One Last Song Part 3

The leader of the group entered then, a woman in her forties who'd lost a sister and a child to cystic fibrosis. I knew immediately that she wasn't a partic.i.p.ant like the others. For one, she looked alive and took up s.p.a.ce in the room. She sat and smiled at everyone, a beaming, encouraging sort of smile that was in stark contrast to the mood in the room. I wondered how long she'd been doing this, how long she'd been smiling at everyone as if she didn't have a care in the world, and how long she would keep doing it until she broke.

There was a diabetes support group right after that one. It was an interesting difference; these people laughed and joked with one another, complained mightily about their lot in life, and consumed coffee and cookies like there might be a shortage. I was irritated by their nonchalance. Seriously? If I had a disease that could be as dangerous as diabetes, I'd be much more respectful of its powers. Hypocritical, perhaps, coming from someone like me, but the thing was, I appreciated disease the way it was meant to be appreciated. I courted it because I worshipped its awesome power.

After the group was done and I'd gathered up the cups and plates, I rolled the cart out into the hallway. Sh.e.l.ly was there, her stance awkward as she smiled at me. Had she been watching me the entire time?

"All done?" she asked, her voice a cheery falsetto.

"Yep." I continued on to the kitchenette and she followed me. "Great first day."

"Awesome! That's fabulous." She set a clipboard by me on the counter. "If you could just sign out so we have a record of you leaving, that'd be great. That's probably what we'll do every time you come here. Just sign in and out so we have that to show your psychiatrist in case he asks, all right?"

My cheeks flamed, but I nodded and kept my expression bland. "Sure."

If this was the price to get access to the clinical stuff I coveted, it was worth it. I'd just keep telling myself that. The time would come when they'd slip up, when they'd step back a bit, when other responsibilities besides my well-being took precedence. And I'd be ready.

Chapter Seven.

Three weeks later, I was on the verge of giving up. I'd been in to see Dr. Stone several times, and each time I'd reported that volunteering was going "fine" and really meant it. Sh.e.l.ly hadn't left me alone once. She hadn't looked the other way or forgotten about me. I'd been made to sign in and out every time I went, which was almost every day.

Then, finally, it happened, like a cloudburst out of nowhere. Betty, the woman at the front desk, waved, trying to get my attention when I walked in the double doors. I went up to her, unsure.

Moving papers around on her desk, pink nails shining under the lights, she said, "You're Saylor, right?" She obviously didn't remember speaking with me the day I'd begun to volunteer.

"Yes."

"Sh.e.l.ly's at a conference this week and Linda's absolutely swamped, so she wanted me to give you this." Pulling a clipboard out from under a pile of forms, Betty set it in front of me. "Just sign in and then sign out when you leave, okay?"

I smiled, my head beginning to buzz from the antic.i.p.ation of freedom. "Okay." Here it was, the payoff, the reason I'd put in all those hours listening to people talk about illness and disease and death. It was my turn now.

After I scrawled my name, I hurried downstairs, my badge thumping lightly against my body with every step. I had a pounding headache from the fever, thanks to the growing abscesses on my chest. It didn't matter much. I was already planning how I'd gain access to the clinical areas of the hospital. Obviously, I couldn't do it today. It was the first day I wasn't being constantly supervised, and Linda might decide to check up on me. If Sh.e.l.ly was gone this entire week, I'd probably have more opportunities.

I went to the bulletin board to check which group was supposed to be coming in, but all it said was TIDD. Pulling my hoodie close against the chill in the air, I sauntered down the hallway. I still had some time to kill before the group got here. I turned into the first meeting room, the one with the fireplace. It was room 1A, where the TIDD group would be meeting. Hoping to find some solid reading material, I walked up to the giant bookshelves.

Timeless Secrets of Health and Rejuvenation, Prostate Health, Breast Cancer Basics, Multiple Sclerosis for the Newly Diagnosed. These were great for sick people, but as something of an expert in the field, what I really loved was my Physicians' Desk Reference. It sat in my nightstand drawer, my own religious text.

As I stood there staring at the books, my heart started to race a little and my face broke out in a sweat. I grabbed a book and sat in a chair. Putting my hand up to my forehead, I smiled. Fevers were my favorite. You just couldn't argue with a fever. It was solid proof, evidence that the body was at war with disease. My abscesses were making me proud.

I looked down at the book in my hands: Multiple Sclerosis for the Newly Diagnosed.

In spite of my earlier reservations, it was really pretty interesting, reading about how the body could wreak havoc on itself. My fingers itched for a pen and notebook, my little journal with the embroidered flowers on the front. It consisted of the best secrets of sickness I'd found, symptoms and diseases and descriptions of side effects parading around like little soldiers in a war.

When someone tapped me on the shoulder, I jumped.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

It was a guy not much older than me, with rumpled, curly dark hair and the faintest stubble on his cheeks and chin. He was tall, well over six feet, and his sweater was pulled over a well-defined chest, but what drew my attention instantly was his wooden cane.

I forced myself to look back into his blue eyes. "It's okay. I just didn't hear you come in."

"I figured you're waiting in here for the TIDD group to start. We've actually decided to meet in room 3 today."

"Oh." I stood and closed the book, meaning to put it back on the shelf and go get their coffee and snacks.

"So, MS, huh?"

Startled, I jerked my head toward him. "What?"

"Your book." He nodded toward it. "You have MS?"

I blinked once. Twice. Grasped the book to my chest. "Um, yes. I do."

There wasn't a trace of pity in his smile. "Then you'll love TIDD. We have some great people, all in their late teens and early twenties. Come on." He turned and headed down the hall.

After only a brief moment of hesitation, I followed.

Room 3 was much smaller than and not nearly as fancy as the first meeting room. The walls were still gla.s.s, but there was no fireplace and no giant bookshelves. The guy was right. There were three other people sitting in chairs in a circle. One was a college-aged girl. The other two were young guys-one was bald and in a wheelchair, and the other wore a face mask so only his eyes were visible. I took a seat between the girl and the tall guy I'd talked to.

He smiled at me. "So, welcome to your first group meeting. We meet once a month, alternating between Monday mornings and Thursday evenings. You'll find we're a pretty friendly, social group. TIDD is where all the younger, cooler people hang."

There were a few chuckles. I nodded and glanced at the others, then out the door. If Linda decided to check on me in spite of being "swamped," it would be over.

But I wanted to ask, had to ask. I'd leave in a minute. "What does TIDD stand for, again? They told me, but I forgot."

The girl snorted. "Don't worry, even I forget sometimes and I've been in it for about six months. It stands for Terminal Illness and Degenerative Diseases."

Terminal Illness. Degenerative Diseases. The phrases circled in my mind, two black crows vying for closer inspection.

"Why don't we go around the circle and introduce ourselves?" the boy with the cane said. "I'll go first. I'm Andrew Dean, but everyone calls me Drew. I have FA. If you haven't heard of it, don't feel bad-not a lot of people know about Friedreich's ataxia. It's a degenerative disease. I was diagnosed two years ago, when I was nineteen." He looked at the bald, birdlike boy in the wheelchair next to him.

"I'm Carson. I have T-PLL, a kind of leukemia. They've given me six months to live." A deep breath. "Definitely wasn't ready to hear that." Drew put a hand on his shoulder.

The Asian guy in the mask next to Carson smoothed his black hair off his forehead. "I'm Pierce. And don't worry. This mask is for my protection, not yours." Laughter went around the room. I forced a smile. "I have AIDS."

The smile froze on my face. AIDS. The word fell like a block of lead from his mouth to the floor. What could I say to that? It was such a forthright dissemination of information: AIDS. There was no sadness or disbelief like when Carson had told me about his illness.

The girl next to me spoke, saving me from having to respond. "I'm Zee Rothman. I have breast cancer." She grabbed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and squeezed dramatically. "These babies aren't real!"

The guys burst out laughing and I snickered along. Finally, they fell silent and turned to me.

I cleared my throat. Now was the time to tell them about the big misunderstanding. They'd laugh, I'd laugh. I'd get them their snacks and go on my merry way. I glanced outside the gla.s.s walls. The hallway was empty.

My mouth opened and words began to come out, feeling completely disconnected from me. It was like I was watching myself from a distance. "I'm Saylor. And I... I have multiple sclerosis."

Zee put her arm around me. "Welcome," she said, her breath cool and fresh against my cheek.

Chapter Eight.

"Anyone want to share first?" Drew looked around at the rest of the group.

I kept my hands fisted in my lap, afraid to even finger my syringe while I was in there. I felt like I'd burst out with something completely inappropriate, like who I really was or what I had wrong with me. My brain burned feverish and bright, my thoughts congealing into a glistening ball in the center of my skull.

Pierce spoke. "My mom's going nuts. Practically every time we have a conversation, she starts crying. It's all, 'Pierce, why did you have to go and be gay and get this horrible disease?' 'Pierce, you've lost so much weight. You're not eating enough!' "

Everyone murmured and shook their heads, apparently sympathizing with the situation.

"I feel ya, man," Zee said, slumping down in her chair. There was something strange about her, with her wispy red hair in pigtails and her pale, skinny arms jutting out from her t-shirt. She seemed to symbolize sickness, and yet, there was an almost childish, spiteful sparkle in her eyes, as if she dared the world to tell her she couldn't have fun, couldn't be brazen and carefree with the time she had. "My dad's going through the whole 'let's pretend this isn't happening' thing right now. He refuses to talk about anything cancer-related. When an ad for a hospital or meds or anything vaguely related to health comes on, he changes the channel. He even talks about taking a freaking vacation to Italy next summer. As if I'm going to be capable of that kind of travel in six months. If I haven't kicked the bucket by then, of course."

Carson flinched, but she didn't appear to notice. Or maybe she was just used to it. Or maybe, like me, Zee reveled in it. I knew what it was like to get that stink of disapproval on you once. No matter how much you tried to clean up later, it followed you around, hung on your clothes and in your hair. You might as well enjoy it, learn to love it.

"Well, I've been doing all right," Drew said. His cane was propped up against the leg of his chair. Stretching his long legs in front of him, he clasped his hands behind his head. His biceps strained against his sweater sleeves, I noticed with faint surprise. So it was just his legs that were weak, then. "Doc keeps telling me I'm going to need to watch how much I walk because my balance is supposed to get bad, fast. You guys have seen part of that."

The others nodded.

"But I haven't had any complaints since we last met, what, last month? That's a lot in the FA world. Things progress quickly. From able to disabled to f.u.c.king wheelchair-bound. So I'm okay for now." He caught my stare and half grinned. "Hey, we're going to scare the new girl away."

"Nah, she knows our world." Zee turned to me. "When were you diagnosed?"

"I had to drop out of school last month," I said. It wasn't really the answer to her question, because her question had no answer. I was a master of manipulation, a wizard of the side step. Throw down a few startling facts, wave your hands around, and alakazam, they don't even remember the original question. "It got so bad my mum came and got me."

"That's tough," Drew said, shaking his head. "It's gotta be tough on your mother, too."

"She's more angry at me than anything," I replied.

"They go through that," Carson said. "Don't worry about it. It's one of the stages your loved ones have to go through. But at least the prognosis for MS is pretty good. Your life span can be almost as long as someone without it."

"Not the kind I have. Mine's aggressive." I didn't know what possessed me to say that. It was like Carson was questioning my validity, my right to belong to this exclusive club of wasting-away adults; men who looked like little malnourished infants and women without b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I spewed a fact I'd just read in the book. "It's the kind where I have symptoms almost constantly, and then I end up in a wheelchair." I swung my gaze to Drew. "Like you."

"Wheelchairs suck," he said with a vehemence I admired.

"They blow," Zee concurred.

"Down with wheelchairs. That should be our slogan." Pierce's eyes crinkled, like he was laughing behind his death-averting mask.

I laughed, too, the sound hollow in that big room filled with people who were barely there, barely still a part of this world. Wraiths, the lot of us.

Chapter Nine.

I glanced at my watch. I'd been sitting in there with the group for about fifteen minutes. I heard the bas.e.m.e.nt door open and shot out of my seat. I simply could not let Linda find me here, pretending to be a patient, duping the very support group members I was supposed to aid. What if they told not just Dr. Stone but my mother, too? Technically I was an adult, but there was something about having a mental illness that made people think you needed your parents as a crutch. And if I was being totally honest, I had a hand in that, too. A big one. Whenever I was sick, I turned to Mum to help me through it, to lavish me with motherly attention.

Everyone turned to stare at me. Drew looked concerned. "You okay?"

"Um, yeah. I just, I have to make a phone call. I just remembered."

"Okay." He nodded, but I could see that he was still confused at the way I was rushing out of there.

I'd need to make up a good excuse later, smooth things over so he and the others wouldn't feel the need to check up on me, ask around about the weird girl with MS. And of course, I couldn't volunteer down there anymore. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Self-loathing boiled through me. Why did I have to sabotage everything in my life? What if I couldn't go back to the hospital to volunteer? What was I going to do about getting sick, about the hard-core medical supplies I needed that I couldn't order from my usual website? Panic began to thrum through me, and I had to make a concentrated effort to push it into the far recesses of my mind.

I walked down the hallway to see who'd come in the bas.e.m.e.nt door, expecting to run into Linda. But to my intense relief, it was just an elderly janitor, switching out trash bags. He raised one hand in a wave from the first meeting room. Returning it, I pushed open the door to the stairway and headed back upstairs to the main floor of the hospital. After I signed out at Betty's desk, I walked outside.

It was snowing. And it wasn't just little, wimpy, half-rain-type snow. These were the big, fat, fist-sized flakes I used to love as a kid. Sticking snow.

I glanced around me to make sure I was alone, and then, looking up at the sky, stuck my tongue out. I caught one snowflake, two, three.

"Snow is pretty delicious, but I know a really good restaurant if you'd rather have something warm."

I snapped my mouth shut, biting the edge of my tongue. Swallowing a curse, I turned on my heel and looked at Drew. When I wasn't completely distracted by his cane, by the beauty of his illness, it was impossible to miss just how cla.s.sically handsome he was. His jaw could cut granite; stubble dotted it like a smattering of black stars on a bone sky. "Oh, that. I, um, yeah." I looked away, the heat emanating from my cheeks enough to melt the snow a mile away.

"You got no excuse." He laughed. "It's okay, I like to eat the big flakes, too." He opened his mouth, full lips parting, and caught a few of his own. When he looked at me again, there was snow on his dark eyelashes. "See?"

I nodded and looked at his cane, at his hand gripping the handle. The graceful curve of it reminded me of a swan's neck. I felt my pulse kick up a notch.

"I really meant it, though," he continued. "Zee and I are heading over to Sphinx. Wanna hang? You can tell us more about yourself."

I a.n.a.lyzed his disarming grin, trying to find an angle.

The last time I'd been invited to hang out with anyone, no strings attached, had been in fourth grade. I'd gone to my friend Allie's house after school. Her mom worked till five, so we had an hour and a half of alone time-a highly prized and extremely uncommon commodity among us nine-year-olds.

Allie was the cool kid in the cla.s.s. Her mom let her buy her own makeup at the drugstore. She had a h.e.l.lo Kitty compact mirror I coveted. So when she invited me to hang out at her place, I almost died. I told my mother about it, but managed to leave out the fact that we'd be unsupervised for ninety minutes.

We were in Allie's living room, reading her mom's Cosmopolitan magazines, when she'd pointed to my legs. They were crisscrossed with silver-white lines. The summer before school started, I'd found my mom's razor blade.

"What's up with that?" Allie asked, licking her finger and turning another page in the magazine.