank you."
James grabs my left hand and wraps it between his. He's quiet for a while before he tentatively says, "Sky, you know it's not your fault what happened to Molly... right?"
My heart speeds up but I force myself to stay frozen.
"She had a brain tumor. They removed it. She's okay now," he says.
I smile sadly.
"It was a hard year," James continues softly. "Mom and dad aren't the same, I'm not the same, and you're not the same. Events like that change people, Sky, and it's okay."
My face breaks. The tears I was trying so hard to hold in fall down my face in rapid succession. A sob escapes my chest and it feels like everything inside me is shattered. "I didn't even visit, James," I cry. "I didn't even visit."
He lets me collapse into his arms and cry into his shoulder. Rubbing my back, he whispers, "Skylar, you have to forgive yourself for that." I cry harder into his shirt.
I'm a horrible person I'm a horrible person I'm a horrible person I'm a horrible person I'm a horrible person I'm a horrible
"Skylar," James says through the negative thoughts rushing my brain. "Molly loves you. And everyone knows you'd die for her." His strong arms wrap tighter around me. "No one blames you. No one thinks less of you for how you dealt with Molly's cancer."
I blame myself, I think. I think less of me.
"You're never going to get past this if you don't learn to love yourself," James whispers in my ear. "I love you. Cora and Lina love you. Park loves you. Mom, dad, and Molly love you. Why don't you?"
I blink, because I don't even know anymore. I used to think that I spent so much time with a monster that I started to become one, but that wasn't true.
I spent so much time building armor to defend myself from a monster, that I shielded myself from the love I actually deserved.
"Start loving yourself, Skylar," my brother says. "Because most people already do."
I manage to stop crying. When my breathing becomes normal, James checks that I'm able to drive. I start my car up again and make the journey home, my brother following close behind to ensure my safety.
I don't deserve this, is the thought that immediately comes to mind. But I shield it away and come up with a new sentence:
I deserve this, and more. I deserve happiness.
I deserve love.
And I deserved the smile on my baby sister's face when I went home, ran to her, and scooped her up in my arms.
Everyone is deserving of the best things life has to offer. No one is defined by their past mistakes.
We deserve love, happiness, and the freedom to feel.
Everyone deserves the world.