Page 67 of Wild Devotion
“You don’t look sick,” Abby blurted, her face crinkling with confusion.
“Abigail,” Melanie whispered, mortified.
“It’s okay,” I assured them. “I’m not sick.”
“But I thought you had the same thing as me?” Abby looked at Renee, the confusion deepening.
“Caleb had the same type of cancer you have, Abby,” Renee explained gently. “But he had treatments. Like the one you’ll be having.”
“It made you better?” Abby’s small hands clutched the blanket in her lap. Melanie covered them with her own.
I took one step closer. One step toward this kid’s fear and my own. “Yes. It did.”
“The doctor said I’m going to lose my hair again. It’s already started falling out, and I was worried it might not grow back as nice as before.” Her eyes traveled to my head. “But you’ve got lots of hair, so I guess it can grow back okay?”
“It’ll take a while.” I smiled. “But it grows back.”
She sighed, studying me with an intensity that felt twice her age. “You’ve got really nice hair. How do you get it so shiny?”
Renee and I both laughed, but poor Melanie looked like she was fighting tears.
“What do you say we give your mom a break?” I suggested. “Melanie, would it be okay if I hung out with Abby for a bit? You could go grab a coffee or something.”
Melanie hesitated, but Renee offered to walk with her to the cafeteria. With some gentle convincing and a promise to keep it brief, she agreed.
The door closed behind them, and the room went quiet.
“Is this weird?” Abby asked.
I took Melanie’s vacated chair beside the bed. “Is what weird?”
“Hanging out in a hospital. With me. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.”
“What would you rather be doing?”
“School, maybe.” She thought about it, her fingers fidgeting with the blanket. “At least then I’d get to see my friends. Maybe play soccer.”
“You like soccer? That’s a solid sport. Lots of running, though. I was never great at that part.”
“What do you like?”
I told her about skateboarding. The freedom of it. The pain of it. The way it had given me something to focus on when everything else felt out of control. She was only twelve, but I didn’t talk down to her.
For once, I didn’t pretend cancer was a thing I’d left behind.
We talked about what it meant to be a survivor. How getting better didn’t mean going back to who you were before. How scary it was to build a new version of yourself, and how grateful I was to have the chance.
“Does it hurt?” The fear crept back into her voice.
“The transplant? Not too much.” I made myself go back to the memory. The one I usually kept locked away. “The doctors will make sure you get the right meds. They’re good at that.”
She didn’t look convinced. “What about after?”
“It might.” My throat tightened. “But I can honestly tell you, Abby, it gets easier. Every single day.”
Her smile returned, still wide and youthful, but I could see her wearing down. The fatigue that lived underneath the bravery, visible only if you knew what to look for.
I knew it all too fucking well.
