in the opposite hand. As I slip into oblivion and try to situate myself comfortably on the hospital bed, I inadvertently drape my hand across my body, pressing the card to my chest, not entirely surprised when the accelerated cadence of my heart pulses through the paper.
When I wake up three hours later, the card is right where I left it, hovering just over my heart.
CHAPTER FOUR
I push the bristles across the tile floor, but the strands of hair catch in the grooves and make them impossible to sweep up. There’s a loud echo of deep voices and overly high-pitched giggles that swallows up the music blasting through Dad’s surround sound system. It adds to the headache already vibrating through my head.
“Don’t worry about that, Maggie,” Eric nearly yells, motioning his free hand over the ground between us. His other hand steadily clutches the electric razor as it glides across his scalp, and his eyes follow its movement in the mirror Sadie has situated in front of him. “I’ll take care of that.”
“No, it’s fine. I got it.”
Pushing the broom around the room is about all I can do, and using the wooden pole to steady myself actually works quite well for balance. It’s better than the crutches that have become a permanent fashion accessory these past three weeks. Collin, my physical therapist, told me that I need to start stretching myself again in order to rebuild the strength in my quad, so little by little, I’m heeding his advice. Sweeping is doable—painful, but doable.
“How do I look?” Eric swivels on his barstool to face the audience of his fellow football teammates at my back.
“Awesome. Me next.” One of the guys drops down into the open chair and tosses his baseball cap onto the kitchen counter. Sadie hands him the mirror and scrapes the razor across his blond sideburns, which I’m sure he worked very hard to even grow. Mikey tried to grow his for months when he was fifteen, then decided the peach-fuzz made him look like he was trying too hard, which was true. By the time he turned eighteen, he had finally matured into the man he’d pretended to be as an adolescent, thick sideburns and all.
“I’m after Tony.”
Eight of Mikey’s friends are already donning hairless scalps, all in tribute to my little brother’s newly shaved head—a necessary result from his tumor removal sixteen days ago. Things went well. After twelve hours of surgery, the doctor announced that it was a “success”—that they were able to extract the majority of it. So I was surprised when he held firmly to that original statement, even after the results came back indicating the tumor was malignant. That my little brother has brain cancer. It’s odd to put the words “success” and “cancer” in the same sentence. They just don’t fit together.
“That’s their jeep!” A girl with tight blonde curls races toward the bay window, her hair bouncing along her delicate shoulders hidden under her boyfriend’s letterman jacket. “Mikey’s home!”
Bodies rush past me, the loud thudding of linemen, running backs, and tight ends racing through the entry and out onto the driveway. I steady myself with one hand on the counter and the other on the broom, ignoring the throbbing ache that flashes through my leg. Gritting my teeth, I reach for the two metal crutches leaning against the wall and tuck them under my arms.
Mikey’s already in the foyer by the time I round the corner, seated in a familiar, blue hospital wheelchair. His head is bandaged, his eyes are wet, and the smile he wears draws my heart up into my mouth.
“Sorry I missed the party,” he jokes, taking inventory of our thrashed house. There are red Solo cups lining the tables, jackets and sweatshirts strewn about the room, and piles of hair littering the kitchen floor. It’s a total disaster zone. “Looks like I missed out on all the fun.”
“The fun is just beginning!” Josh boasts. His head is half-shaved, while the other portion still has his red curls clinging to their roots. “I’ll let you do the honors of finishing this up.” He thrusts the razor Mikey’s direction.
“Nice.” Mikey smiles again. My chest burns and my eyebrows feel painfully tight. I shake my head, hoping the anguish on my face isn’t as evident as it feels. “Gimme a sec, though. I seriously gotta pee.”
Eric takes the handles of Mikey’s wheelchair and swivels him around toward the dimly-lit hallway. “I’ll help you man. We’ll be right back.”