Cliff said, "But chemotherapy ..."
"We might try a combination of radiation and chemotherapy with something called 5-fluorouracil. We've had some results with that. But I won't mislead you. At best it may improve her survival time by a few weeks. At this point, we're looking at palliative measures-ways to reduce her pain and improve the quality of the time she has left. Do you understand?"
Poppy could hear choking sobs from her mother, but she couldn't seem to move. She felt as if she w ere listening to some play on the radio. As if it had nothing to do with her.
Dr. Franklin said, "There are some research protocols right here in southern California. They're experimenting with immunotherapy and cryogenic surgery. Again, we're talking about palliation rather than a cure-"
"Damn it!" Cliff's voice was explosive. "You're talking about a little girl! How did this get to-to Stage Three-without anybody noticing? This kid was dancing all night two days ago."
"Mr. Hilgard, I'm sorry," Dr. Loftus said so softly that Poppy could barely pick up the words. "This kind of cancer is called a silent disease, because there are very few symptoms until it's very far advanced. That's why the survival rate is so low. And I have to tell you that Poppy is only the second teenager I've seen with this kind of tumor. Dr. Franklin made an extremely acute diagnosis when he decided to send her in for testing."
"I should have known," Poppy's mother said in a thick voice. "I should have made her come in sooner. I should have-I should have-"
There was a banging sound. Poppy looked around the door, forgetting to be inconspicuous. Her mother was hitting the Formica table over and over. Cliff was trying to stop her.
Poppy reeled back.
Oh, God, I've got to get out of here. I can't see this. I can't look at this.
She turned and walked back down the hall. Her legs moved.
Just like always. Amazing that they still worked.
And everything around her was just like always. The nursing station was still decorated for the Fourth of July. Her suitcase was still on the padded window seat in her room. The hardwood floor was still solid underneath her.
Everything was the same-but how could it be?
How could the walls be still standing? How could the TV be blaring in the next room?
I'm going to die, Poppy thought.
St ran gely enough, she didn't feel frightened. What she felt was vas tly sur prised. And the surprise kept coming, over and over, with every thought being interrupted by those four words.
It's my fault because (I'm going to die) I didn't go to the doctor's sooner.
Cliff said "damn" for me(I'm going to die). I didn't know he liked me enough to swear.
Her mind was racing wildly.
Something in me, she thought. I'm going to die because of something that's inside me, like that alien in the movie. It's in me right now. Right no w.
She put both hands to her stomach, then pulled up her T-shirt to stare at her abdomen. The skin was smooth, unblemished. She didn't feel any pain.
But it's in there and I'm going to die because of it. Die soon. I wonder how soon? I didn't hear them talk about that.
I need James.
Poppy reached for the phone with a feeling that her hand was detached from her body. She dialed, thinking Please be there.
But this time it didn't work. The phone rang and rang. When the answering machine came on, Poppy said, "Call me at the hospital." Then she hung up and stared at the plastic pitcher of ice water by her bedsi de.
He'll get in later, she thought. And then he'll call me. I just have to hang on until then.
Poppy wasn't sure why she thought this, but suddenly it was her goal. To hang on until she could talk to James. She didn't need to think about anything until then; she just had to survive. Once she talked to James, she could figure out what she was supposed to be feeling, what she was supposed to do now.
There wa s a lig ht knock at the door. Startled, Poppy looked up to see her mother and Cliff. For a moment all she could focus on was their faces, which gave her the strange illusion that the faces were floating in midair.
Her mother had red and swollen eyes. Cliff was pale, like a piec e of cr umpled white paper, and his jaw looked stubbly and dark in contrast.
Oh, my God, are they going to tell me? They can't; they can't make me listen to it.
Poppy had the wild impulse to run. She was on the verge of panic.
But her mother said, "Sweetie, some of your friends are here to see you. Phil called them this afternoon to let them know you were in the hospital, and they just arrived."
James, Poppy thought, something springing free in h er c hest.
But James wasn't part of the group that came crowding through the doorway. It was mostly girls from school.
It doesn't matter. He'll call later. I don't have to think now.
As a matter of fact, it was impossible to think with so many visitors in the room. And that was good. It was incredible that Poppy could sit there and talk to them when part of her was farther away than Neptune, but she did talk and that kept her brain turned off.
None of them had any idea that something serious was wrong with her. Not even Phil, who was at his brotherly best, very kind and considerate. They talked about ordinary things, about parties and Rollerblading and music and books. Things from Poppy's old life, which suddenly seemed to have been a hundred years ago.
Cliff talked, too, nicer than he had been since the days when he was courting Poppy's mother.
But finally the visitors left, and Poppy's mother stayed. She touched Poppy every so often with hands that shook slightly. If I didn't know, I'd know, Poppy thought. She isn't acting like Mom at all.
"I think I'll stay here tonight," her mother said. Not quite managing to sound offhand. "The nurse said I can sleep on the window seat; it's really a couch for parents. I'm just trying to decide whether I should run back to the house and get some things."