chapter two

Kristina stands up. Then she sits down again. Then she stands and wrings her hands in front of herself and then sits. I don’t know what to say or do, so I push the bag of cookies I’ve been scarfing toward her. I watch in disbelief as she reaches into the bag and shoves an entire Oreo in her mouth.

“Cancer?” I say, not wanting to believe her. She’s too healthy to be sick. I wonder for a moment if I’ve caused it with my mean thoughts about her. I stare at her, wanting to take back every bad thought I’ve had. “How can you have cancer?”

She doesn’t look at me but slowly chews the whole cookie she’s shoved in her mouth.

Mom steps around the corner then, dragging my dad by the arm. He’s wearing his professor uniform. Cardigan sweater and a big pouf of gray hair standing north, south, east, and west on his head. Glasses that always slip down to the bridge of his nose are perched there now. The only thing that stops him from being a cliché is his physique. He walks a lot of golf courses.

The look on Dad’s face mirrors my own. Bewilderment. I can tell he wants to slip away, back to his work, away from the sloppiness of real life. He sits down on the other side of me and reaches over inside the bag, his fingers rooting around for a cookie. Mom slaps his hand away though, so he pulls it out of the bag, empty.

We all wait for her to speak.

I stare at Kristina; Dad watches Mom. Kristina pretends to find the table fascinating but her face is pale, her lips pressed together. Angry. I want to cry. I swallow but it hurts as bad as the time I had strep throat. I focus on my chewed nails instead, studying them as if they have a cure for cancer hidden somewhere inside them.

My heart thuds. Cancer? I don’t want to believe it, but my mom’s mouth starts moving and I’m too upset to even put my hands over my ears to block out what she’s going to say.

“The doctor confirmed that Kristina has osteosarcoma.”

My dad looks like he wants to leave the room and hide in his office. “What?”

“Cancer,” my mom whispers. “Bone cancer. She’ll need a biopsy to see how…um, to see how she is. It’s in the knee. They’re testing to see if it has spread.”

Spread? That does not sound good. I can’t make myself look at my sister.

“That’s impossible,” my dad says. “You said it wasn’t serious, that I didn’t have to come to the appointment. You said there was no way it was cancer.”

I look up at him. Horror is etched into his familiar features. Blame. Guilt. I watch emotions cross his mind and his face, just like my own. We exchange a look and then I drop my eyes to the table, afraid he can see inside me. Or that everyone knows that as the bitter person in the family, I should be the one who gets sick. Not sunny, happy, and healthy Kristina.

“I was wrong.” Mom’s trying hard to keep in control but her lip quivers and her eyes are watery. “I didn’t think you needed to come. I thought it was just a sports injury. I didn’t think it could really be cancer. I thought it would be okay.”

Dad glances at Kristina and back at Mom. “You thought?” He shakes his head. His bangs fall across his forehead and he angrily brushes them back. “Kristina has cancer?”

“Surprise,” Kristina says.

I stare at Kristina, my mouth open. Her cheeks are blotchy and her lips tight, as if she’s seriously ticked off. She’s still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, but for the first time in my life when I study her features and wonder how they work so perfectly on her, I don’t feel envy.

“When the doctor mentioned the possibility of osteosarcoma, we didn’t want to focus on it,” Mom says.

“Oops,” Kristina says.

My insides tighten. I struggle to breathe properly. I want to yell that no one told me a thing. That I’ve been in the dark, jealous of my sister’s perfect life.

“I told you we were having X-rays, Dan. And that we had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Turner today.”

“But you said they would rule out cancer.” His hand slams down on the table and he jumps to his feet. Mom and I wince but Kristina doesn’t flinch. “We need a second opinion. Krissie is too healthy to be sick. You said sports injury.”

“I hoped.” Mom lowers her eyes.

The power of her denial astounds me.

“Well, I guess you thought wrong, huh? Looks like I won the prize. The big one,” says Kristina.

“Oh, honey,” Dad says. He slowly sits back down in his chair. His face turns a worrisome color of pink. “I want another opinion,” he repeats.

“Dan, I got the best doctor money can buy. There is no one else to confer with. The doctors will handle this, she will be fine.”

“Fine?” My dad hides his face under his hands.

“I know.” Mom glares at Dad. “We know. We’re not pointing fingers here. We’re all upset.” She wipes a tear from underneath her eye. “I just didn’t think it could be possible…there’s no cancer on my side of the family.”

Dad looks around like a lab rat trapped in a corner, searching for an escape. “Well, don’t look at me. My dad died from good old-fashioned alcoholism and my mom is physically healthy despite her Alzheimer’s.”

Kristina jumps up. “It’s not my fault,” she yells, as if she’s been caught cheating on a test or something.

Mom frowns and pulls on Kristina’s arm so she’s sitting with us at the table again. “It’s no one’s fault. Anyhow, you’re going to be fine. Fine. We’re going to get you through this.” She gets up and walks to the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of lemonade she probably squeezed herself.

I’m unable to say anything. Dad crumples further down in his chair and drops his head into his hands again. His shoulders shake and he wheezes and gasps, trying to control himself.

I stare at him. He’s crying. Mom told us he sat through his own father’s funeral without even blinking but now he’s crying. Mom is getting ice from the freezer and filling up glasses. Dad covers his eyes with his big paw-like hands. Mom keeps talking.

“At least we can afford this,” Mom is saying in her most pragmatic voice. As if we’re discussing signing Kristina up for a spin class. “Thank God for your grandfather’s money,” she says to Kristina.

My mouth hangs open. She’s talking about money. Now?

Mom shakes her head. “I can’t even imagine how awful if would be if we didn’t have money.” She picks up a glass of lemonade and plunks it on the table in front of Kristina and then plops another glass in front of Dad. I shake my head frantically back and forth. Lemonade? Seriously?

“Mom, I don’t want lemonade,” Kristina echoes as her face squishes up in distaste, her eyes water, and her forehead wrinkles.

Mom takes a glass for herself and sits back at the table and sips it properly.

Kristina starts to laugh. Dad uncovers his hands. We all stare at her.

“Maybe we should arrange for a psychologist to help you cope,” Mom says.

Kristina ignores her and waves her hand at me. “Come on, Tess. Let’s go for a ride in my car.”

I stare at her, confused. “What?”

“You can’t go running off.” Mom takes a sip of her drink and runs her hands over the smooth oak tabletop. The custom-made kitchen table she designed. She hates mass-produced furniture. She loves to be unique.

“Why not? I just want to go for a drive. I’m not dead yet. I’ve made it this far with cancer eating my body; I think I can manage a car ride. It’s not like I’m going to collapse behind the wheel or anything.” Kristina juts out her hip, a stubborn tilt to her head.

Mom presses her lips tight. “I think you should stay home.”

“I don’t want to. I want to go for a drive. As you pointed out, we can afford the gas.”

Mom’s eyes open wider. Kristina doesn’t speak to her that way. I do. But not Kristina.

Mom makes a face at me, trying to send me a subliminal message of some sort, but I don’t even try to pick up her attempt at mental telepathy. I’m not exactly thrilled about running off with my emotionally distraught sister, but Kristina’s not in the right emotional state to be driving off alone. Even I know that. And taking off with her is better than being stuck in the house with my parents.

Kristina starts walking toward the door. I shrug and then follow her. I can hear my dad crying quietly behind us. I’d never thought I’d put crying and Dad in the same sentence. My mom’s eyes bore into my back.

“Look after your sister,” she calls, but I’m not even sure which one of us she’s talking to.