Bonechiller by Graham McNamee Page B

tumor.
    “Always wanted a garden,” Mom joked when we got her home, her head wrapped in a turban of bandages. “Just not one growing out of my head.”
    Even under that torture she could still joke. She was so brave. And I was a coward.
    It got so I was scared to come home from school, because of what I might find. But I was scared not to rush home too, in case she needed me.
    Sometimes I’d look at her and see a stranger looking back. She’d forget my name. Her brain would short-circuit, and she’d swear and scream these horrible things at me—words I’d never heard her use before. We were losing her. And she was losing herself.
    It felt like it took forever, but really the cancer was quick. It came out of nowhere and ripped her away from us.
    I tell Ash everything. I can’t quit till she hears it all.
    Finally, when there’s nothing left, I stop walking. The pavement underfoot has given way to gravel. We’ve gone from one end of Barrie to the other, with me talking nonstop.
    “Sorry,” I say. “For someone who hates to talk about it, I can’t seem to shut up.”
    I’m not even feeling the wind, but Ash is hunched against the cold, rubbing her gloved hands together. For the first time since I’ve known her, she’s speechless. Can’t blame her.
    Then she throws her arm over my shoulder and pulls me in close. “Come here and give me some heat.”
    We turn and head back into town.
    We grab some pizza, and Ash does the talking now. No heartbreak or emotional trauma. Just blunt-force trauma. Boxing injuries and broken bones, stitches and scars.
    She describes the different grades of concussions you can get, from first to third.
    “Now a third-grade concussion, that’s some serious brain scrambling,” she says. “I got one of those from a wicked uppercut to the chin. So they tell me, anyway. ’Cause that shot knocked a couple days out of my memory banks.”
    I wouldn’t mind a little amnesia.
    After the pizza, we stroll through the mall, deafened by Christmas carols. I give Dad a call. He wanted to know how Howie’s doing.
    Then we make our way back to the hospital.
    Before he finally gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep, me and Howie decided we had to tell somebody what was going on. What we saw, what happened to us. But who? Not the cops, no way. We’d end up in the psych ward. So I said let’s try our stories out on some friendlies first. Pike and Ash. See how they take it.
    As we jump slush puddles crossing the street to the hospital, Ash tells me what it’s like trying to breathe with a broken rib.
    “Is there any part of you that hasn’t been broken or cut or dislocated?” I ask.
    “My nose is still in one piece. And all my good bits are still intact. Show you some time.”
    Before I can think of a comeback, she pushes through the hospital doors. I’m left stumbling after her. Even when she’s not knocking me out, she leaves me punch-drunk.
    We catch the elevator up to the third floor and run into Howie’s mom in the hallway. She looks tired.
    “Hi, guys. I’m just on my way out for a cigarette break. Howie woke up a little while ago. He’s getting some color back. Don’t wear him out.”
    “We won’t,” Ash says.
    Howie’s lights are on, and he’s sitting up in bed with a food tray in his lap.
    “Hey, Howie,” Ash says. “Back from the dead?”
    “Halfway back.” He gives her a weak smile.
    Pike’s slouched in his chair, blinking bloodshot eyes at us.
    “Thawed out yet?” Ash grabs another chair and drags it over by the bed. “You look like crap. And so does that meal. What’s the brown stuff?”
    Howie pokes at it with a plastic fork, like it might poke him back. “It’s either mud or gravy. I’m guessing mud.”
    “Here.” I toss him the Kit Kat bar I picked up for our little sugar junkie.
    His eyes show a glimmer of life. “Real food. Pike, can you flush this stuff? The smell’s making me nauseous.”
    Pike takes the tray and digs in. “Mmmm.