it was the best year of my life. But life can be cruel, and it showed me just how unforgiving it could be. To celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday, we were going to go out to a bar.
I was applying my favorite shade of lipstick when my cell rang. There was a bounce to my step, but it was the last I ever had. On the other end of the line was Georgia’s mom—she was sobbing, inconsolable, her words a blubbering mess. She informed me that Georgia had passed in her sleep. She had succumbed to the disease we were certain we would beat.
The funeral was beautiful. Georgia would have loved it. It was colorful and vivacious, just like Georgia. But my best friend would be none of those things ever again. After Georgia’s death, I lost all hope. It felt as if my heart was ripped from my chest. I stopped doing all the things Georgia and I used to do as the memories were too painful to bear alone.
If the strongest person I knew couldn’t beat this, then how could I?
Dr. Carter said a new trial drug had just become available, and that I was the perfect candidate. It was stronger than the previous drugs, and because of my positive test results, he thought I had a good shot at making my inoperable tumor operable. The previous drugs had reduced the size of my tumor, but it was still inoperable. He had hope. But me, I didn’t. Once upon a time, I had hope, but all it did was give me a false sense of normalcy. So I stopped taking any drugs and accepted that I would eventually end up in a hole in the ground, just like the only person I ever loved, and who had loved me back in return.
Wiping away the torrent of tears, I force myself to return to the now. Since Georgia’s death, it’s been too easy to slip back into the darkness.
“S-sorry, Zoe, I didn’t m-mean to scare y-you.” I stand slowly, the world constantly spinning. When I meet her wide, concerned eyes, my stomach drops.
“It’s completely okay. Please don’t apologize. Are you all right?”
“I’ll be okay.” Zoe doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t press.
“Can I help you unpack?”
“I can unpack later. I’d love to take a look around.”
“I’d be happy to show you.”
“Sure, thank you.”
A grin lights up her face. “Would you mind if I go to my room first? I need to grab a sweater.”
“Of course, no problem.” She’s out the door, promising to be back in five minutes.
Deciding to go barefoot, I sit on the edge of the bed and untie my laces. As I kick off my shoes, a flesh of red from inside my backpack catches my eye. I know without looking what it is.
This red bandana I packed with care belonged to Georgia.
She used to wear it around her pale head with pride. Deciding to honor my friend, I reach for it, fingering the soft material between my fingers. “I miss you,” I whisper, wishing she was here with me.
Suppressing my sadness, I wobble as I walk over to the wall mirror. I hate that my limp comes and goes because I know that I can be strong again. But there’s no point.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirror as I comb my fingers through my chestnut hair. It’s grown healthy since I stopped taking the drugs. It’s just past my shoulders. I tie the bandana in my hair, styling it like a headband, just how Georgia did. The red draws out the green in my eyes. It also emphasizes the dark circles. I look and feel so much older than twenty-five.
Looking around my room, I appreciate Strawberry Fields for what it is—it’s a holiday camp, a summer vacation for the dying. The membership requirements—you must be dying to get in—pun completely intentional.
And that’s why I’m here.
The doctors have told me it’s only a matter of time before I succumb to my illness, just like Georgia. But until that time comes, I want to help people. I’ve volunteered for three months because after reading the brochure, no matter how much time I have left, I want to make a difference. I can relate to what these kids are going through because all I ever wanted was for someone to listen to me and to be treated normally. I intend to be here for these kids and let them know they’re not alone. I want them