Light and Sound

The PET scan required me to fast.

That was the first thing, which seemed minor when Dr. Giacherio’s office called with the details, but it felt very significant at seven in the morning as I stood in the kitchen watching Pops cook eggs that I couldn’t eat. He offered to skip making them. I told him to go ahead and make them. I’m not sure why I said that. Maybe it was because seeing something normal happen in the kitchen was better than the alternative, which was standing in silence thinking about what the day had in store.

Bernard was at my feet the whole time. He had a knack for sensing when mornings were off, and this was definitely one of those days. His solution was to be there, heavy and warm, which was comforting. I scratched his ears while Pops enjoyed the eggs I couldn’t have, and the coffee brewed, making the kitchen feel like home.

Pops drove us. The Silverado was warm, the seat felt familiar, and he had the radio tuned to the country station he pretended not to enjoy. I leaned my head back against the headrest, watched Colorado pass by the window, and didn’t say much.

The scan itself was a whole different experience. They first injected a tracer, radioactive glucose, and then I waited in a quiet room for an hour while it traveled through my body, highlighting the areas that used the most energy for the camera. I wasn’t allowed to move, talk, or use my phone. I sat in the reclining chair with my hands in my lap, staring at the wall and trying to think of nothing.

The room was beige. The chair was comfortable in the way of medical furniture, more deliberate than regular furniture, designed to hold a person in place without them noticing. There was a small window with frosted glass. I counted the ceiling tiles. Sixteen and a half, which meant someone had installed a half-tile at the edge, and I thought about that for a few minutes because it was better than the other available thoughts.

The tracer was working inside me, searching for what it needed. I tried not to dwell on what it might discover.

Then came the machine. It was long, white, and humming, as the table slowly moved me in, with the instruction to remain still. Thirty minutes. I remained still.

On the drive home, Pops placed his hand over mine on the console.

He didn’t say a word. He just rested his hand on mine, warm and solid, and kept it there. I flipped my hand over and gazed out the window as the highway blurred by, breathing through my nose until that feeling faded away.

“Thanks for driving,” I said as we neared home.

“Always,” he replied.

That was all.

The CT scan was on Friday morning, quicker and simpler, in and out in less than an hour. Dad drove early, before school. He brought himself coffee in a travel mug and handed me a breakfast sandwich without any fuss, and we ate in the car in the parking lot before heading in because he believed there was no need to linger in a waiting room longer than necessary.

I reflected on that statement later. There was no need to linger in a waiting room longer than necessary. Dad had spent three weeks being very careful with his words, stating only what was true and nothing more, and that was the most lawyer-like thing he’d ever said to me, and I appreciated him for it.

The CT machine was noisier than the MRI but quicker. I lay still and allowed it to do its job.

I thought about Evan saying he’d be there.

Then I stopped thinking about that because it wasn’t helpful to think about while in a CT machine.

Dad dropped me off at school during second period. I entered through the side door, and the hallway was filled with the smell of cafeteria breakfast, floor wax, and the unique mid-morning vibe of a Friday, with everyone already partially checked out, the week folding in on itself. I went to class. I took notes. I had lunch.

Chandler slid a granola bar across the table during study hall without glancing at me. I didn’t question it. I just ate it.

My phone vibrated during sixth period. I flipped it over beneath the desk.

Evan: you missed the game

I looked at it for a moment. The game had kicked off at four. I had been home since two thirty, lounging on the sofa with Bernard, watching the minutes tick by.

I replied: had something to do. How did they play?

Evan: won. whoever they put in at outside hitter is really good

I tucked my phone away. My chest felt like it was doing something complicated that I didn’t have the energy to figure out right now. He had gone. He had seen my team without me and he had texted me about it afterward, and somehow that felt both better and worse than if he had just kept quiet.

Noelle knocked on my bedroom door around ten minutes after I got home.

She was holding two iced coffees from Java Junction, one in each hand, and still wearing her Levi’s jacket from school. Before coming in, she neatly lined up her white Hokas by the door, a habit she had in other people’s rooms. Bernard spotted her right away and leaned against her before she even had a chance to sit down. She glanced at him, then at me, and handed me one of the coffees.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.” I sat down on the bed next to her and took the coffee. It was cold, sweet, and just what I needed. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted coffee,” she replied. “You were on the way.”

She lived next door. For sixteen years, I had been on her way.

Bernard sighed and shifted his weight against her. Outside, the afternoon light was doing its late September thing, casting a golden hue around the room. Noelle placed her phone face down on the mattress, signaling that she was done with it.

She didn’t inquire about the doctor’s appointment. She didn’t ask how I was doing in that careful tone people used when they meant something specific. Instead, she just sat on my bed, drank her coffee, and was simply Noelle, which was exactly what I needed and couldn’t have asked for.

She chatted about the ASL assignment due Monday, mentioning how she had already written it twice and disliked both drafts. She recounted something Emory had done in the hallway that morning, something she had witnessed but couldn’t fully explain. She also talked about a show she had started watching but gave up halfway through the second episode because the main character made a choice she found completely unacceptable.

“She had every piece of information,” Noelle said. “Every single piece. And she still walked back into that house.”

“Maybe she didn’t think she had a choice.”

“She owned a car. She had a phone. She had a best friend right there with her.” Noelle waved her coffee cup. “She had options. She just didn’t choose them.”

“Maybe she was afraid of what might happen if she did.”

Noelle glanced at me for a moment. It wasn’t a worried look, just her usual one, the Noelle look that showed she was listening. “Yeah,” she replied. “Maybe.”

I paid attention. Eventually, I started to respond, and soon we were just chatting, two people on a bed on a Friday afternoon with a dog sprawled out between us, and the heaviness in my chest was still there but somehow more manageable than it had been all week.

She left at five thirty. She gave me a quick hug at the door, no words needed, the kind of hug that communicated understanding without needing me to say anything.

“See you Monday,” she said.

“See you Monday.”

After she left, I plopped back down on my bed. Bernard rested his head on my lap. The room still had a faint scent of her shampoo, something citrusy, and the iced coffee cups remained on the nightstand while the afternoon light had changed during our conversation, and I hadn’t realized it until now.

The call came at seven fifteen. It was Dr. Giacherio’s office, the coordinator confirming the appointment for Monday at ten. All results would be discussed then. Make sure to bring family.

Make sure to bring family.

I sat on my bed with my phone in my lap after hanging up. The room was silent. I could hear the TV downstairs, Dad and Pops getting comfortable for the evening, the familiar low hum of the house being itself. Normal sounds. The sounds of a Friday night that had no idea what Monday would bring.

Monday at ten. Sixty-three hours. I had been holding onto this for three weeks already. Sixty-three hours felt like nothing.

I repeated that to myself twice.

I opened the group chat.

I typed: drive-in was fun.

I stared at it. Deleted it.

I typed: I have something to tell you guys.

I looked at that too. My thumb hovered. The three dots that would appear on their end if I sent it, the responses that would come back fast, Noelle immediately, Emory with a joke to cover the fear, Maekynzie with her whole heart, Tinsley with something small and exact. Chandler, who knew about the ER and the appointment and not the rest of it, who had been sitting four blocks away with half the story for three weeks.

I deleted it.

Put my phone face down on the mattress.

Monday, I told myself. Monday I would have something real to say. Monday the word would have a shape and a name and a treatment plan or a path or something with edges I could point to. Right now it was still just strongly suggest and pending results and someone will be in touch, and that was not a thing you put in a group chat.

I lay back and looked at the ceiling and let the house sound around me.

Sixty-three hours.