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gotta give yourself time to heal. A nd fourteen months isn’t that long, not in the scheme of things. You’re just getting started, buddy. You’ll see.”
The nurse left. “Is she gone?”
I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me nod. “Yeah,” I said.
“I’ll see? Really? Did she seriously say that?”
“Qualities of a Good Nurse: Go,” I said.
“1. Doesn’t pun on your disability,” Isaac said.
“2. Gets blood on the first try,” I said.
“Seriously, that is huge. I mean is this my freaking arm or a dartboard? 3. No condescending voice.”
“How are you doing, sweetie?” I asked, cloying. “I’m going to stick you with a needle now. There might be a little ouchie.”
“Is my wittle fuffywump sickywicky?” he answered. A nd then after a second, “Most of them are good, actually. I just want the hell out of
this place.”
“This place as in the hospital?”
“That, too,” he said. His mouth tightened. I could see the pain. “Honestly, I think a hell of a lot more about Monica than my eye. Is that
crazy? That’s crazy.”
“It’s a little crazy,” I allowed.
“But I believe in true love, you know? I don’t believe that everybody gets to keep their eyes or not get sick or whatever, but everybody
should have true love, and it should last at least as long as your life does.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I just wish the whole thing hadn’t happened sometimes. The whole cancer thing.” His speech was slowing down. The medicine working.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Gus was here earlier. He was here when I woke up. Took off school. He . . .” His head turned to the side a little. “It’s better,” he said
quietly.
“The pain?” I asked. He nodded a little.
“Good,” I said. A nd then, like the bitch I am: “You were saying something about Gus?” But he was gone.
I went downstairs to the tiny windowless gift shop and asked the decrepit volunteer sitting on a stool behind a cash register what kind of
flowers smell the strongest.
“They all smell the same. They get sprayed with Super Scent,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yeah, they just squirt ’em with it.”
I opened the cooler to her left and sniffed at a dozen roses, and then leaned over some carnations. Same smell, and lots of it. The
carnations were cheaper, so I grabbed a dozen yellow ones. They cost fourteen dollars. I went back into the room; his mom was there,
holding his hand. She was young and really pretty.
“A re you a friend?” she asked, which struck me as one of those unintentionally broad and unanswerable questions.
“Um, yeah,” I said. “I’m from Support Group. These are for him.”
She took them and placed them in her lap. “Do you know Monica?” she asked.
I shook my head no.
“Well, he’s sleeping,” she said.
“Yeah. I talked to him a little before, when they were doing the bandages or whatever.”
“I hated leaving him for that but I had to pick up Graham at school,” she said.
“He did okay,” I told her. She nodded. “I should let him sleep.” She nodded again. I left.
The next morning I woke up early and checked my email first thing.
[email protected] /* */ had finally replied.
Dear Ms. Lancaster,
I fear your faith has been misplaced—but then, faith usually is. I ca
out such answers would constitute a sequel to A n Imperial A ffliction, which you might publish or otherwise share on the network that has
replaced the brains of your generation. There is the telephone, but then you might record the conversation. Not that I don’t trust you, of
course, but I don’t trust you. A las, dear Hazel, I could never answer such questions except in person, and you are there, while I am here.
That noted, I must confess that the unexpected receipt of your correspondence via Ms. Vliegenthart has delighted me: What a
wondrous thing to know that I made something useful to you—even if that book seems so distant from me that I feel it was written by a
different man altogether. (The author of that novel was so thin, so frail, so comparatively optimistic!)
Should you find yourself in A msterdam, however, please do pay a visit at your leisure. I am usually home. I would even allow you a
peek at my grocery lists.
Yours most sincerely,
Peter Van Houten
c/o Lidewij Vliegenthart
“WHA T?!” I shouted aloud. “WHA T IS THIS LIFE?”
Mom ran in. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I assured her.
Still nervous, Mom knelt down to check on Philip to ensure he was condensing oxygen appropriately. I imagined sitting at a sun-drenched
café with Peter Van Houten as he leaned across the table on his elbows, speaking in a soft voice so no one else would hear the truth of what happened to the characters I’d spent years thinking about. He’d said he couldn’t tell me except in person, and then invited me to A msterdam.
I explained this to Mom, and then said, “I have to go.”
“Hazel, I love you, and you know I’d do anything for you, but we don’t—we don’t have the money for international travel, and the
expense of getting equipment over there—love, it’s just not—”
“Yeah,” I said, cutting her off. I realized I’d been silly even to consider it. “Don’t worry about it.” But she looked worried.
“It’s really important to you, yeah?” she asked, sitting down, a hand on my calf.
“It would be pretty amazing,” I said, “to be the only person who knows what happens besides him.”
“That would be amazing,” she said. “I’ll talk to your father.”
“No, don’t,” I said. “Just, seriously, don’t spend any money on it please. I’ll think of something.”
It occurred to me that the reason my parents had no money was me. I’d sapped the family savings with Phalanxifor copays, and Mom
couldn’t work because she had taken on the full-time profession of Hovering Over Me. I didn’t want to put them even further into debt.
I told Mom I wanted to call A ugustus to get her out of the room, because I couldn’t handle her I-can’t-make-my-daughter’s-dreams-
come-true sad face.
A ugustus Waters–style, I read him the letter in lieu of saying hello.
“Wow,” he said.
“I know, right?” I said. “How am I going to get to A msterdam?”
“Do you have a Wish?” he asked, referring to this organization, The Genie Foundation, which is in the business of granting sick kids one
wish.
“No,” I said. “I used my Wish pre-Miracle.”
“What’d you do?”
I sighed loudly. “I was thirteen,” I said.
“Not Disney,” he said.
I said nothing.
“You did not go to Disney World.”
I said nothing.
“Hazel GRA CE!” he shouted. “You did not use your one dying Wish to go to Disney World with your parents.”
“A lso Epcot Center,” I mumbled.
“Oh, my God,” A ugustus said. “I can’t believe I have a crush on a girl with such cliché wishes.”
“I was thirteen,” I said again, although of course I was only thinking crush crush crush crush crush. I was flattered but changed the
subject immediately. “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”
“I’m playing hooky to hang out with Isaac, but he’s sleeping, so I’m in the atrium doing geometry.”
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“I can’t tell if he’s just not ready to confront the seriousness of his disability or if he really does care more about getting dumped by
Monica, but he won’t talk about anything else.”
“Yeah,” I said. “How long’s he go
“Few days. Then he goes to this rehab or something for a while, but he gets to sleep at home, I think.”
“Sucks,” I said.
“I see his mom. I gotta go.”