Chapter 2
By the time I finished visiting with a few more friends and caught the bus home, Stella and Oliver had returned from their mystery trip.
When I walked into the kitchen, Stella was seated at the table, eyes glued to the screen of her camera.
No doubt she was scrolling through whatever pictures she took on their outing.
Oliver stood at the island chopping a pile of mushrooms. Supplies for whatever he was making were spread out around him—a small bunch of arugula, an onion, a carton of eggs, a container of heavy cream, leftover bacon, and a package of goat cheese.
They were both so in the zone, neither of them noticed me come in.
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I made a point of clearing my throat.
Oliver glanced up from the cutting board, and a lazy grin that could only be described as sexy tugged at his lips.
My heart instantly fluttered. It was beyond frustrating, but the traitorous organ inside my chest didn’t seem to understand how uncool it was for me to have a crush on him. Even if I’d liked him first.
“Well, look who it is,” Oliver said, as if he and Stella had just been talking about me.
“Hi,” I replied, a bit uncomfortable at his sudden attention.
At the sound of my voice, Stella tore her eyes away from her camera. “Cara, hey! Where have you been?”
“The hospital.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “You had an appointment today?”
I could practically hear the other questions swirling around inside her head, the ones she was dying to ask but knew better than to bombard me with: Why didn’t you tell me you had an appointment?
Was this a checkup or have you been feeling sick?
What did Dr. Mitchell say? Is everything all right?
Is there anything I can do? Just thinking about all the conclusions she was jumping to was exhausting.
“No,” I told her. I could feel Oliver watching me; his gaze was intense, like the sun on a too-hot day, but I kept my head locked in Stella’s direction and did my best to ignore him. “I stopped by to see some friends.”
“Oh, okay.” Stella’s rigid posture visibly deflated, and she flashed me a relieved smile. “Well, I’m glad you got out of the house. It’s been a while.”
The comment made my hackles rise, and it took an enormous amount of effort to bite back the retort that was dancing on the tip of my tongue.
Oliver resumed his chopping. “Cara, you hungry?”
My stomach chose that exact moment to rumble. “Famished,” I admitted. Breakfast felt like a lifetime ago. “What are you making?”
“A frittata.” There must have been a confused look on my face, because he added, “It’s an egg-based Italian dish similar to quiche but without the crust.”
Pressing my lips together, I stifled a smile. “I know what a frittata is.”
“Okay… Do you have a problem with having breakfast for lunch?”
“Not at all, but I find it highly amusing that you know what a frittata is.”
He scoffed, but based on the amused gleam in his eyes, he was feigning offense. “What, guys can’t cook?”
“All I’m saying,” I replied, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug, “is that Drew wouldn’t know what a frittata was if it smacked him upside the head.”
“How does your brother’s lack of culinary knowledge correlate to mine?”
I rolled my eyes but surrendered. “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point.”
“Yeah? What’s that exactly?”
Releasing an exasperated sigh, I said, “In no way does having a wiener hinder one’s ability to cook.”
Oliver’s responding grin was smug. “Glad we cleared that up.”
“What time will lunch be ready, Chef Perry?”
He glanced at the clock on the stove, lips twitching. “In about an hour.”
Perfect. That gave me just enough time to throw on some sweats and fit in some TV. I needed a dose of my favorite British daddies to cheer me up, because after hearing the news about Jillian’s departure, all I wanted to do was be alone.
“Cool. I’ll be upstairs until then.”
As I headed out of the kitchen, Stella pushed away from the table.
“Hey, wait,” she called, chasing after me. “You have a sec?” She dropped her voice to a low murmur, almost like she didn’t want Oliver to hear our conversation.
“Sure,” I said, pausing in the middle of the hall. “What’s up?”
“Well, it’s just…” She trailed off, twisting her nose stud in a circle, a nervous habit she’d picked up after getting it pierced. “Oliver and I are dropping my donations off at Goodwill tonight. We wanted to know if you’ve filled your box.”
“We?” As if Oliver gave a crap about whether I dejunked my room. Stella probably didn’t either, but that wasn’t the point of this whole charade.
“Fine. I would like to know.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I haven’t had a chance.”
Stella raised her chin, stubborn as ever. “Why not?”
I flexed my fingers. “Because I. Don’t. Want to,” I said, clipping my words.
A vein in Stella’s neck throbbed. I wondered briefly if she was going to detonate like she usually did when she was angry, but then she took a deep breath and shook her head.
“All this moping around the house isn’t healthy, Cara.
Mom and Dad might be okay with pretending everything is fine, but I’m sick of—”
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands up. After my trip to the hospital, I was too emotionally drained to fight with her. “Will you get off my case if I clean out my closet?”
* * *
Fourteen.
That was how old I was when I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
NHL was a type of cancer that developed in the lymphatic system, the body’s disease-fighting network or, as my oncologist liked to call it, everyone’s own personal cleaning service.
Dr. Mitchell explained it like this: Lymph, a watery liquid containing infection-fighting white blood cells, flowed through the body clearing out toxins and waste; it traveled in tubes connected to lymph nodes, small filters that trapped the collected nasties, which everyone had located in their armpits, stomach, neck, groin, and pelvis.
In NHL, the white blood cells that were meant to fight disease grew and divided out of control.
Which meant a tumor could develop in any number of places.
Mine started in my cervical lymph nodes.
The first sign that something was wrong?
A small lump on my neck. It didn’t hurt, but it grew quickly and wouldn’t go away.
The lump was followed by fevers and night sweats that left my sheets soaked.
Not only was I exhausted twenty-four seven, but my appetite decided to take a vacation and never come back, so I lost a considerable amount of weight.
At first, my pediatrician thought I had mono or maybe influenza, but once those illnesses were ruled out, she recommended I have a biopsy.
It confirmed our worst fears—I had the dreaded C-word.
Not long after, I started a relatively standard chemotherapy treatment consisting of multiple drugs I couldn’t pronounce the names of.
By that point, my freshman year of high school was halfway over.
Between my chemo regimen and the side effects it caused—constant fatigue, nausea, vomiting, and hair loss—I decided it was best not to return to school after winter break.
Mom quit her job to homeschool me, because the last thing I wanted was to fall behind my siblings and repeat ninth grade while they moved on to tenth.
I shouldn’t have worried though.
Stella, Drew, and I had always been the inseparable Samuel triplets.
When they found out I was leaving, they fought to leave with me.
It took some convincing, but Mom finally caved and agreed to homeschool the three of us together.
After all, it was only supposed to be until the end of the school year.
Back then, I was full of hope. The cancer was caught early, my prognosis was good, and I had a plan: By June, after all six of my chemo cycles were completed, I would get a PET scan that showed I’d kicked cancer’s ass, and I could spend the entire summer growing my hair back and regaining strength.
When September arrived, I’d be ready to return to Greenfield High like every other healthy student.
I quickly learned that you couldn’t make plans for cancer.
That summer was my first time in remission.
When most people heard the word remission, they thought survivor or cancer-free.
But that was a long way from the truth. What they didn’t realize was that there were two types of remission.
The first was complete remission. In complete remission, tests showed that all signs of your cancer were gone.
And if, keyword being if, you were lucky enough to remain in complete remission for five years, some doctors said you were cured.
That wasn’t the case for me.
When June finally rolled around, I didn’t have a complete remission but a partial.
A partial remission meant that my tumors had been reduced in size by 50 percent but that my cancer was still there.
Because in certain types of cancer like leukemias and lymphomas, it wasn’t just a one-time thing.
The cancer could be watched and treated, but sometimes it never completely went away, kind of like a chronic illness.
And that meant Drew, Stella, and I wouldn’t be returning to public school in the fall.
Mom didn’t like that. She was afraid being homeschooled would isolate us from other people our age, so instead of spending the summer preparing for sophomore year like I’d planned, Mom forced me to attend a support group for kids who were sick like me.
My brother and sister got intramural sports…
and I got cancer club. It was very The Fault in Our Stars, but without a hot boy to sweep me off my feet.