Page 43 of Sawyer

“Who told you that?”

She glances at her phone. “The internet.”

“Stay off the internet,” I say. “And it’s definitely not a death sentence. Not at all. Your mom’s got good doctors. They’re taking real good care of her. She’s going to beat it.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“You’re right. I can’t.” I take a spoonful of ice cream. “But any of us could die tomorrow, Jen. I could be hit by a bus. You could be eaten by a bear. Your dad could let off one of those monster farts tonight and kill us all in our sleep!”

She giggles in spite of herself, and after so long, it’s music to my ears.

“Your mom’s fighting,” I say gently. “And I promise you—really and truly—I think she’s going to win.”

I’m not just blowing sunshine up my cousin’s ass. My aunt’s cancer was found before it got to her uterus. It was only present in her cervix and in the upper third of her vagina. The entire area of the cancer was less than four centimeters, and they successfully removed all of it. Her chance of beating it and living for another twenty years is high. Add to this prognosis that she’s relatively young and otherwise healthy. We have every reason to stay hopeful.

“Will you do me a favor?” asks Jenny.

“Anything.”

“If it gets worse, and my dad tells you and tells you not to tell me, tell me anyway.” She scans my face, her eyes resting onmine. “I’ll already know something’s wrong, and if no one tells me, it’s ten times scarier. So, just tell me, okay?”

This is a tough promise to make. It means that even if Uncle Alan forbids me to tell the girls, I’ll have already promised Jenny that I would. But my hope for my aunt’s recovery is so solid, I feel comfortable making the promise. I think there’s a very slim chance of my aunt’s cancer worsening. From what I understand, it’s already improving.

“I promise,” I say, reaching my hand, palm up, across the table.

Jenny takes it and squeezes it. “Sorry I’ve been such a bitch.”

I squeeze her hand back, then release it. “You’re almost a teenager. It comes with the territory.”

She flips her phone back over, glances at it, then places it back on the table.

“Can I ask you something else?”

I take another bite of ice cream. “Why stop now?”

“So…how do you know when someone’s in love with you?” she asks me.

“Wow! You’ve been doing some heavy-duty thinking lately, huh?”

She shrugs. “I guess.”

“Does this have anything to do with Travis Clearwater?”

“Maybe,” she says, misery thick in her voice.

I glance at her phone. “Did he say something to you? Something that upset you?”

“Nope. He hasn’t texted me all weekend.”

“Oh.”

“I’m thinking that maybe he’s not in love with me anymore.”

“Oh, muffin. I bet that hurts.”

She shrugs again, and I have the feeling that she’s shrugging because if she speaks, she might cry.

“Twelve is awfully young to be in love,” I say, though, as I do, I flashback to a memory of twelve-year-old Sawyer offering me a fistful of wildflowers one day on the walk home from camp. I’d tripped over my flip-flops and skinned my knee. He’d picked me the bouquet in an effort to get me to stop crying.

---