Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mia
I was scheduled to see patients in the heme-onc clinic with Dr. March that afternoon. I skipped lunch to seek out Gabe because I knew he was nearby, getting ready to supervise interns in the primary care sick clinic today. I was trying desperately to compartmentalize, but I was a mess.
The first thing he did was sit me down and hand me half of his turkey sandwich—and refuse to talk to me until I ate it.
“Congrats on getting engaged,” I managed after the first bite.
“Thanks, but don’t even bother saying anything else. Sam told me everything, including what you said to Brunner. You’re my hero.”
I knew word traveled fast in the hospital, but that fast? I forced myself to swallow another bite of sandwich, but it was no use. “I made a mess out of everything.”
He smiled. “Yes, you did. Welcome to the world of human beings, Superwoman.” He hugged me hard. “The only thing I can say is that I saw Brax last night, and he looks as bad as you do.”
I sat back and looked at him. “How bad?”
“Pretty darn bad.”
A flicker of hope kicked deep inside of me. “Have you talked to him?”
Unaffected by my grilling, he looked me calmly in the eye. “I think the real question is, have you?”
“He was on call last night, and I’m on call tonight.” I could tell by Gabe’s eye roll that he saw right through that. “Okay, fine. He hasn’t called. And I haven’t contacted him either. He kept a huge secret from me, Gabe. And I just found out he gave up the BCP job and he’s leaving.”
“Leaving?” Gabe frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Brax.”
He was calling us quits. Blowing out of town. Running away. “I guess he was right all along. He couldn’t do a relationship after all.”
Gabe hugged me hard again. “I don’t have any idea what he’s thinking. But you know what you need to do.” He mimed talking motions with both his hands.
“No matter what happens, I’ll be okay.” I tried to honestly believe it, not ask it like a question. And yes, I’d be courageous. I’d pick up the pieces of my career, my family, my life, one at a time, starting right now. I pushed the sandwich away. “Thanks for sharing—and for being my friend.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled a giant smile. “And yes, you will.”
Rylee’s chart said that she was tolerating her induction phase chemo very well. She’d continue to be hit hard with the chemo agents for another few weeks. Today in clinic, we’d done another lumbar puncture and given her an infusion of intrathecal chemo into her spinal canal. She was on medication to protect her stomach, for nausea, prophylaxis for pneumonia, and for mouth sores.
But despite all this rather dry information, I walked in to see two little girls, heads together, giggling and clearly conspiring over something. Rylee wore a multicolored crocheted cap with a big yarn flower over her ear. I suspected that her hair was well on its way to falling out. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes, but her eyes were bright. And she was smiling.
Reagan wore the same kind of hat, but in different colors.
Becca and Ryan were sitting together, watching their girls. I noticed they were tightly holding hands, a sign that they were figuratively holding their breath, waiting to hear about Rylee’s progress.
“I’m trying new hairstyles for when Rylee’s grows back,” Reagan said, taking off her hat and showing me that she was now sporting a short pixie haircut.
I touched a curl. “Cute. What do you think, Rylee?”
“It’s nice,” she said, surveying her sister, “but when my hair grows back, I’m never cutting it again.”
“Like Rapunzel?” I asked, and the girls giggled.
“We made you something,” Rylee said, nodding to her mom, who reached beside her and pulled out a poster.
A sign that said, Thank you, Dr. Mia , all in glitter. They’d clearly made good use of the glitter pens I’d given them. I was truly touched. This was a bright spot in my otherwise gray day.
“We know you’re moving on to another rotation, and we wanted to say thank you,” Becca explained.
“It’s so awesome,” I looked over the sign that was embellished with literally every color of glitter imaginable. “But girls, do you think you used enough glitter?”
That got more giggles from both of them. I couldn’t tell you how good a sound that was.
A short, staccato knock sounded on the door, and a second later, Dr. March joined us, greeting the Hunters. I gave a little summary of how Rylee was doing and what her labs showed.
“Fantastic,” Dr. March said. She outlined the plan for finishing the induction phase and the tests and chemo that would follow. Everything was looking positive as they left to enjoy the rest of the holidays as best as they could.
It was late in the afternoon and the clinic staff had left, anxious to begin their holiday. I decided on impulse to go back into the exam room to chart my note. And, to be honest, to simply take a minute. Fresh paper covering had been rolled down to cover the exam table, the stool had been tucked underneath the desk, and all was quiet except for the soft buzz of traffic outside on the street.
The glitter sign was still on the desk. Maybe it was all the emotional stress I was under, but I couldn’t help remembering two very different little girls from a long time ago, my sister and me.
“ I love you so much .” I looked up suddenly from my charting. I’d heard Grace’s voice for the first time in many years, clear as a crisp winter breeze. The room was still silent—and empty. No one was there but me, but I could feel her. I could literally sense my sister in the room.
She wasn’t saying that she was proud of me or beseeching me to help sick children or even telling me what path to take. She was just…smiling at me. Not that I saw her; I felt her smiling.
Okay, I’ve read accounts of weird things happening. And let’s face it, I was desperate—the heartbreak, the job thing, the stress of the fake-boyfriend weekend. Compared to the heartache I’d suffered when Charlie cheated on me, this felt a thousand times worse. Holding myself together at work today had taken every ounce of strength I possessed. But I could tell you beyond a doubt that I sensed something, in the way that people claim to feel a strong, intense presence long after their loved ones have passed. It’s like the sensation you experience when you wake up from a vivid dream and feel certain that it was real.
Countless times, I’d wished that Grace was with me, sharing something that I knew she’d think was hilarious or something that had special meaning between us. But I’d never sensed this—well, I can only describe it as a presence.
I somehow knew she was okay. More than okay. Like, maybe she didn’t get to fulfill her potential on earth. But maybe she was doing it…somewhere else. At least, that was what I believed.
My heart beat wildly in my chest. I had so much I wanted to say. Years’ worth of things.
Like Stay, please stay . Or, When will I see you again ? There was so much more I wanted to know. And I needed to tell her how much I missed her.
“ They remind me of us ,” Grace said.
“Exactly,” I said, tearing up. “Just like us.”
“Mia, can I talk to you about something?”
I jumped at Dr. March’s voice behind me. I’d thought she’d gone home for the day. How long had she been standing in the doorway?
A strange void filled me. That waking-up-from-a-dream sensation of being so close to something, and then suddenly, it was gone.
All day long, I’d been trying so hard not to crack. I’d been functioning on the maniacal side of cheerful, overdoing it to disguise all my pain. The last thing I wanted to do was to suddenly break down under anyone’s concern. Also, what did she think I was doing, sitting in an empty exam room talking to myself? “Look, Dr. March I’m a little emotional today, but I swear it’s not impacting my?—”
She smiled as she leaned against the doorjamb. “You love those little girls.”
Uh oh. The last thing I wanted was to be unprofessional. Especially since I’d just crossed a huge line with Dr. Brunner.
Plus, professional detachment was necessary for survival in this job. You couldn’t allow yourself to cross a line with patients. You’d never survive the tragedies.
Maybe I’d never have what it took.
“I do,” I told Dr. March.
“It’s a great relief that Rylee is doing okay,” she said.
Tears burned behind my lids. I blinked them back. “I worried about her over my break.”
“Me too.”
That startled me. “You did too?”
She walked in and leaned against the exam table, seeming to have all the time in the world to chat. I had no idea if she sensed how on the edge I was. “I worry all the time about my patients. You know, Rylee has an excellent chance of doing very, very well.”
I nodded. I somehow felt my sister’s presence fading. Please, please don’t leave, I wanted to shout.
I fisted and unfisted my hands from the tension of wanting Dr. March to leave, hoping that I could hear Grace just one last time. Or tell her one last I love you before she was gone for good.
“My sister—” I said, hoping somehow to signal to Grace to stay.
Dr. March stood there, listening.
I took a deep breath. “My twin sister died when we were nine.”
Her brow arched. “Of leukemia?”
I nodded. And let out a sob I didn’t know I was keeping in.
She walked over and placed her hand on my shoulder. “That explains why you’ re so invested in Rylee’s whole family. And little Reagan too.”
“I’ve been there,” I said simply. That let the floodgates loose—tear-wise and talking-wise. “I just said no to the primary care job with BCP. And…I was wondering…” I had to take a big breath to get it out. “Is it too late to apply for the heme-onc fellowship? If you’ve found someone, maybe I could staff the residents’ clinic for a year. I know sometimes I’m too emotional, and maybe I need more detachment, but I know I can?—”
“Caring is a good asset,” she said firmly, interrupting me. “Never for a moment do I doubt that you have what it takes to be great at this job.” She seemed to thoughtfully gather her words. “Mia, being a cancer doctor for kids a scary job, but it’s also wonderful and rewarding. To know that you’ve helped these families through the most terrifying time of their lives is a great thing.”
And then she stepped forward and hugged me.
Of course, I burst into tears anew. It was relief, it was affirmation, it was someone telling you that it was okay to be afraid of something. But maybe you should go ahead and do it anyway.
How lucky I was to have someone like that. A mentor.
“Are you okay?” she asked, assessing me carefully.
“I’ve got some things going on,” I said, swiping at my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Never be sorry for being human,” she said, handing me the box of tissues from the desk.
“I’ll fill out the application as soon as possible.”
“Of course. And I’ll write you a recommendation letter too.” She paused. “I can do better than that. I’ll also tell all my colleagues that I believe you’re the best candidate.”
Oh, joy! What I meant was, I wasn’t exactly in a happy state, but I felt something squeeze inside my chest, a feeling that this was, well, right. As far as any big, scary, major decision can. “Thank you, Dr. March,” I managed. “I really appreciate it.”
Once she left, I was alone for real this time. I finished my charting and looked up.
“Grace?” I said very quietly.
The late afternoon sun was shining in, a pale winter ray. It drew me over to the window, where I saw all the impressive hospital buildings lining the street. Small, bare trees far below were outlined in Christmas lights already turned on, anticipating the darkness that would soon arrive.
I turned back to the room. The beam of sunlight hit the nondescript vinyl floor and sparkled.
I walked over to examine the strange sight. Sure enough, tiny sparkly specks shone brightly in the light.
Glitter.
I smiled. And then I laughed out loud. Good thing I was the only one around.
Or maybe I wasn’t. My sister’s love wrapped around me like a warm blanket, swirling about me as if she were in this sterile exam room right beside me.
Or maybe she had been, and she’d left behind some magic.
Yes, I knew that the glitter had spilled from the poster. But still, I clutched my laptop to my chest. “I hope heaven has a ton of art supplies,” I whispered.
The door creaked a little behind me.
“Grace?” I called as I spun around.
“Not Grace,” Brax said softly. He was standing there, looking tired and a little disheveled, his eyes full of feeling, making my heart thump hard from an absurd amount of hope. “Just me.”