Chapter 7
It’s Dad’s idea to go out for lunch.
I spent the morning sleeping, thanks to my late night, and we haven’t talked about yesterday at all.
It feels weird though, to be out in public like this.
Yet also not weird, because it’s just so us .
Dad copes with hard things by eating good food, and since my parents don’t love cooking, eating out is just kind of what we do.
Even when things are weird and sad and we have to talk about the tumor that’s growing by my liver.
We’re sitting at South of Nick’s, waiting for our entrees when Nathan finally breaks the silence.
“Remember that time we drove up the coast because Rosie didn’t believe the ocean was that big?” Nathan asks, smiling at the memory.
I would smile, too, if it didn’t make me think about having cancer the first time around.
“Yes,” Dad says, before I can shut down this particular conversation. “And then you both cried when we said it was time to turn around and drive back home.”
Nathan laughs. “I only cried because I liked being in the car; it meant I could watch movies on that little portable DVD player we had.”
I see Mom’s eyes light up. “I’d forgotten about that thing. I was so busy that trip, trying to come up with the routines for our next show at the studio.”
“You were pretty cranky,” Nathan says.
“I was not,” Mom argues.
Dad chuckles. “You were kind of cranky. Then on the way home, Rosie threw up all over.”
I bury my face in my hands. “That was not my proudest moment.” I want to say that I threw up because I was so nervous about having cancer, that even though I was only seven, I knew it was something big and scary.
But I don’t want to talk about being sick right now, especially when I feel fine.
I want to keep on pretending that it doesn’t exist—if only my brain would get the memo.
Everyone laughs and our food arrives, so we don’t have to talk about how I’m sick again, or my possible treatment plans, or my future with dance. My stomach flips as I stare at my veggie enchilada.
I hadn’t thought about what this means for dance yet. It’s taken every moment since I was in remission to get to where I am now. Surgery plus recovery time will not make my body stronger. I’m going to have to work even harder when I get to Paris—if I get in—just to be at the level I’m at now.
“You okay, Rosie?” My brother jostles my arm with his elbow.
“What? Fine,” I say and pick up my knife and fork, taking a bite just to prove it. But inside, I’m not doing fine. So much for pretending I’m not sick.
Dad reaches across the table and gently squeezes my hand. “It’s okay to not be fine, Rosebud.” And just like yesterday, when everything went fuzzy after I heard the news, the clatters from the kitchen and the chatter around us fade away and it’s like we’re the only people here .
“I’m scared,” I admit, and immediately Nathan has an arm around my shoulder.
“You should have stayed home last night,” Mom says stiffly, but she won’t look at me, and that’s when I realize that even with all of her makeup, her eyes are puffy.
She must have spent most of the night crying.
I want to call her out, since she was the one who told me to go out last night with Shawn.
She told me several times that it was “a great idea.”
Instead, I look down at the table. “I don’t want to think about what Doctor Barker said. I can’t think about what she said. I feel fine.” Which is true, because the last time I was sick, we knew something was wrong because I felt tired and sore all the time, and, well—sick.
Right now though, I feel fine. Physically, anyway. A little more tired than normal, but I’ve also been dancing a lot more than usual.
“Maybe you just think you feel fine,” Mom says.
“I feel fine,” I snap, because I need her to believe me.
“Maybe I do have a tumor, but all I know is that right now I feel healthy and fine and on top of the world because I know I’m going to get into the Paris Academy.
” I swallow back a sob. “But we don’t know what’s gonna happen with my cancer and it’s all kind of shitty. ”
“ Rosie ,” Mom cries. She hates when we swear and the couple at the table next to us glances our way. But this whole situation isn’t exactly sunshine and roses, and while I want to pretend that I’m not sick, maybe facing reality would be better.
“What? It’s true that I feel fine. True that my chances of getting into Paris are high. I don’t want to have cancer because that will only set my career back.”
Everyone is quiet for a moment.
“You have to do whatever Doctor Barker says,” Nathan says, so quietly that Dad leans forward to hear better. “So that you will be okay.”
I give a jerky nod. “Okay, then what? What if it’s more than just a tumor?
Then all of my training the last nine years will be for what?
Nothing? I might not be strong enough to dance in the fall even if the cancer goes away completely.
Paris is over.” The tears fall then and I know I’m not crying about the cancer or the possibility of it being worse than we know right now.
I’m crying because my one and only dream is being taken from me, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
“It’s not over,” Nathan says, his voice calm and soothing. “We’ll help get you back to where you are, even if it takes a little longer to get to Paris.”
I nod, even though I know that if they find out I’m sick, they’ll fill my spot, and if they don’t take me this year, I’ll be too old to join the program.
Mom knows this, too, but thankfully, she stays silent.
“Let’s just wait and see what Doctor Barker says.
She mentioned that surgery would be the best option, and maybe the only thing you have to do since there was no evidence of cancer anywhere else,” Dad says finally.
“Let’s not worry about ballet until we know more.
And, who knows—maybe they’ve made a lot of great strides in the past eight years.
” Dad smiles, optimistic. “So even if it’s more than a tumor, it’ll be faster and easier to kick cancer’s butt. ”
But I know that now he’s just lying to himself.
He may be the artist of the family, but he reads nearly every article that comes out about treating the cancer I had as a kid, even if I have been in remission for nine years.
He knows that while they’re learning new things, there still isn’t a guaranteed cure.
“Maybe,” I say finally, because I’m still crying and I can’t stand to break his heart, too. That would be too much, and it all feels like too much, and even though there’s the nagging part in my brain telling me that I’m making it worse than it actually is, it still feels bad.
I eat what I can of my lunch, and Nathan’s arm stays around my shoulders the whole time.
Mom avoids eye contact with all of us, and Dad smiles and talks about his favorite memories and tells us about his next art show.
There are a few brief moments where everything feels like a normal Saturday afternoon, but they are fleeting because my brain won’t shut up.
I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer.