25
Abigail
Hot tears slide over my cheeks, but I make no sound as I watch on in horrified fascination.
My entire body quakes with fearful shakes, but I stay out of the way while they work.
Work.
Work and compress.
Breathe and inject.
They work the oxygen machine and turn it all the way up. They count their pumps, and shout about cardiac arrest. They move her fragile body like she’s nothing more than a rag doll, while Marcie’s pale body rejects her latest bout of sickness and decides she’s done.
I stand all alone at the door while a dozen doctors and nurses rush around her room.
We were watching a movie only an hour ago. My appetite has waned lately, and it’s not like I have the luxury of losing a few pounds, so I bought us both fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits to dip in gravy. I thought a movie and pig out day was in order for us both, since Marcie’s chemo has been kicking her butt, and my loneliness has been kicking mine.
Can missing your love genuinely make your heart ache? I think it can. It feels like Spencer took a part of me with him, and the longer he’s gone, the more my body shuts down.
Marcie and I aren’t all that different, really; different kinds of torture, different kinds of poison, but the results are the same.
Well, almost.
I brought jumbo sodas for us to sip on, because I knew her mouth hurt, and having something icy cold would help, but now the foam cups lay crushed on the floor beneath medical feet, the spilled liquid creating sticky slurps as medical personnel rush around.
My brain screams that this can’t be real. That it’s all a bad dream, just like the million others I’ve had in the last two months.
Spencer used to be the reason for my pleasant dreams, he used to make me smile when I laid down, and smile again when I woke up. But now we hardly talk, so my old nightmares have regained strength, and to make up for the time he drowned them out, they’ve come with double the potency, double the ache.
Doctor Rhett’s rainbow tie with cute white kittens made me smile when I walked in this morning, but now it does nothing but flash amongst the sea of blue scrubs and white coats.
Marcie’s parents are at work today, her brother at school. Time must go on, and bills have to be paid, so while she stays here and does her best to survive the unsurvivable, they have to keep their chins up and trudge forward, their monotony broken only by evening visits with their little girl, and after that, their visits to the hospital chapel to pray for her health.
I know this life of loneliness, so I’ve been visiting five days a week lately, instead of three. I visit for three hours instead of two. I neglect some of my other sick friends in favor of sitting with Marcie for that little bit longer, while she speaks of my brother and my boyfriend, while she teasingly plans her weddings to them, and calls herself a proud whore for wanting them both at the same time.
She’s seventeen years old. She’s not a whore or anything else she likes to joke about.
She’s my best friend, and right now, her body seizes on the bed we both lay on just minutes ago. Blood drips from the tips of her fingers, not because she’s been cut, but because her IV line has been accidentally ripped out.
The noise that surrounds me is deafening, but silent. Roaring, but muted. Things drop to the floor, a silver pan, a plastic jug, her brand new phone – a gift from her mom – as Doctor Rhett shouts his instructions.
My ears ache while I clutch my own phone as though it’s the only thing keeping me up. I used to hate my phone and wish for a life free of technology, but now it’s my lifeline. It’s how I speak to Spencer. It’s my connection to my mom, Mitchell, Nix, Beckett, and the others.
If I just make the call, I could speak to any one of them. If they knew what was happening in this room, they could fix it.
I’m certain they could.
My head and heart refuse to accept what’s happening right in front of me as Marcie’s body stills, and her hand dangles over the side of her bed.
I’ve had this sickness. I’ve been in that bed, so I know today is just a bad day, but tomorrow will be just a little bit easier.
I shakily swipe the flooding tears from my cheeks so I can see better, but I make no noise, I refuse to steal the attention she so desperately needs. Dots float in my vision, blinding me, and the shouts in my ears turn to waves. I take a step back, then another, then one more until my hip slams against the wall, and the stark pain helps me refocus. I lean against the wall and breathe to the same rhythm that they count for Marcie.
One breath. Then two.
I feel for my heart and make sure it continues to beat.