Dr. Maxwell pointed behind her at the IV bag hanging on the pole beside Olivia’s bed. “The drugs we’re giving Olivia right now are drugs that target rapidly dividing cells, such as myeloblasts.”
“And hair,” Olivia said. Her voice was quieter than it had been. I patted her arm, not sure what else to do.
“And hair,” Dr. Maxwell said, and now I was grateful for how matter-of-fact she was about everything. “Because chemotherapy targets all rapidly dividing cells, it unfortunately doesn’t only get cancer cells.”
I’d always wondered why people with cancer lost their hair. “Why can’t they invent drugs that target rapidly dividing sick cells only?” I asked.
“Well, we’re working on it,” Dr. Maxwell said. She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “I promise you. We’re all working on it.”
I couldn’t take Dr. Maxwell’s being so nice. It made me want to cry. Instead I asked, “Will she get sick? I mean, will she throw up?” Livvie made a face. She hated throwing up. Not that anyone likes it, but Livvie really really hated it.
“She may experience nausea and vomiting,” Dr. Maxwell said. “Chemotherapy triggers a chemical response in the brain that makes some people sick to their stomach. But the good news is we have a lot of drugs to make Olivia comfortable. Hopefully she’ll only have very mild side effects.”
“That’s kind of lame good news, Dr. Maxwell,” said Olivia.
“It is,” Dr. Maxwell agreed, and she stroked Olivia’s forehead gently. I’d never seen a doctor do something like that.
“When can she come home?” I asked. If she was home by Friday, I could spend the weekend at her house with her. We could watch distracting movies all day.
Dr. Maxwell’s voice was businesslike. “Three to four weeks.”
Three to four weeks? I tried to keep my voice neutral. “I thought … I thought maybe she’d be home this weekend.”
Dr. Maxwell shook her head. “The chemotherapy itself only lasts for about a week, but it destroys so many blood cells that a person is very vulnerable to infection. We keep her here until her blood counts go up.”
My head spun. How could Livvie be in the hospital for an entire month?
They were both staring at me. I had to say something, but my panic had parched my lips and my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. “Well …” I cleared my throat, hoping to make my voice more normal. “And then … that’s it, right? She’s done?”
Livvie shook her head. “That’s just the first round. Then I have to do it three more times.”
“Three more times?” It came out like a wail, which I immediately regretted.
My response triggered something in Livvie, who suddenly looked distraught. “And I might not be able to go to school between treatments at all.”
“Wait, you’re going to miss months of school? I—” I bit my tongue. Literally. Because here’s what your best friend doesn’t need to hear you say when she’s just found out she has cancer: I can’t deal with that.
“This is a lot to take all at once, I know,” said Dr. Maxwell. She furrowed her forehead in a way that somehow managed to be concerned and not pitying. “And it’s not the last time you’ll be able to ask me questions.” Dr. Maxwell put her hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, but if something comes up during the night, they’ll page me.”
“Okay,” said Olivia. “Thanks, Dr. Maxwell.”
“Yes,” I said, trying to capture an optimistic tone. “Thanks for explaining all of this to me.”
She smiled at me. “Olivia is very lucky to have a friend like you.”
Dr. Maxwell said good-bye to everyone, and when the door had closed behind her, Mrs. Greco clapped her hands together once. “Now I’m sending everyone home. Our girl needs to get her rest.”
I was surprised that Olivia didn’t object, but when I looked at her face, she seemed tired, and I thought maybe she was relieved that everyone was leaving.
My mom came over and gave Olivia a long hug, then touched me lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Calvin and Jake said good-bye. When Calvin was hugging Livvie, she gave me a little wink and a thumbs-up behind his back, and I actually laughed.
I got off the bed and stood over Olivia. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she looked somehow frailer than she had when I’d first walked in, as if she’d gotten smaller over the past thirty minutes.
Not wanting her to read my thoughts, I bent down and hugged her. She squeezed me back. There was nothing frail about her hug, and the strength in her arms made me feel better.
“This is going to be okay,” I whispered into her shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.” She gave a tiny squeak, and I could tell from the way her body shook that she was crying. It was hard to believe that just a minute ago she’d given me the thumbs-up about Calvin Taylor’s hugging her.
Remembering how my getting upset earlier had made her get upset, I forced myself not to cry as I pulled away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, ’kay?”
“Thanks, Zoe,” she said. She wiped the tears off her cheeks, and no new ones fell. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Liv.”
The whole way home, my mom talked. She talked about how Mrs. Greco was going to arrange for Olivia to Skype her classes. She talked about how the doctors felt there was every reason to be optimistic. She talked about how Olivia was getting the best medical treatment there was. She told me she’d called my dad, who was on his way home. Every once in a while, she turned to me and patted me on the knee or stroked my hair.
“You okay, honey?” she asked about twenty times.
“I’m … yeah. I’m okay,” I said each time. I couldn’t find the words to describe the tight feeling that had disappeared for a little while when I was with Olivia but had come back again now that we were in the car. Months. She was going to be out of school for months. She had to go through round after round of chemotherapy. My mind danced from one detail to another, skittishly skimming the surface of the situation. I would picture Dr. Maxwell’s glasses, then the dark circles under Olivia’s eyes. I felt Olivia’s shoulders shaking as I hugged her. I lowered my window all the way, hoping the chilly night air would focus my thoughts, but it did nothing except make my face cold.
Since I’d gotten my permit, every time we got in the car I begged my mom to let me drive, but even if we hadn’t been driving in Manhattan (where out-of-state residents can’t drive until they’re eighteen), I was way too distracted to even contemplate operating a motor vehicle. I kept thinking about how on the way to school I’d been pissed because on B days after lunch I have history, then physics, and then math. And I’d thought, I hope Livvie’s in school, because if she’s not, this day is going to suck even worse than it will if she’s not in school, which is a lot.
If you’d asked me on my walk that morning to list ten things I was worried about, I would have started with a pop quiz in history, because I’d only kind of done the reading. If you’d asked me to come up with ten more things, chances are global warming might have made it onto the list. And if you’d asked me to list another ten, I might have added something about bioterrorism, because sometimes when it was late at night and I couldn’t sleep, I worried about how my parents and I would get out of New Jersey if there were a terrorist attack.
But no matter how many multiples of ten you’d added, I just don’t think I’m worried that Olivia has cancer would