+ T H I R T E E N +

     "And that brings us back to square one—chemotherapeutic hospital days."

     I stare over at my mother, who's gripping my hand, threading her fingers through mine, as I try and consider what chemotherapeutic hospital days meant.

     I hadn't been in a hospital in a while. After my chemotherapist had sat both my mother and I down to explain that my time was coming, and it was time to pursue whatever bucket list I'd conjured.

     "And what does a chemotherapeutic hospital day mean?"

     "It means no more school, and Julianne—when I say this, I mean that it's time to come back to the hospital and try to do whatever we can."

     His words hit me like a truck, and my mother's figure visibly begins to tremble. "Y-You said we had time—you said she had at least another two years left. What happened?"

     Dr. Peters leaned onto his desk, giving both my mother and I a sympathetic sort of look. "I'm so sorry, Linda, but this is the best and safest option that I personally feel will keep Julianne around longer. So please, at least consider it."

     My mother places a hand over her mouth, as she releases small gasps of anxiety.

     But me—I can't move.

     I can see Melanie through the glass windows of Dr. Peters' office. But she's smiling. Her, my mother and I, were hoping for good news. We'd all been hoping that I was getting better—but that wasn't the case.

     "I'll speak with my husband." Dr. Peters doesn't speak any further, only glancing my way, and halting once noticing my tense stature.

"Julianne, are you alright?" A lone tear falls down my cheek, as I turn the other way. My mother's fingers tighten around mine, while she whispers about how everything'll be just fine.

Dr. Peters stands, rounding over to his office door, "I'll give you both some privacy. Would you like me to invite Melanie in?"

I can see my mother ready to answer, but I beat her to it. "No, please—don't."

He leaves without another word, gently closing the wooden door. I have questions, but I know I can't ask any of them with my mother around. But was it normal to feel this way?

     Was it normal for me to feel prone to disaster when it comes my illness. Of course, I wasn't expecting to instantly be better, but I was hoping for some kind of better outcome.

     I'd been up to date when it came to medication—I didn't drink, I didn't do drugs—other than my proscribed ones; so why the hell wasn't I getting any better?

     Another look at Melanie through the glass windows of Dr. Peters' office, and I was absolutely terrified to let her down again. As her twin, I hated the fact one day soon, she'll be an only child, while being used to practically sharing her soul.

     I know she's scared. Just as I am now.

     But was my bad news really worth putting a frown on her face? I wasn't planning to lie to her, just withholding how ill I really am.

     My mother's cellphone ringing rearranges my thoughts, as I read the caller ID—Hal, it reads. My mother answers it with a deranged sigh of defeat. "We're still in Peters' office, we'll talk once I get home—no, Hal, I will not put her on—why? Because—fine!"

She shoves her cell over into my direct line of vision. "Here, talk."

I carefully hold it up to my ear, listening to the sounds of cars turning on and off in the background of my father's workplace. "H-Hey, dad."

He doesn't answer for a moment, but I can hear a door closing on the other end, followed by a slight sniffle. I cringe and tense when I realize my mother must have texted him once Dr. Peters has broken it down for us. "Hey, Sweetheart. I just want you to know that everything'll be fine, okay? Never forget that. Promise me you won't forget."

"I promise."