I haven’t agreed to it. I think it’s an absolutely ridiculous idea. Still, I ask a simple question I know he has the answer to. Cal is always ten steps ahead of the rest of us.
“Where?”
“Elena’s Castle. You’ll work alongside Whitney, the girl who was here with me when you first arrived.”
“You forget I already know her.”
“That’s right.” He chuckles. “I’d forgotten. I’m sure she’ll be happy to have her old mentor back.”
Chapter Three
Whitney
I am the product of a unique childhood. My family and I moved from Idaho to Georgia when I was six. My older sister was sick, and according to all the specialists, her prognosis was bleak enough to be measured in months, not years. My parents wanted her life to be as happy as it could be for as long as she had, and well…there’s no place on earth more happy-inducing than Fairytale Kingdom. As a six-year-old, I thought this was the best decision they could have made. Living next to a theme park!? Genius. But I was six.
The reality of our situation was less than perfect. We squeezed into a crumbling two-bedroom apartment right next door to the children’s hospital. Both were so close to Fairytale Kingdom that we could see the purple spires of Elena’s Castle from Avery’s hospital room. On Fridays, we’d perch at the window and watch the firework show with our faces pressed against the glass.
In some ways, life in Georgia seemed more fun. My parents worked at the park as base-level employees. Their uniforms looked more like Halloween costumes. My mom got to wear a cute little hat, and my dad pretended to smith toy axes. In my head, they’d both won the job jackpot.
On good days, when my parents could take off work and Avery was feeling up to it, we’d all go to Fairytale Kingdom together. The park was always accommodating. Avery would get special treats and toys. The employees always paid her special attention and we’d get front-row seats for the afternoon parade.
In other ways, life in Georgia was just the same as it’d been in Idaho. Avery was still sick, and this was extremely frustrating to me. In my six-year-old mind, Georgia was supposed to heal Avery, as if all she’d been missing before was Southern cooking. Get her more peach cobbler, stat!
The other part of life in Idaho that got dragged with us to Georgia was my role as Avery’s donor. I don’t remember the first time I donated blood or bone marrow to Avery. It was a part of my life as far back as my memory can stretch. Don’t you want to help your sister? Yes. This will hurt, but Avery needs it. Okay. No one ever forced me to help; they didn’t need to. Being her donor made me feel important, and my parents and Avery’s care team were always so appreciative. Those were the few times I felt truly noticed.
Over time, our roles became set in stone. Avery was the patient, and I was the caregiver. I didn’t change her IVs or dole out medication, but every day after school, I’d race to her hospital room with new artwork. Her walls were soon covered. I’d bring her stories of the outside world: what our cafeteria food tasted like, what new shoes Cara Sims wore to school that day. I’d check out books from the library for the two of us to read together. Most importantly, at the most basic level, I made sure to be my most smiling, happy self whenever I was with her because Avery needed happiness.
However, as the years passed and my parents’ focus remained on Avery’s health, I started to slowly see my position as something to resent. I know it’s a terrible thing, but there were times I used to wish I were the sick one. Avery seemed to get so much love and attention, not because she demanded it, but because she needed it. It probably wasn’t even intentional, but the fact is, when one child is sick, everyone else goes on the back burner. It’s the only way for the family unit to survive. I understood that, but my hope was that once Avery got better and left the hospital, life would balance itself out again. We could turn into a normal family.
It didn’t work that way.
Avery did kick cancer’s butt, and eventually she got to come home to cram into the two-bedroom apartment with us. Still, that didn’t mean she was “normal” the