Five Feet Apart: Chapters 3–6

“You contract that and you can kiss the possibility of new lungs good-bye,” she adds, eyeing me.

Irritations usually go away with a little bit of Fucidin, but my application yesterday didn't seem to make a difference.

Almost a year of hard work finally coming together. An app for all chronic illnesses, complete with med charts, schedules, and dosage information.

I notice that he’s still in his pajamas, his graying hair jutting out in every direction, a lumpy pillow propped up behind him.

I nod, swallowing to confirm that the rawness in my throat has started to subside.

The smell of eggs and bacon wafts off the plate, a giant chocolate milk shake sitting on the tray next to it.

I glance at her baby bump, shaking my head as a surprising swell of contempt fills my chest.

I know this is where I’m supposed to laugh, but I seem to have used up my pretending quota for the day, and it’s not even nine thirty yet.

Poe gives me a challenging look, like I’m not getting away with that subject change, but he can’t resist holding up his plate to show me the identical meal—except his eggs are beautifully embellished with chives, parsley, and...Wait.
Freaking truffles!

Poe gives me a challenging look, like I’m not getting away with that subject change, but he can’t resist holding up his plate to show me the identical meal—except his eggs are beautifully embellished with chives, parsley, and...Wait.
Freaking truffles!

“You broke up with Michael?” I ask, exasperated.

His vital monitors start beeping on the other side of the laptop as he struggles for breath.

The song in the background ends and Stella begins clapping manically, turning the camera to show her sister, Abby, smiling at her from the stage.

Her adrenaline gives her face a twinge of color, her cheeks a bright, exhilarated pink.

Not even an hour later, my first post-all-nighter nap was interrupted by a blaring alarm down the hall, and then my second attempt was foiled later by my mom and Dr. Hamid busting into my room for an evening visit.

Bored, I stifle a yawn and stare out at the empty courtyard, the cold winds and the forecast of snow driving everyone inside.

The only thing I remember from most of my hospital trips is white. White hospital sheets, white walls, white lab coats, all running together. But I do remember the mountains and mountains of snow that fell while I was there, the same white, only beautiful, less sterile.

“What I’ve got is B. cepacia, making this conversation null and void.”

“Thank you, Dr. Hamid,” my mom says, shaking her hand eagerly, like she just managed to sign a contract for her most burdensome client.

She flicks the business card onto the counter before tossing a hundred on top of it like this is some fancy restaurant and I’m a table that needs to be fawned over.

I need air that’s not filled with antiseptic.

Then I bend down to put my wallet in between the door and the jamb so it doesn’t slam shut behind me.

It feels good, though, to be outside. To not be trapped inside monochrome walls.

We made the most of every minute until my mom inevitably showed up and dragged me back inside.

Some are even strung across the trees, creating this magical pathway you could walk under, head back, mouth agape.

Somewhere in the distance, the roof alarm goes off as Will opens the door to get back inside, distant but blaring as it echoes down the stairwell, reverberating in the hallway.

I gaze out the window, watching the snow fall in the fluorescent glow of the courtyard lights, the hallway finally dead silent after Will’s hour-long reprimanding.

I smile and swipe right to accept the call, almost getting blinded when the bright sunshine of whatever pristine beach they’re sitting on bursts through the screen of my iPad.

She’s wearing the polka-dot one-piece I helped her pick out, but she clearly doesn’t have time for pleasantries.

I try to move on to completing the dosage table for diabetes in my spreadsheet of the most prevalent chronic conditions, sorting through varying ages and weights and medications.

She doesn’t budge, though, and crosses her arms in defiance, refusing to leave.

“Is this what an aneurysm looks like? Should I call Julie?” She shoves the paper back at me, her face like thunder.

“What?” she says, shaking her head adamantly. “No.”

We grab chairs out of our rooms and sit in our respective doorways.

I remember doing a mandatory chorus performance back in third grade and coughing right in the middle of our...rendition of “This Little Light of Mine.”