Chapter 4

They transferred me to a hospital on the edge of town. Calling it the edge of town was generous. It was out where the city gave way to farmland, and a two-minute walk would put you next to a vegetable field.

I got a private room. The last patient had left a doodle on the wall, a smiley face with X's for eyes.

Dad said it was quiet there, good for recovering. I knew the real reason. It was cheap.

Lena called every week, and I kept feeding her the countryside story.

When she asked what it was like, I said there were too many mosquitoes and the cows had attitude.

When she asked which relative I was staying with, I said a distant uncle she'd never met.

When she asked when I was coming back, I said soon, after her next practice exam.

Then came the next practice exam, and the one after that. Her scores held steady in the top five of her class. Westbridge was a sure thing.

Meanwhile, I dropped from 143 pounds to 110, and my hair came out in handfuls. Every day, Mom used strips of tape to pick the loose hair off my pillow, balled it up, and threw it away when I wasn't looking.

In the seventh week of chemo, I started coughing up blood. Bright red blood splattered the toilet bowl like some strange flower had bloomed there. I stared at it and thought that if Lena saw this, she'd probably burst into tears.

That day, I made a decision.

That night, Mom and Dad were both there. Dad was peeling me an apple, the peel curling down in one long spiral, like he was peeling away my life. Mom was changing my sheets, moving so gently you'd think I was made of paper.

"Mom, Dad," I said. "I want to go home."

"Don't be ridiculous." Dad's hand stopped, and the apple peel snapped.

"I don't have much time left." I said it calmly, like I was telling them it would rain tomorrow. "I know it."

"Who told you that?" Mom's voice went shrill again. "The doctor never said that!"

"The doctor doesn't have to. I can feel it." I touched my wrist. The bone jutted against my fingers. "I dreamed about Grandma. She told me it's time to go."

"That was a dream!" Mom burst into tears. "You can't take a dream seriously!"

"I'm tired," I said. "I don't want to die in a hospital. I want to go home."

"But your sister..."

"I won't see her," I said, cutting Dad off. "I'll just go home and stay in my room. Tell her I came back, but the school put me in a study program and I'm boarding there. That'll buy us time until her exams."

"And who's going to take care of you at home?" Dad's eyes were red.

"Me. I'm fifteen. I can take care of myself."

I couldn't, really. I knew going home just meant waiting to die. But I'd rather die in my own bed, breathing in the musty, greasy smell of our apartment, than in this place with its four white walls.

That night, they agreed. They signed the discharge papers. The doctor shook his head but didn't say anything. We all knew what it meant.

Dad took me home on the back of his electric scooter. The wind was strong. I leaned against his back and could hear his heart beating, heavy and fast, like a countdown.

We got home around three in the afternoon, before Lena was out of school. I went into my room. The sheets had just been changed and smelled like laundry soap. I flopped onto the bed. The mattress was soft, and I sank into it like I was sinking into a hug.

I closed my eyes and thought, dying here wouldn't be so bad.

That evening, I heard Lena come home. The door opened, her shoes came off, and she called out, "Mom, what's for dinner?"

"Meatloaf," Mom said.

"Is Ethan back?"

"No. He's in a closed study program at school. A whole month."

"Oh." She sounded a little let down. "It's been a month already, and he hasn't even called once."

She walked to my door and stopped. The knob turned, but I'd locked it. She knocked. "Ethan?"

I didn't make a sound.

"Guess he really isn't here," she muttered, and walked away.

I lay on the bed with tears running into my pillow. I wanted so badly to open that door, hug her, and tell her I was home. But I couldn't. My wrists were as thin as sticks, and my face was as white as a ghost's. Opening that door would only scare her.

That night, I started a journal. I wrote about how I felt every day, the things I wanted to tell her, how sorry I was, how much I loved her.

On the fifth line, I coughed blood onto the page. It soaked into the paper and spread like red ink.

I stared at that drop of blood and suddenly laughed. And then, somewhere in the middle of laughing, I started to cry.

Ethan, you useless idiot. You can't even die without sneaking around.