8. Monty
CHAPTER 8
Monty
I tried to get to our local hospital at least once a week to visit with the kids in the pediatric oncology unit. Each day, a different activity was planned for the patients who were well enough to walk or be wheeled to an activity room that also served as a parents’ lounge.
I’d spent a lot of time in that room when I was in first and second grades.
Every time I entered this place, the memories hit like a truck colliding with a brick wall. I’d wrongly assumed it’d get easier over the years, but it never had. The ghost of my sister would forever haunt this ward. I crossed the hideously patterned carpet to the floor-to-ceiling windows and gazed out at the mountains.
Mindy had been thirteen when she’d been diagnosed with leukemia. At the time, she’d been a straight A student and at the top of her cheer game. A flyer on the Senior Level 4 team, she could also have easily been an elite gymnast. The things she could do in the air! She defied all gravity and flexibility expectations .
I wanted to be just like her.
When her leg started hurting, everyone assumed it was a cheer-related injury. But she’d never fallen. Melinda Biddington never fell. Even when her stunting partners dropped her, she was always able to twist in a way that landed her on her feet or in the back spot’s arms, like a cat.
When the injury progressed enough that it caused her to limp, her coaches refused to let her practice until she’d had it x-rayed and brought in a physician’s note that she was all clear to resume activity.
But the x-ray led to more tests, and a tumor was found. It was surgically removed, and we all celebrated. She resumed practice, and a month later, her team took first place at Summit in Orlando.
Then our parents sat us down. Things were never the same after that.
Sure, the tumor was gone, but Mindy’s battle was just beginning.
It hadn’t been the only tumor. But it was the only one that was operable. Removing it had allowed her to finish the season.
But now she needed radiation and chemotherapy.
Me, at seven, had heard loudly and clearly what they hadn’t said: Without the cancer treatments, she’d die.
I decided then and there I would spend every minute I could with my sister. My dad’s driver would pick me up at school and bring me here. I’d do my homework while Mindy napped. The cafeteria would deliver dinner for both of us. When Mindy was awake, I’d tell her about school and cheer, and she’d give me tips to improve my tumbling. My parents would take turns stopping in after work, and whoever stayed the latest would bring me home .
Nana was always here when I arrived, and she would leave just before dinner. Sometimes she’d stay longer if Mindy was having a good day. Sometimes, she’d stop knitting and pull me into her lap, and we’d sit like that for hours, watching animated movies while Mindy slept. Sometimes, on the really bad days, we’d each hold one of Mindy’s hands and pray for a cure.
On days I had cheer practice, Nana would drive me. She’d sit in the balcony overlooking the Plex’s cheer floors, sipping her pumpkin spice latte from the Bevvie Bar—now the Coffee Loft—and watching me flip all over the mats.
She took great care of me.
And once I was old enough, I’d vowed I’d take care of her.
“Monty’s here!”
I spun around and grinned as the kids began to file into the room. First in was Britlynne, an eleven-year-old who’d beaten the disease, only to have it return two years later. She reminded me a lot of Mindy at her age, even if she was a dancer instead of a cheerleader.
A few long strides brought me to her wheelchair. I stuck out my fist and she bumped it. “You good today, Brit?”
“Slaying.” She scrunched her nose. “I see you looking up at Nurse Trey to confirm. Believe me”—she twisted in her seat to look up at the twentysomething—“I’m beating this thing. Right?”
Trey grinned and nodded. “Never seen a fiercer fighter,” he confirmed.
“Awesome,” I said. “Save me a seat?”
She nodded, and Trey wheeled her off as four-year-old Anson entered the room, carried by his dad. His mom worked for the mayor of Colorado Springs, and they’d decided she’d keep working because her salary and benefits were better than his self-employment income. She visited as much as she could and reminded me a lot of my mom, back in those days.
Anson’s dad, however, was nothing like my father. My dad only showed up when he felt obligated to and if it fit in with his client dinners, golf “meetings” and business travel.
“Ans, my man!” I held up my hand, and he high-fived it. “You just wake up?”
He nodded. “Wanna go back to bed.” He turned his face into his dad’s shoulder.
Anson’s raspy whisper caused my throat to tighten. “Rough day?” I asked. I normally wouldn’t ask such a personal question, but the man’s tired eyes and several-days-old scruff tugged at my heart.
“We got through it. He keeps asking for his mom. I know it’s killing her not to be here. But we need her benefits.”
I nodded, wishing circumstances were different. Our family had enough money to enable our parents to be with Mindy twenty-four seven, but neither wanted to. And here was a family making impossible sacrifices so their child could receive treatment.
It wasn’t fair.
Nothing about any of it was fair.
More kids, parents, and sitters filed in and gathered around the stage in the back corner. Today’s activity was a puppet show. I sat by Britlynne, and we laughed at the puppeteer’s corny jokes. I was there while he was setting up, and he’d asked me if I’d be willing to be part of the show. I agreed, as long as it was within the first three quarters of the performance so I had time to change into my costume before the hour was over.
At thirty-five minutes past the hour, a cat and a dog puppet were arguing over which was the best pet, and I wondered if my part was coming. I had to leave in ten minutes.
“I think we need to ask the audience which pet is better!” the cat suggested.
The dog’s face scrunched, and its eyebrows lifted. “Okay. Hey kids, who thinks dogs make the best pets?”
The kids with dogs hooted and cheered. The cat asked the same question about cats, and the noise level was pretty even.
“Hey you!” The cat pointed to me. “The super big giant kid!”
“Who, me?” I asked in a forced high-pitched voice.
“Yeah!” The dog woofed. “Which pet is better?”
I scratched my head. “Well, I have a cat…” The cat kids cheered. “But—I don’t think my roommate likes him. Very grumpy roommate.” I shook my head like it was the saddest thing.
The cat puppet gasped. “What kind of person doesn’t like a cat?”
“I think my cat annoys her because he acts like it’s his place, not hers. We’re guests while my house is being renovated,” I explained.
“Your roommate is a giiiiiiirl? Ooooooohh!” he teased. “Is she smart? Is she pretty? Do you liiiiiiiiike her?”
I snorted. “She’s both of those things. And my friend.”
“Oooooh!” teased the dog. “Hey, kids, maybe we can help Monty’s roommate not be so grumpy. Who’s got an idea?”
All of the kids raised their hands.
None of them waited to be called on.
“Do the dishes!”
“Fix something! ”
“Bring her flowers!”
“Tell her she’s beautiful!”
I grinned sheepishly. “Thanks, everyone. I’ll try some of those things.”
The puppets moved on to the next topic, and Brit leaned over. “Make her dinner and bring her flowers. When my dad does that, it makes my mom so happy she’s in a good mood for a week!”
“Noted. Thanks.”
“Oh, and clean up your mess. Otherwise, she’ll forget the nice things when she’s cleaning the mess.”
“You are wise beyond your years,” I said and thanked her. “I’ll be back,” I whispered.
I slipped out and hustled to the nurse’s station. Jared was right on time and chatting up two of the younger nurses. I slapped him on the shoulder and lifted my chin to the ladies. “Need me to take out the trash?”
They giggled, and I grinned. Jared’s expression turned from flirtatious to annoyed, but I didn’t care. I didn’t need or particularly want his friendship.
I led him to the break room and quickly changed into the mascot costume. Jared was a college kid whose aunt worked in the Edge’s front office. He was pursuing a degree in physical education, so this job was a good fit for him both because of the schedule and the opportunities to work with kids.
And he was good with kids. A natural. When I got promoted, one of my asks was that he remain my handler. Ridgie Number One’s current handler wasn’t happy being demoted to Number Three, but I needed someone with me who was comfortable and animated and kind to children, even if he was sometimes a stick in the mud when it came to rules .
The puppet show had just ended when I entered the room, and Jared corralled the kids into a semicircle that enabled me to easily move from one to the next. He passed out mini Ridgie bears with royal blue bows tied around their necks.
I was glad to see Vali had made it to the show. She was newish, having started treatments about a month ago, eight years old, and hard of hearing. I’d attended many of Penny’s American Sign Language classes for kids at the library over the years—most recently as Ridgie, of course—and asked Penny to tutor me privately in ASL so that I could communicate better with kids who were deaf and hard of hearing.
And since Ridgie couldn’t speak out loud, it was pretty special that Vali—and others like her—got a little bit of extra communication.
Hi, I signed. Are you having a good day?
Her eyes lit up, and she straightened in her chair. Her mother fussed over her, readjusting her blanket.
Better today. And you?
I can’t complain. I pointed to Jared. Except about this guy. He snorts way too loudly.
She giggled. Can you hug me? I left my teddy bear in my bed, and this new bear is too small.
I stepped closer, bent down, and held my arms open. Vali reached up and wrapped her thin arms around my waist.
She hung on longer than usual, and a muscle in my back began to spasm. I’d have to spend a little more time on it in the gym later, but I wasn’t about to push her away. My rule was, I don’t let go first.
When she slid her arms back into her lap, I patted her on the head. See you next week? I signed .
Vali nodded. I’ll still be here. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. I’ll probably be here until I die.
“Valentina!” her mother gasped. She skirted around to the front of the chair and signed. You are not going to die. The treatments are working. You will beat this! No more negative talk!
But I’m so tired, Mama. And the doctor said it would be a long battle.
They were both crying now, daughter in her mother’s embrace. Not for the first time, I was glad they couldn’t see my face.
Because we all knew the truth: Lots of kids didn’t beat cancer.
What would I have said to Mindy if she’d said something like that? Probably something similar to what Vali’s mother signed.
Maybe I could give her an incentive. I placed my paw on her shoulder.
Her mother backed away, and I began to sign in fervor.
You hang in there. Be strong. When you feel better, I’ll get you and your family special tickets to an Edge game. Just tell me when. You can hang out with me before the game, and I’ll get you free snacks. Deal?
She laughed. Deal.
I squeezed her shoulder and patted her mom’s back, hoping I’d left them encouraged and hopeful. I wasn’t doing my job if I didn’t.
Brit had positioned herself at the end of the line. When I reached her, she pressed an envelope into my hand.
“It’s an invitation to my birthday party,” she told Jared, who took it from me. He opened it and pulled out a pink rectangle. “For Ridgie and your friend Monty.” She giggled. “It’ll be here, after activity time, in a couple weeks. My little sister misses you since she’s in daycare now and you always come during the day. Mom is letting her stay home from school that day.”
I hadn’t ever considered that the siblings would need a visit from the mascot. I nodded my oversize head emphatically and clapped my hands, ending with a thumbs-up so she’d know I’d put it on my calendar.
As I drove to Mountainview Manor after the visit, I thought about all the ideas I wanted to propose for Ridgie. More community service, more social media, more goofy meet-and-greets. Photo ops and fundraisers with the other pro sports mascots in the area. We had the power to make people smile, and I wanted to expand our audience and fanbase. If it wasn’t in the budget, I’d finance it. I’d even pay Jared more than what he earned from the team.
I needed to do everything in my power to put more happiness in the world.
Because the world could be a very sad place.
And if we weren’t laughing, we were crying.
Well, maybe that was just me.