Page 71 of Styx & Stones

When we land and find Mom’s car in the parking lot, I head to the driver’s side and hold my hand out for the keys. “I wanna drive, and I wanna see her.”

“No.”

“Mom.”

“No, Styx. Your dad and I have let you get away with a lot up until this point.”

“I’m eighteen, Mom. You can’t make me do shit anymore.”

“I’m asking you, please? I know you’re worried about Alaska. I am too, but you need to think of your health now.”

I laugh without humor. “Fuck, don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter. None of it matters without her.”

“It matters to me!” Mom screams.

I snap my head up to look at her. Her words are like a bullet to the gut. Tears of pain and frustration spill over her cheeks, ruining her mascara. Guilt worms its way through my chest, and I can’t look at her. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll shatter.

It makes no difference, because saltwater slides down my face anyway.

“It matters to your dad, and if Alaska were in this parking lot right now, she’d tell you it matters. You matter! What happens to you matters.”

“I need to be there. Please, Mom?” I sob. “Please?”

She winces, as if I’m breaking her heart, and nods. “Okay, I’ll take you. But I want you to promise me if it gets too much, you’ll come home.”

“I will. I promise,” I agree, throwing my arms around her. The tender flesh surrounding my port twinges, but I ignore it. If I don’t, she’ll notice, and she won’t take me to the hospital at all.

Stones was so afraid of this surgery, so worried she’d lose herself. I’m worried she’ll lose the way she feels about me. It’s selfish and stupid, I know. I should just be happy if she comes through it alive, and if I have to spend every day for the rest of our lives reminding her of who I am, I’ll do it. But there’s still a selfish part of me that wonderswhat if the piece they take out belongs to us?What if she doesn’t remember our Homecoming, our first kiss, Big Sur, or Pismo? What if they remove all the memories of us singing in my dad’s truck at the top of our lungs, making love in that shitty hotel room, or Disneyland?

What if she’s forgotten us?

My throat constricts and the tears come thick and fast. I don’t even bother to hide them because right now, the girl I love—my brilliant, talented crazy-beautiful girl—is across town in the OR, having her brain dissected. I may never get my Alaska back.

She’s inside that operating room, and she could be flatlining as we speak. God, I hope she doesn’t die.

Don’t die, Stones. Please don’t die.

I think of her body beneath me, her small frame perfect, her wispy strands of hair fanned across the pillow as she looked up at me with both fear and determination in her eyes. I’ll never forgive her, never forgive myself if she dies.

It’s funny. From the second I was diagnosed, I’ve prayed to whatever god or being, to the universe, to fate that I would make it through this illness, and right now, I’d give everything—every breath of air in my lungs, every beat of my heart, and every white blood cell in my body.

I’d offer them up gladly to save her life.