Brisé by Leigh Ann Lunsford, Chelsea Kuhel Page B
Authors: Leigh Ann Lunsford, Chelsea Kuhel
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still have nobody to tell about my day, laugh with, and my arms are empty without her in them. My heart is a big void of endless space without her filling it up. I want to sneak over to her house and get a pillow so I can smell her. The day I found her on the floor of her parents’ room, rambling about her mom’s scent confused me; I get it now. One little thing can bring back so many memories. Console you and crush you simultaneously.
I open the door on the new home I’m showing today, and I turn on the lights, hoping that it will sell. I could use the commission to hold me over for the next few months and not stress with so many showings while I take night classes. I am going for my MBA. I need to complete that goal and then leaving these memories behind. I can’t stand to be next door to the house we were beginning to create a home in. I hear a knock and head to the front door, ready to sell this house. I am about knocked on my ass when I greet the happy family. A woman, blonde, is beaming at the outside of the house, her husband is next to her, holding a beautiful baby girl. It feels like a knife to the gut when I think this could have been us. Happy family, raising our baby in the town we grew up in. The smiles, the laughter, and the memories they will fill this house with could be mine . . . with Phoebe. No, it couldn’t because if I was holding our baby, I wouldn’t be holding Phoebe, and that’s the bottom line. I could survive anything, any loss, any obstacle as long as I get to hold Phoebe at the end of the day. I may not be able to hold her, but I know she’s alive, and as long as her heart is beating, so is mine.
Chapter 14
Phoebe
Three weeks of hell down. One more to go. Four weeks total of intensive therapy, and I’m drained. I’m lonely, and I’m sick. The side effects of this round are more intense, or maybe I just don’t remember the last time. That’s bullshit, I remember everything. Every feeling, every moment of sickness. The fear. It’s worse this time because I’m alone. I don’t have my mom holding my hair and wiping my face as I vomit. I don’t have my dad to carry me when I am too weak to lift my head, but most of all I don’t have Luke. I don’t have him to make me laugh, I don’t have him to distract me, I don’t have him to hold my hand and reassure me, but most of all I don’t have him here to fill my heart with his beautiful eyes and quick smile.
I came to New York, heartbroken and shattered. I at least had resolved to beat the leukemia. My resolve is wavering, with one blow after another. The first question I was asked upon checking in to the hospital was about freezing my eggs. I immediately declined. Then day three of chemotherapy was over, and I wanted to change my mind. I know a lot of decisions I made up to this point were rash and out of pain, and hopefully one day I would have my entire life ahead of me . . . I’m only seventeen. When I told them I had changed my mind, I was informed it was too late.
“Ms. Wells, we have already completed three rounds of chemo. The drug is already in your system, and the eggs we harvest more than likely wouldn’t be viable at this time.” What had I done? I lost one baby already and then I threw away a chance at others. “We don’t know that these treatments will cause infertility.” Right, they don’t know it won’t, either. I was given statistics; I was young, I was strong, more than likely I would be able to conceive on my own, but if not I had plenty of options available to me. Fuck them and their options. I want what I’ve lost, I want it all back . . . including my hair. I know, it may seem petty, in the grand scheme of things, but it’s substantial to me. How many ballerinas do you know that are bald? We all have long hair; we pull it up into a tight bun to look classical. It’s the way it is, and no we shouldn’t be defined by our hair, our body stature, or anything else that shallow . . . but we are.
I
I open the door on the new home I’m showing today, and I turn on the lights, hoping that it will sell. I could use the commission to hold me over for the next few months and not stress with so many showings while I take night classes. I am going for my MBA. I need to complete that goal and then leaving these memories behind. I can’t stand to be next door to the house we were beginning to create a home in. I hear a knock and head to the front door, ready to sell this house. I am about knocked on my ass when I greet the happy family. A woman, blonde, is beaming at the outside of the house, her husband is next to her, holding a beautiful baby girl. It feels like a knife to the gut when I think this could have been us. Happy family, raising our baby in the town we grew up in. The smiles, the laughter, and the memories they will fill this house with could be mine . . . with Phoebe. No, it couldn’t because if I was holding our baby, I wouldn’t be holding Phoebe, and that’s the bottom line. I could survive anything, any loss, any obstacle as long as I get to hold Phoebe at the end of the day. I may not be able to hold her, but I know she’s alive, and as long as her heart is beating, so is mine.
Chapter 14
Phoebe
Three weeks of hell down. One more to go. Four weeks total of intensive therapy, and I’m drained. I’m lonely, and I’m sick. The side effects of this round are more intense, or maybe I just don’t remember the last time. That’s bullshit, I remember everything. Every feeling, every moment of sickness. The fear. It’s worse this time because I’m alone. I don’t have my mom holding my hair and wiping my face as I vomit. I don’t have my dad to carry me when I am too weak to lift my head, but most of all I don’t have Luke. I don’t have him to make me laugh, I don’t have him to distract me, I don’t have him to hold my hand and reassure me, but most of all I don’t have him here to fill my heart with his beautiful eyes and quick smile.
I came to New York, heartbroken and shattered. I at least had resolved to beat the leukemia. My resolve is wavering, with one blow after another. The first question I was asked upon checking in to the hospital was about freezing my eggs. I immediately declined. Then day three of chemotherapy was over, and I wanted to change my mind. I know a lot of decisions I made up to this point were rash and out of pain, and hopefully one day I would have my entire life ahead of me . . . I’m only seventeen. When I told them I had changed my mind, I was informed it was too late.
“Ms. Wells, we have already completed three rounds of chemo. The drug is already in your system, and the eggs we harvest more than likely wouldn’t be viable at this time.” What had I done? I lost one baby already and then I threw away a chance at others. “We don’t know that these treatments will cause infertility.” Right, they don’t know it won’t, either. I was given statistics; I was young, I was strong, more than likely I would be able to conceive on my own, but if not I had plenty of options available to me. Fuck them and their options. I want what I’ve lost, I want it all back . . . including my hair. I know, it may seem petty, in the grand scheme of things, but it’s substantial to me. How many ballerinas do you know that are bald? We all have long hair; we pull it up into a tight bun to look classical. It’s the way it is, and no we shouldn’t be defined by our hair, our body stature, or anything else that shallow . . . but we are.
I
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