Page 99 of Remember Us This Way

Hope has been blowing up my phone all morning, wondering where I am and if I’m alright, and so far, I haven’t had the energy to respond, and it makes me feel like a cold-hearted bitch. But as soon as we’re out of here and I’m back home, I’m sure I’ll be feeling up to it. Right now, the fear of the unknown has my complete, undivided attention.

I’ve told Hope all about my past with leukemia and spoken about it openly, something I never really did with Tarni. Sure, she knows about it, but it was mentioned almost as an afterthought and then quickly shrugged off as though it didn’t matter. Hope though, she asks questions, wonders about that time in my life, wants to know how it all went down, and she makes me feel normal for still feeling the need to cry about it despite being cleared over ten years ago.

The nerves from sitting in this very office are eating me alive, and my knee bounces. I avoided Noah’s call this morning, knowing if he heard the sound of my voice or the tremble of fear within it, he would have jumped straight back in his car, leaving training behind. So, I settled for a quick text, letting him know I was running late and that I’d call him after school, making it two people I’ve let down today.

I’m not that person who hides things. I don’t lie to my friends, and I sure as hell don’t avoid Noah’s calls, especially when I’m in a constant state of missing him. But they will understand. They have to.

Dr. Sanchez’s office door opens, and as I look back over my shoulder, Mom places a steadying hand over mine, trying to help calm me.

Dr. Sanchez walks in, and a wide smile immediately spreads across her face. “Oh my, Zoey James,” she says fondly. “You seem to grow another whole foot every time I see you.”

Despite my nerves, a genuine smile pulls across my face, and we all stand up. Mom goes in first, giving Dr. Sanchez a warm hug before making the usual small talk. How have you been? It’s wonderful to see you again.

When the doctor walks around her desk and takes a seat, she’s looking at me like I’m a personal achievement of hers. “You must be seventeen now, is that right?” she asks, dropping down into her desk chair and flipping open my file.

“Yes, that’s right,” I say, watching as she scans over my paperwork, her brows furrowing. “We’re coming up to the ten-year anniversary of when you declared me cancer-free.”

“Indeed we are,” she says, a strange note in her tone. “However, according to my paperwork, I’m not scheduled to see you for another two months.” Her head snaps up, her honey-brown eyes scanning over my face in a new light. “What’s going on, Zoey?”

My gaze drops away in defeat. “I’ve been having symptoms,” I tell her as Mom reaches for my hand again.

“What kind of symptoms?” she pushes.

“I’ve been lethargic, having dizzy spells, and fainting,” I tell her. “No energy and tired all the time.”

“Okay,” she says, her gaze dropping back to my file as she digs a little deeper. “I see you’ve been keeping up with all of your scheduled tests. When was your last one?”

“Last December,” Mom supplies.

Dr. Sanchez nods before plucking papers from the back of my file and studying them closely, and I can only assume these are a copy of my latest results, though we were told everything was good, no cause for alarm. “Alright, so everything looks as it should on these results, but since you aren’t feeling well, I’m happy to bring forward your scheduled test,” she tells me. “Though I’m sure you’ve done your homework and are aware that a relapse after ten years of remission is quite rare, it’s not unheard of.”

I nod. I spent the whole night reading all about it.

“When did you start noticing these symptoms?” she asks.

I give her the whole rundown, the same way I’d done with Mom and Dad this morning, and she takes in every little detail like a sponge.

“Right, okay,” she says. “So, these symptoms could be signs of a number of different things. I think we need to do a complete blood count, just so we can narrow this down a little. In the meantime, we’ll get started on your bone marrow aspiration. How does that sound?”

“Terrifying,” I tell her honestly.

“I know, but let’s get some results back before we start fretting. This could be a simple case of anemia, or it could be something a little more serious.”

Mom nods, listening to everything the doctor has to say before spouting a million questions I would never have thought to ask, but I suppose this is what happens when you’ve already been through this once before.

They chat for a few minutes, and Mom is already asking about plans of action, but Dr. Sanchez is reluctant to go into too much detail before we get my results.

“Alright,” Dr. Sanchez finally says. “Let’s get you in my exam room and we’ll do a thorough check-up, draw some blood, and get moving on your bone marrow aspiration.”

With that, we all stand, and as Dad pulls me into his side, holding me tight, we make our way into Dr. Sanchez’s exam room, hoping like hell that our lives aren’t about to crumble into a million irreparable pieces.

40

Noah

She’s acting weird.

I first noticed it last weekend after she hurt her hip. She said she slipped and fell into the bathroom sink, but I know the exact way her voice shifts when she lies and the way she glances away, unable to meet my stare. But I let it pass, figuring she’ll tell me when she is ready.

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