The Arrival of Someday Read online

  To her credit, Mrs. K recovers fast and her tone is measured when she says, “I’m hopeful Mr. Dormer didn’t intend his remarks to be interpreted this way, which, of course, I’ll clarify when I meet with him about this. In his defense, though, all of our teachers, male and female, are tasked with noting dress code violations, and in this instance the rule does say ‘hemlines of skirts and shorts must reach to the fingertips of the wearer’s extended arms.’ It doesn’t appear that yours do, Sibilla.”

  My turn to join in. “Maybe you haven’t logged much time recently in stores selling clothes for girls our age, but we spent last class period online at H&M and Forever 21, and of the two hundred and seventy-one pairs of shorts they were selling, only four would pass the fingertip test.”

  “And those four were pretty heinous,” Sibby adds.

  Our principal stifles a cough that might have been covering a laugh, and I rush to continue. “Let’s be honest, the policy only really applies to girls. No one cares how guys wear their shorts. The implication is that shorter hemlines on girls would create a distraction in the learning environment. We should call it what it really is: you people are worried about guys getting turned on. How about instead of policing our outfits, you spend that energy telling guys they need to stop seeing their classmates as sex objects just because we choose to wear shorts, because sometimes when it’s hot outside we’d be more comfortable that way. Simple as that. My legs are for walking, not gawking.”

  I reach the end of my argument on the last air in my lungs and inhale deeply as Sibby bumps my thigh in celebration.

  “We should have gone with that last line for our T-shirts!” Sibby whispers out of the corner of her mouth, and my lips twitch in reply.

  I haven’t felt this energized since my last derby game, when I broke through the pack and began racking up points. I try not to bounce in my seat, but adrenaline is flowing now and I have missed adrenaline. How I’ve missed adrenaline!

  Mrs. K rubs her forehead with two fingers, like she’s trying to soothe away a headache that just formed.

  I am completely on board with being her headache.

  “Look, Amelia,” she says, “I know these have been trying times for you lately and I’m willing to excuse some acting out as a result, as I can appreciate something of this nature might be a welcome distraction for you.”

  My first response is a flash of indignant anger. But as the rest of her words sink in, I shrink back into the cushions, because even after my amazing soapbox speech she’s smacking me in the face with the very thing I’ve been trying so hard to avoid: pity.

  “Um, excuse me, but I’m not sick, so what’s your brush-off for me?” Sibby interjects, before I can quiet my swirling thoughts enough to formulate a response. My heart squeezes with love for her. Why was I upset with Sibby again?

  Kurjakovic leans back in her chair and tents her fingers. “What I was about to say is that I don’t intend to discipline either of you for the scene you caused this afternoon, nor will I expect you to serve detention for the code violation, Sibilla. I won’t be calling your parents either.”

  Sibby snorts. “I’m fairly certain my mum would be happy to hear from you about this. She’d applaud our initiative. Lia’s too.”

  Damn straight they would.

  Mrs. K studies us both for a long minute. “As do I. I know you probably see administrators as the enemy, so maybe you’ll be surprised to learn this argument against our dress code is precisely what I represented to the board at our meeting earlier this year. Happily, they concur and are in the process of rewriting it, to go into effect this fall. A bit too late for either of you to enjoy, I’m afraid.”

  This news completes my deflation. I’m airless.

  It should be a good thing; the dress code is changing. A mere two hours ago I didn’t even know I cared about fighting the dress code, and as it turns out, I really do. But an hour ago I had a sense of purpose again, an actual goal to work toward. And now I’m back at square one.

  People will talk about our hallway parade for the rest of today, maybe even into tomorrow, but once word gets around that it was a nonissue we were fighting, everyone’s attention will swing back to my BA, and I will have nothing to do with my time and energy beyond fielding all their questions. Lose, lose.

  Sibby looks between Kurjakovic and me, also at a loss for words. Finally she manages, “Well, that’s a dazzler. You were two steps ahead of us.”

  Our principal’s smile is conspiratorial. “Essentially my job description, girls.”

  “Right, so then I guess . . .” Sibby trails off, wiping her hand on the sides of her T-shirt and earning a green marker blotch on her palm as a result.

  “You’re both free to go,” Kurjakovic answers, nodding to the door. “And rest assured I’ll be speaking with Mr. Dormer.”

  “Okay.” Sibby stands and holds out her clean hand for me. I allow her to pull me off the couch, still a bit shell-shocked at how this all went down and very much at a loss for what to do next.

  “Enjoy the weather today, you two,” Kurjakovic offers in closing as we file out of her office.

  We have to wait in line to get a late pass signed, and Sibby grins at me. “That was amazing, yeah? I mean, I never knew Mrs. K was such an ally. I was ready to burn it all to the ground, I really was, but I’m psyched we don’t have to, because we’re already going to have a ton on our plate organizing Prom with a Purpose. I already talked to the dance planning committee and they’re on board with the theme change, after I said we’d take care of all the signage and lining up volunteers for the donor registration part. But I don’t want to stop there. I was thinking we could go really big and create materials as we go along that we could share with other schools around the country so they could mimic our efforts, and maybe build a website to host everything, but then we’re gonna need to fund-raise so we can buy a domain and—”

  She stops when she runs out of breath abruptly.

  I avoid her eyes. “Um, wow, Sib. That’s— I—”

  “Step forward, girls,” the admin calls.

  “To be continued,” Sibby whispers, her smile easy and unconcerned.

  I know I need to woman up before Sibby gets too carried away with this Prom with a Purpose stuff, but I also don’t want to have to explain to her why I don’t want to do it. The thing is, I want her to know why already because she knows me. Maybe that’s not a fair expectation, but . . .

  We collect our passes, and I notice Sibby is handed an additional sheet of paper.

  “What’s that?” I ask as we turn to leave.

  Sibby glances at the slip. “Oh, whoa. They’re letting me count the hours from the assembly and donor drive last week toward the community service hours we need to graduate!”

  Before I can react, we’re seized upon by a waiting photographer from yearbook as we exit the main office. He turns me around to get the back of my shirt alongside the front of Sibby’s and I’m grateful to be saved from having to force a smile.

  Because, great.

  I am now an actual charity case.

  10

  WHEN I WAS EIGHT I LANDED IN THE HOSPITAL OVERNIGHT FOR about the most embarrassingly ridiculous reason ever—I had an ingrown toenail that got pretty badly infected before I brought it to anyone’s attention (primarily because nail clippers were my sworn nemesis and I was more terrified of them than I was worried about my toe). I vividly remember my mom cradling my head and Dad having to practically sit on my legs to keep me still while the nurse cut out the offending nail.

  That was the last time both my parents accompanied me to the doctor’s.

  Until lately.

  Today’s visit is a regularly scheduled appointment, but it’s also the first check-in I’ve had in a couple weeks.

  “Who was John Lennon’s assassin?” my dad asks, chewing on his pen cap as he studies the crossword puzzle in his lap.

  “Chapman,” my mother answers, without lifting her eyes from the Cooking Light she found o
n the seat next to her. A month ago she would have gone straight for O magazine, and I know her diet has to stop bothering me (especially since she’s not complaining), but I just hate that she’s doing it because of me.

  “Nope,” Dad says. “Four letters, ends in a P.”

  “Mark,” Mom replies, flipping a page.

  “How did you manage to earn a law degree with those spelling skills? Mark doesn’t end in a P.”

  My mother glances up at me and mouths, “Wait for it.”

  A few seconds later, my dad grimaces. “Crud, the P is wrong. This is why I should never do crosswords in pen.” He begins scratching out boxes. “Okay, how about a four-letter abbreviation for price hike, starting with an O?” Before she can answer, he adds, “Hey, have you ever wondered . . . why is the word abbreviation so long?”

  “Why are there five syllables in the word monosyllabic?” my mother counters, turning another page of her magazine and pretending not to notice that Dad’s pen cap has fallen out of his mouth as he gapes at her.

  “Woman, I have literally never adored you more than I do right this second,” he says.

  “Amelia Linehan?” The nurse’s query breaks up their lovefest and we all stand, gathering our things. “Right this way,” she beckons.

  She leads us down a hall and opens the door into a small room, telling me, “Dr. Wah’s just going to review your blood test results with you, so you can stay dressed. She’ll be in shortly.”

  The paper covering the exam table I’m seated on crinkles as I shift into a more comfortable position and it’s the only sound in the room as we wait, until Dad asks, “Did you ever wonder why doctors work at a practice? Wouldn’t you rather it was an ‘already skilled’ or something less unnerving?”

  I groan. “Where do you get these? You’re like a meme come to life.”

  He shrugs. “Mostly online. But c’mon, you have to admit they shine a light on how ridiculous we humans—”

  A light rap on the door interrupts him.

  “Amelia?” Dr. Wah nudges into the room. “Oh! Whole gang’s here again!”

  She exchanges pleasantries with my parents, then settles onto her stool and turns her attention to me. “How you holding up?”

  “I’m good.”

  She studies my face carefully before nodding. “Still feeling fine physically? Any changes? Any more bruising?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Same.”

  She smiles. “All right then, that’s good news. But remember, I don’t want you to be alarmed if you start to experience more fatigue or see signs of jaundice . . .”

  “And you’d tell us right away, wouldn’t you?” Mom asks me.

  “I think you’d notice if I had dragon eyes, Mom.”

  Dr. Wah’s smile is sympathetic and covers all three of us. “I know these situations aren’t easy on a family, and it’s tough to handle the uncertainty, but try to remember my advice to focus on living life as normally as possible in the meantime.”

  Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Oh, was she not joking? What is “normal” again?

  She swivels her stool to face a small computer setup and begins to type. Mom and Dad both tense when the doctor sighs at the screen, and I pull the sleeves of my shirt into my palm to keep my nails from digging in. What could a sigh mean? Nothing good, I know that much.

  Dr. Wah scoots her chair closer to me again. “I gotta be honest, I’m not loving your blood test results, Amelia. You remember how we talked about MELD scores?”

  I nod. “It’s the number that determines how urgently I need the transplant.”

  “In large part, yes. It’s a figure derived from a formula that takes into account your values for bilirubin, creatinine, INR, and sodium. Usually, if someone’s MELD score is twenty-four or greater, we determine the patient is a candidate for a transplant. Yours was a twenty-one last month when you came in, but your GI bleed factored into my decision to petition for you to be placed on the list at that time.”

  My mother beats me to the question. “And what is it now?”

  The dread in her voice echoes what I’m feeling; it’s like a Dementor has entered the room.

  Dr. Wah’s face is somber. “It’s twenty-four, which isn’t alarming in and of itself and far from a critical number. As I said, it’s typically where we’d just be beginning a process we already have underway.”

  She addresses her answer to me, despite my mother having been the one to ask the question. I’ve always liked that about Dr. Wah, although in this instance I wouldn’t mind my parents swooping in and taking charge of . . . well, everything. Instead of reacting, I study my hands.

  The more I stare at them, the more convinced I become that the skin around my wrists looks slightly yellow, in a way it didn’t before now. It’s psychosomatic, I tell myself. Your brain is playing tricks on you.

  “What does that mean? The fact that it shot up like that?” Dad asks.

  “It means your liver is worsening,” Dr. Wah tells me. “Which is exactly what we know and expect will happen, but I was hoping it would do so more gradually, to give us as much time as possible to find a match for you. You’re nowhere near critical, though, and I’m not alarmed, so much as . . . wary. I’d like to bump your bloodwork panels up to weekly checks, so we can monitor things more closely.”

  “At what point do you become alarmed?” Mom asks.

  Dr. Wah sighs. “Sorry. Poor word choice on my part. But once the MELD number is hitting the low thirties, that’s when we’d really want or need to see a transplant happen within a couple of weeks. But your score could sit in the twenties for months, or longer. It could even go down.”

  Except I jumped three points in less than a month, and a mere six points is all that separates me from the low thirties. It becomes hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. Real. This is feeling too real and I can’t let it in. Won’t let it in.

  Fear is not the boss of you.

  I steel my shoulders and glance up to find Dr. Wah’s eyes on me. They flicker with sympathy before she says, “There are a few other paperwork things we need to address today. Please don’t read too much into it; they were on my list before I looked at your scores, okay?”

  I nod, trying to swallow.

  “I’m going to assume by the fact that your parents have been accompanying you to these appointments that you’re comfortable continuing to involve them in your medical care?” she asks.

  “I—what? Yes. Yes, definitely.”

  “Now that you’re eighteen, you’ll need to sign a health care proxy to empower them to make medical decisions on your behalf should you become unable to do so. It will also allow me to legally share information with them in that event.”

  “I mean . . . they’re my parents, so . . .”

  My hands clasp and unclasp and Dr. Wah reaches over to lightly cover them with her own. Her touch is gentle and so is her voice. “I know. But in the eyes of the law you’re an adult now, so they don’t get an automatic say, the way they would if you were a minor under their guardianship.”

  But I am under their guardianship! They house me and feed me and care for me same as ever, regardless of my reaching some random date on the calendar that arbitrarily determines I’m all grown up. Yes, I’ve been ridiculously excited to be out on my own in the world, to go to college, to be independent—not just in mind, but finally in body too. (Ha! In body. What a joke.) But I could never imagine facing all of this without them.

  Yet again this disease seems determined to erode not just my liver but everything I relish so much about Badass Amelia. All my confidence. My moxie, as Sibby loves to call it. Instead I’m left with this hollowed-out version of myself who wishes so hard she was five again, so she could curl up with a stuffed animal and suck her thumb, take a nap, and wake up to a world where everything makes sense.

  “We’ll make sure it gets taken care of,” my dad says.

  That’s what I want. I want my mommy and my daddy and the nice doctor to fix everything so I don’t have to worry a
bout any of this. I want them to make it all better.

  I’m the hollowest shell of myself and I hate it.

  Fear is not the boss of you. Fear is not the boss of you. Fear is not the boss of you. My mantra becomes a soothing chant as I inhale and exhale deep, quiet breaths.

  “There’s something else we should talk about,” Dr. Wah says, interrupting me mid-inhale. I jerk my eyes up only to meet another of her tender looks. “I know you’re planning to start college in the fall, but I want you to give some consideration to deferring a semester. Even if you were to get a new liver tomorrow, there are frequent follow-up appointments after the operation and it’s very common for transplant patients to be readmitted within the first year for complications. You’ll be, what, an hour and a half away?”

  “Closer to an hour forty-five. Before factoring in Boston traffic,” my mother injects.

  Dr. Wah must register the horrified expression on my face at her suggestion because she smiles gently and says, “Maybe I’m being premature. I do have patients who’ve proven me wrong and I’m always happy for that.”

  “That’ll be me. I’ll prove you wrong.” I set my jaw and dare her to argue.

  If she can tell that just underneath my resolve I’m a puddle of goo, she’s kind enough not to acknowledge it.

  “I hope you do,” she replies, walking her stool back to the computer and making a note in my chart. “But the more time that goes by, the more I want you to think about exploring your options. If not a deferment, maybe at least a reduced course load.”

  Goodbye, college buffet.

  I nod at the back of Dr. Wah’s white lab coat and avoid eye contact with my mother as I keep my jaw set.

  Dr. Wah lets her gaze take in all three of us as she asks, “What other questions can I answer for you?”

  “Last time you mentioned a scope to monitor her varices following her ligation?” my mother says.

  “We’ll give it another few weeks and then, yes, I’d like to check that the elastic bands we placed are holding. I’d also like to set up an appointment for you to meet the surgical staff, since one of those doctors will be performing any transplant and it’s always nice to be able to put faces to names and have a chance to chat with them. It tends to help everyone be a little more relaxed when the time comes.”