people who fail the test; the 10 percent of people who will die. To me, that sounds really high too. One in ten. Five days ago, I didn’t think I would be the one. Three days ago I considered that I might be the one. But today, in this ward with exactly ten beds, the possibility is crushing me, and my insides heave. One in ten. My chest tightens, and my skin prickles. One of these ten. My heart does a powerful thump, and my body feels as if I’ve been zapped with electricity. Then anger comes out of nowhere. I want to hit someone … or something. But the last few days have shown me that even punching pillows turns my knuckles blue with bruises.
I want to escape. I want to run, like I did in the old days, mile after mile, leaping streams and fallen logs, past the colourful flags flapping in the breeze and the cheering crowd near the finish line. But even then, I want to keep running, my feet falling on the trail until there’s no trail left.
Run? I almost laugh, it’s so ridiculous. I’m worn out just from climbing into bed! The only thing that can still run is my imagination.
And I’m totally scared of where that might take me.
CHAPTER FOUR
The air is filled with pockets of turbulence that ruffle the hawk’s feathers, pitching her from side to side. She angles her tail and flaps hard to stay on course. This blustery wind is generally a sign of bad weather. Past experience tells her to take cover in the forest before the wind and rain knock her from the sky, but looking down, she realizes that the boreal forest is no longer there. Overhead, the sun droops toward the western horizon, assuring her she is still on course, but beneath her wings, nothing is recognizable.
Everything has changed.
Angela goes away to do some paperwork. She promises to be back soon. Left to my own depressing thoughts, I contemplate life without running. I bury my head in the pillow, hold my breath, and will myself to die. Nothing happens.
I toss the pillow aside and come up gasping for air. I pull the covers over my head and try to pretend that I’m somewhere else. It works for a few seconds, but I can’t escape my dark thoughts for long. They turn suddenly toward Gemma and how mad I am at her. How could she just disappear like she did? I thought she was my best friend. People who don’t know us think we’re brother and sister, which is nuts because she’s Italian Canadian! But I see what they mean. She looks more First Nations than I do! She tans really quickly in summer, so her skin is as dark as mine, and she has straight black hair. But hers is long, and she wears it in a ponytail. Plus we both love running and we both want to win. She’s definitely the fastest girl at Mercredi High, and I’m the top guy, but even so, we push each other to do better because we both want to win at the Regionals. We train together and hang out afterward, going for burgers or our favourite, New York Fries, even though our coach says we shouldn’t eat that crap. We’re inseparable. We were inseparable. As soon as she heard I had cancer … she vanished. What kind of best friend does that? It really sucks! I want to vent about everything I’m going through, and she’s not here! I’m mad at her. It’s not fair: she can still run. I can’t. Maybe that’s what bugs me the most.
I breathe deeply and repeat the phrase that I always recite before a race: Be still. Be present. Breathe. It doesn’t work. The memory of the last time I saw Gemma gnaws at me with fresh disappointment. The week I got my diagnosis, she came by the house with a get-well card from the runners at the Mac Island Club, but she just handed the card to Angela and left. By the time I dragged myself to the front door, she was long gone. If I’d had the energy, I would have followed her out into the street and told her what she could do with that card. Instead, I started to text her a really mean message, but I deleted it and tried again, hammering my thumbs on the screen so hard that Angela warned me not to break my phone. In the end, I tossed the phone down and just screamed inside my head, I hate you, Gemma!
I tried to hide the tears that pooled in my eyes, but Angela saw them, which was the worst. I hung on to the tears, though. I didn’t let them spill. At least Angela didn’t say something stupid, like Don’t cry … or everything will be okay. She told me that Gemma probably didn’t stick around for a visit because she didn’t know what to say to me. I wouldn’t know what to say to me, either. I’m not the same person Gemma liked to hang with. I can’t run. I can’t go out for burgers and fries. And I don’t want to play video games where we just start over when we use up all of our lives. The last few days have shown me that death isn’t like that. Plus now I’m miles away from home, so she couldn’t visit even if she wanted to. She could phone, though, or email, or text.
Angela says I should give Gemma more time to come to terms with what’s happening to me, but it’s not fair! I’m the one who’s sick. She should be giving me time, not the other way around.
I feel like a shaken bottle of Coke ready to explode, ready to spew rage everywhere. I clench my teeth to hold it in and repeat my mantra: Be still. Be present. Breathe.
Maybe it works a little. When I think about it, Gemma might have been mad at me before I got my diagnosis. Our relationship had changed, for sure. During the spring we spent less time running and more time walking. That was fine with me, because I was always tired — now I know why — but walking gave Gemma more time to talk. Even though she was my best friend, I often tuned out her constant chatter and let my thoughts turn to Chrissie, a girl from school who I really liked. But then, out of the blue, while we were walking along the trail, Gemma stopped and kissed me. Just like that! I have nothing against kissing, but the problem was it felt all wrong … like kissing your sister. Not at all the way I imagined kissing Chrissie would be. Anyway, I pushed Gemma away, saying something about being loyal to Chrissie, which was stupid, since Chrissie barely knew I existed then, and Gemma knew that. Anyway, she said it was fine, and she seemed okay with it. She said we needed to train harder, and she took off down the trail, running so fast I couldn’t catch up with her.
I wonder now if I hurt her feelings.
Being stuck here in the hospital with nothing but my own thoughts makes me wonder about a lot of things.
CHAPTER FIVE
Beneath the fish hawk’s weary wings, man-machines belch smoke and kick up swirling dust. She blinks and flies on through the haze. The scent of pine gives way to a smell that she recognizes from her southern home: the smoky stench that billows from the metal trees that grow in the warm ocean; the reek of the glossy slick that sometimes floats on the balmy water there, making it shimmer with rainbow colours. She has learned that this is not a good place to hunt. Not a good place to be.
The ward lights have been turned down low, but I can still see things dimly.
My bed is cocooned by curtains. Angela is trying to settle down on the narrow cot at my side. She doesn’t have to stay here. The government will pay for a hotel room, one of the few perks of being First Nations, but she insists on staying, at least until I’ve settled in. Her long black hair is stark against the white pillow. She curls up and then stretches out, obviously not comfortable, but then again, neither am I. A feeling of thankfulness spreads over me like a warm blanket. I’m glad that she’s here and that I’m not alone.
She’s been really nice to me since I got my diagnosis. She’s always been nice to me, but this is different. I wonder if she’s trying to make up for the first eight years of my life when she barely knew me, or maybe the last six, when we’ve lived together in the same house but have been miles apart. I guess it’s just possible that during those six years, the problem might have been with me. I never let her get close, even though she told
