Page 84 of Threads That Bind Us

“Okay, I changed my mind,” I say, twisting my hand and watching the light reflect in the little angles of the stones. “I love engagement rings.”

“You’re sure?”

“Totallysure.”

Ana doesn’t really look like she believes Dr. Mya. Or she’s afraid to. But Dr. Mya is undeterred.

“Your biopsy came back negative for all evidence of cancer.” They grab my sister by her shoulders and squeeze, looking her directly in the eyes. “But yes, Banana. You are cancer free.”

The relief I feel is indescribable. I don’t want to cry, but I feel like every bit of guilt and fear that has been holding me up for the last six months has been released. I’d give anything for her to never have gone through this, but it’sover. My muscles feel unraveled, and if Charlie didn’t have his arm around me, holding me up, I’m not sure if I’d still be standing.

The more Dr. Mya talks, the more Ana seems to realize that this is real. Her hard expression melts inch by inch, her careful, neutral frown slowly morphing into a smile. She’d walked into this office like she was ready for her doctor to have lied, prepared to hear that the radiation therapy didn’t work, that she was one of the miniscule number of people who had worse outcomes. She had held her head high, not holding my hand. Wanting to face this on her own.

But maybe without thinking, she reaches backwards as she listens to Dr. Mya. Charlie keeps his arm around my waist as I reach forward and cling to Ana’s hand.

When Dr. Mya leads us out of their office, Ana’s still holding back a little. Her smile’s still dimmed, her shoulders tense, arms wrapped around herself a little too tight. But as soon as the door closes, she turns to me and Charlie, tears welling in her eyes.

“Permission to say fuck?” she asks, her voice wobbling.

I choke out a laugh, feeling like I’m breathing for the first time since we walked into the hospital. Maybe since we came here for the first time, months and months ago.

“Permissiongranted.”

Her tears fall as she throws her arms around me. It’s not the first time I’ve felt like Ana was the thing holding me together.

“Thank fucking god, right?”

“Couldn't have said it better myself, kid,” I say.

It really is over. There’s a tiny pit of fear in the bottom of my stomach that it’s too good to be true, that we can’t trust this news, but I try to battle it down. Ana is safe. Healthy and happy and safe.

“Perfect score on your SATs and a perfect score on your scans. What are we going to do with you?” Charlie asks, ruffling her hair.

She shakes him off, but wraps one arm around his middle and hugs him, too.

“I did not get a perfect SAT score,” she grumbles, latching on to my hand as we make our way to the elevator bank.

“A 1520 is nothing to downplay,” Charlie argues as we all ignore the creepy kid’s voice. “Carnegie’s going to be begging for you to accept their offer.”

Her cheeks turn red as she tells us about Gray’s scores and application requirements and deadlines, and I’m so fucking happy. She deserves this. She deserves good SAT scores, and summer college visits, and a distinct absence of cancer. She deserves all the good things coming to her. We both do.

Should have known it couldn’t last forever.

Because as we exit the elevator on the ground floor, a vaguely familiar voice rises from the front desk. My stomach’s already tying itself in a knot when I look toward the commotion. Where a redheaded woman in a sundress and an oversized hat is arguing with the security staff.

“Is that…” Ana asks, and I grip her hand and push her behind me.

Charlie’s already at my side, telling Ana we’ll handle it.

“She’s mydaughter, and I have a right to see her if she’sdying,” Isabelle’s sharp voice rises over the muttering of the rest of the patients and visitors as we get closer.

I steel myself, ready for whatever nightmare my mother always brings.

“What are you doing here, mom?” I ask, keeping Ana squarely behind me. She must not want to see her, either, because she’s not making her presence known.

“Guinevere, thank goodness. Tell these people I’m Morgana’s mother,” she sighs, dragging her manicured nails through her hair.

I hate that I picked that habit up from her. Pressing my nails into my skin, too.