Chapter 7: I Told Them You Died

I woke up with a tube taped under my nose and a fever that made the ceiling tilt.

A monitor beeped beside my head.

My chest burned on the left side, under a thick square of gauze.

Mom sat in the chair by the bed with her coat still on.

She had been awake all night, and it showed.

"Don't talk," she said. "You've got an infection. They kept you in the ICU."

I swallowed.

"Port," I said.

"They took it out and put in a new one. Four hours in surgery."

"Your blood pressure dropped twice."

"Dale gave blood for you at midnight, and they wouldn't take it, so he sat in the hall and cried."

I almost laughed, and it hurt.

The door opened, and my surgeon came in with her tablet.

She was the same woman who had cut into my hip last week.

She looked at the monitor, then at me.

"Annie, I'm going to say this again, because you've stopped hearing it."

"Your scans are clean. The margins are clear. You are in remission."

"What you're feeling is recovery, and tonight's infection came from a torn line, not from the cancer."

"You are not dying."

I closed my eyes.

I had heard it on Friday, and I had not let myself believe it.

Now it sat in my chest next to the burn.

Eight years.

I was twenty-nine, and I was going to live.

The surgeon touched my ankle and left.

Mom waited until the door shut.

Then she leaned forward and took my hand in both of hers.

"Annie, I have to tell you something, and I need you not to be angry."

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