One Tiny Lie: A Novel (7 page)

I cock my head to the side as I regard him. “You knew they were
crazy
?”

“You didn’t?” He shakes his head at me, and then a sad smile transforms his face. “I learned a lot about you over the summer, Livie. Between the wild-goose chases and our talks. That’s what this summer was about. Information gathering.” He pauses to scratch his cheek. “You are one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met, Livie. You respond to human heartache so acutely. It’s like you absorb others’ pain. Despite your extreme shyness, you will do just about anything not to fail. You don’t like to fail tests and you most certainly don’t like to fail people. Especially those you care about and respect.” His hand goes to his heart and he bows his head. “I’m touched, truly.”

I dip my head as I blush.

“I also learned that while you are accepting and open-minded of others and their faults, you are exceptionally hard on yourself. I think doing something wrong would make you physically ill.” Dr. Stayner steeples his fingers in front of his face for a moment. “But my biggest discovery? The reason that I wanted to talk to you in person today . . .” He sighs. “You seem to be governed by a life plan. It’s ingrained in your daily routines; it’s almost like a religion for you. It has dictated the choices you have made so far and those you plan to make in the future. You don’t question it, you don’t test it. You just do it.” Running his finger along the rim of his cup, he goes on to say with an even, slow voice, “I think your parents helped create that plan and you are holding on to it for dear life as a way of holding on to them.” He pauses, and then his voice grows soft. “And I think it’s stifling your growth as your own person.”

I blink repeatedly, trying to process how this conversation turned so quickly from talk of mechanical bulls to my stifled growth. “What are you saying?” I ask, my voice a touch strained. Is this a diagnosis? Is Dr. Stayner diagnosing me?

“I’m saying, Livie . . .” He pauses, his mouth open to say something, a pensive expression on his face. “I’m saying that it’s time for you to find out who you really are.”

I can do nothing but stare at the man in front of me. Who I am? What is he talking about? I know who I am! I’m Livie Cleary, daughter of Miles and Jane Cleary. Mature and responsible daughter, driven student, loving sister, future doctor, kind and considerate human. “But, I . . .” I struggle to find the words. “I know who I am and what I want, Dr. Stayner. That’s never been in question.”

“And don’t you think that’s a little strange, Livie? That you decided at the age of nine that you wanted to go into pediatrics, specializing in oncology, and you have never even considered another life? Do you know what I wanted to be when I was nine?” He pauses for only a second. “Spider-Man!”

“So, I had more realistic goals. There’s nothing wrong with that,” I snap.

“And did you ever wonder why you avoided boys like the plague up until now?”

“I know exactly why. Because I’m shy and because—”

“Boys suck the brains out of girls . . .”

“And make them crazy.” I finish my father’s warning with a sad smile. Dad started warning me of that around the time that Kacey’s hormones started raging. He said my grades would suffer if I fell into the same trap.

“I think your reaction to the opposite sex is less about your shyness and more a subconscious mindset to avoid straying from this life plan you believe you must follow.” Subconscious mindset? Unease slips through my stomach like a snake, sending shivers up my spine. Is he saying that Kacey is right? That I’m . . . sexually repressed?

I lean forward and let my chin rest in the palms of my hand, my elbows set against my knees, as I think. How could Dr. Stayner find fault in who I’ve become? If anything, he should be pleased. He said it himself! I turned out so well. I know my parents would be proud. No, there’s nothing wrong with who I am.

“I think you’re wrong,” I say quietly, staring at the ground. “I think you’re looking for things to diagnose me with. There’s nothing wrong with me or what I’m doing.” Sitting up straight, I take in the campus surrounding us—this beautiful Princeton campus that I’ve worked hard to make sure I attend—and I feel anger surge. “I’m a straight-A student going to Princeton, for Christ’s sake!” I’m borderline yelling now and I don’t care. “Why the hell would you show up at seven a.m. on a Saturday after I just started college to tell me my entire life is . . . what . . .” I swallow the sudden lump in my throat.

Dr. Stayner takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes yet again. He remains completely calm, as if he expected this reaction. He told me once that he’s used to being yelled at, so not to ever feel guilty about it. I sure as hell don’t think I’ll be feeling guilty after the bomb he just dropped on me. “Because I wanted you to be aware, Livie. Fully conscious and aware. This doesn’t mean you should stop doing what you’re doing.” He shifts slightly so that he’s facing me. “You’re a smart girl, Livie, and you’re an adult now. You’re going to be meeting people and dating. Working hard to achieve your goals. And, I hope, going out and having some fun. I just want to make sure you’re making your choices and setting your goals for
you
and not to please others.” Sliding back against the bench, he adds, “Who knows? Maybe Princeton and med school are what you really want. Maybe the man who makes you happy for the rest of your life is also the one who your parents would have handpicked for you. But maybe you’ll find out that’s not the right path for you. Either way, I want you to make your choices with your eyes wide open rather than on autopilot.”

I don’t know what to say to all of this so I stay silent, staring at nothing, confusion and doubt settling heavily on my shoulders.

“Life has a funny way of creating its own tests. It throws curve balls that make you do and think and feel things that are in direct conflict with what you had planned and don’t allow you to operate in terms of black and white.” He gives my knee a fatherly pat. “I want you to know that you can call me anytime you want to talk, Livie. Anytime at all. No matter how trivial or silly you think it is. If you want to talk about school, or guys. Complain about your sister”—he says that one with a crooked smile. “Anything at all. And I do hope you call me. Regularly. When you’re ready to talk. Right now I assume you want to pour that coffee over my head.” Standing up with a big stretch, he adds, “And all conversations will be confidential.”

“You mean you won’t be enlisting my sister to do your dirty work anymore?”

Rubbing his chin, he smiles as he murmurs, “What a good little minion she has become.”

“I guess you considered the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing optional?”

He peers down at me with an arched brow. “You were never my patient, were you?”

“And now I am?”

He smiles, holding out his hand to guide me up. “Let’s just keep it loose. Call me when you want to talk.”

“I can’t pay.”

“I don’t expect a dime from you, Livie.” Almost as an afterthought, he slides in, “Just your firstborn child.”

Normally I’d give him an eye roll at the very least for a joke like that. But not now. I’m not in the mood for any jokes. The weight that I’ve worn on my back for three months as I wondered what Dr. Stayner might discover about me, which lifted just twenty minutes ago, has now crashed back down onto my back, crippling me under its heft.

I’m sure he’s wrong.

But what if he isn’t?

CHAPTER SIX

If versus When

The almost two-hour commute from the Princeton campus to the Children’s Hospital in Manhattan gives me plenty of time to stew over Dr. Stayner’s surprise visit and outrageous diagnosis. By the time I get to the front desk to sign in for my first volunteer session, I’m more rattled than I was to begin with. I’m also convinced that he might be losing his magic touch as the brilliant psychiatrist. Either that or he’s insane and no one has caught on yet. Maybe both.

“Have you ever worked with children in a hospital before, Livie?” Nurse Gale asks as I follow her swaying hips down the long corridor.

“No, I haven’t,” I answer with a smile. I’ve spent enough time in hospitals, though, that the sounds of beeping machines and the mixture of medicine and bleach filling my nostrils instantly brings me back seven years to the days of forced smiles, and Kacey with tubes and bandages and a hollow stare.

“Well, I hear your reference glows in the dark,” she jokes as we round the corner and follow the signs toward the playroom, my quick tour of the hospital coming to an end. “You’re a natural magnet for children.”

My eyes roll before I can stop myself. Not at the nurse—at Stayner. Back in June, when I mentioned to him that I had applied for a volunteer position at this hospital but hadn’t heard back from them, he casually mentioned that he had a few friends there. The next week, I received a phone call for a brief interview, quickly followed by an offer for a position on Saturday afternoons in the Child Life program—playing with young patients. I jumped at the opportunity. Of course I saw Dr. Stayner’s fingerprints all over it but it only made me appreciate him more, knowing that when I apply for med school, having this volunteer position on my application will show that I’ve been committed to pediatrics for years. It had seemed like he was helping me achieve my goals at the time. Ironic now, given that he basically thinks I’m a preprogrammed drone who shouldn’t be here in the first place.

I push all of that away, though, because I know what I want and I know that I belong here. So I nod politely at Nurse Gale and say, “I think they’re a magnet for me too.”

She stops at a door and turns to give me a pensive smile. “Well, you just be careful about what kind of attachments you make, you hear, sweetie?” With that, we step into a bright and colorful playroom with a handful of children and other volunteers. My shoulders immediately relax as I hear the infectious laughter. It’s like a shot of Valium through my veins.

I know I’ve never been quite normal. As a child, I was always the one rushing to the teacher when someone needed a Band-Aid, or stepping in between a squabble to mediate. As a teenager, I looked forward to my volunteer days at the YMCA, or the pool, or the library. Really, anywhere that involved these tiny humans. There’s just something so uncomplicated about small children that I gravitate toward. Maybe it’s their infectious giggles or their shy hugs. Maybe it’s their brutal honesty. Maybe it’s the way they cling to me when they’re scared or hurt. All I know is that I want to help them. All of them.

“Livie, this is Diane,” Nurse Gale says, introducing me to a stocky, middle-aged woman with short, curly brown hair and kind eyes. “She’s a part of our Child Life program. She’s supervising the room today.”

With a wink, Diane gives me a quick five-minute tour of the bright playroom and explains what her role is. When she’s done, she points out two boys sitting side by side with their backs to me, cross-legged, in front of a pile of LEGOs. They’re the same size, except the one on the right is leaner. He’s also completely bald, whereas the boy on the left has short, sandy brown hair.

“These two are yours today. Eric? Derek? This is Miss Livie.”

Identical faces turn to regard me. “Twins!” I exclaim with a grin. “Let me guess . . . you’re Derek.” I point to the one on the left, the one with the full head of hair.

He gives me a wide grin displaying missing front teeth, instantly reminding me of Storm’s daughter, Mia. “I’m Eric.”

I roll my eyes dramatically. “I’m never going to get this right.” Why do parents feel the need to name their identical twins rhyming names? I don’t say that out loud, though. I only smile.

“Derek’s the bald one. He’s easy to remember,” Eric confirms with a shrug. “But soon I’m going to be bald too. Then you’re screwed.”

“Eric,” Diane warns with an arched brow.

“Sorry, Miss Diane.” He diverts his attention to a Hot Wheels car next to him, a sheepish look on his face. And my chest tightens a notch.
Both
of them?

“Are you here to play with us?” Derek asks quietly.

I nod. “Is that all right?”

His little face suddenly brightens with a smile and I see that he’s also missing his two front teeth.

Shifting my focus to his brother, who’s now smashing two cars together, I ask, “And you, Eric? Are you okay with that?”

Eric looks over his shoulder at me and says with another shrug, “Sure. I guess.” But I catch the tiny smile as he turns back, and I know without a doubt that he’s the imp of the two.

“Okay, good. First I’m just going to go over a few things with Miss Diane, okay?”

Their heads bob in unison and they go back to their Legos.

With my eyes still on them, I take a few steps back and drop my voice. “Cancer?”

“Leukemia.”

“Both of them? What are the odds of that?”

She just shakes her head and sighs. “I know.”

“How—” I swallow, unsure how to finish that sentence, a lump forming in my throat. “How bad?”

Diane crosses her arms over her chest. “Their chances are great. Well . . .” Her eyes flicker to Derek briefly. “Their chances are good,” she corrects herself. Offering me a pat on my forearm, she says, “You’re going to see a lot while you’re here, Livie. Try not to lose sleep over it. Best you just focus on the here and now and leave the rest to medicine and prayer.”

I have to remind myself to smooth my furrowed brow as I walk over to where the boys are. Sitting down cross-legged on the floor opposite them, I clap my hands. “Who wants to show me how to build one of these cool houses?” Neither, apparently, because that’s when I get hit with a barrage of questions—one after another, the two of them tag teaming like they’ve rehearsed it for hours.

“We’re almost six years old. How old are you?” Eric asks.

“Eighteen.”

“Do you have parents?” Derek’s voice is so soft next to his brother’s that I barely hear him.

I simply smile and nod, not elaborating.

“Why did you come here?”

“To learn how to build with LEGOs, of course.”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A doctor. For kids like you.”

“Huh.” Eric pushes his little car around. “I think I want to be a werewolf. But . . . I’m not sure yet though. Do you believe in werewolves?”

“Hmm . . .” I twist my mouth as if considering it. “Only the friendly kind.”

“Huh.” He seems to consider that. “Or maybe I’ll be a race car driver.” He gives an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Well, lucky for you that you have lots of time to decide that, right?” I feel the little kick my subconscious gives my stomach, warning me to get away from this line of conversation.

Thankfully, Derek is already moving toward a new direction. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, not yet. But I’m working on it.”

His little bald brows bunch together. “How do you work on a boyfriend?”

“Well . . .” My hand crosses over my mouth to keep from bursting out with laughter. With a quick glance over to my left, I see that Diane’s lips are pressed tightly together as she helps another patient paint. She’s within earshot and she’s trying hard not to laugh. “I met someone who I like and I think he might like me too,” I answer honestly.

Derek’s little head bobs up and down slowly as he mouths, “Oh.” He looks ready to ask another question, but his brother cuts him off.

“Have you ever kissed a boy?”

“Uh . . .” I stall for just a second, not expecting that question. “I don’t kiss and tell. That’s a good rule. You should remember it,” I say, and I fight against the blush.

“Oh, I will. Dad says one day I’ll want to kiss girls, but I’m only five so it’s okay not to want to now.”

“He’s right, you will. You both will.” I look at them both in turn with a wink.

“Unless we die,” Eric says matter-of-factly.

I pull my legs to my chest and hug them, the position somehow comforting against the sudden tightness inside. I’ve been around a lot of kids and I’ve heard a lot of things. I’ve even had several conversations about death and heaven. But, unlike that idle child chatter sparked by curiosity, Eric’s words send a chill through my body. Because they’re true. These two little boys in front of me may never kiss a girl, or become race car drivers, or learn that werewolves—friendly or otherwise—don’t exist. They may miss out on all that life has to offer them because for some cruel reason, children are not immortal.

“You’re pressing your lips together tight, like Mom does,” Eric says, snapping two Lego blocks together. “She always does that when we talk about dying.”

I’m not surprised. God, what that poor woman must face, watching not one but both of her little boys get pumped with rounds of chemicals, not knowing if it will be enough, wondering what the next few weeks, months, or years will bring!

A painful lump to my throat swells just thinking about it. But I can’t think about it, I remind myself. I’m here to make them
not
think about it. “How about we make a rule,” I begin slowly, swallowing. “No talk of dying during our playtime. Only talk about what you’re going to do when your treatment is over and you go home, okay?”

Eric frowns. “But what if—”

“Nope!” I shake my head. “There is no ‘what if.’ Got it? How about we don’t plan on dying. We plan on living. Deal?”

They look at each other and then Eric says, “Can I plan on not kissing a girl?”

The heavy cloud in the room suddenly evaporates as I burst into laughter, on the verge of tears for so many reasons. “You can plan whatever you want as long as it involves you growing old and wrinkly. Shake on it.”

Their eyes light up as they slip their little hands into my proffered one in turn, like we’re making a secret pact. One that I think I need as much as they do.

I help the twins build a battleship, an aircraft carrier, and a torture chamber—Eric’s idea—out of LEGOs. They chatter back and forth, bickering occasionally, exactly as I would expect twin brothers to act. It’s so normal that I almost forget that both of these boys are in a hospital with cancer. Almost. But that unease in my chest lingers, and no amount of giggles seems to dissolve it.

I’m surprised when four hours has passed so quickly and a nurse pokes her head in to tell the boys it’s time for them to tidy up and get back to their room. “Are you coming back again?” Eric asks, his eyes wide with the question.

“Well, I was thinking about coming back next Saturday, if that’s all right with you.”

He gives an indifferent shrug, but after a moment I catch the sidelong glance and the grin.

“Okay then,” I stand, ruffling his hair. “See you next weekend, Eric.” Turning to Derek, who’s offering me a shy smile, I now notice the redness around his eyes and his slouched posture. Four hours in here has tired him. “See you next weekend, Derek, right?”

“Yes, Miss Livie.”

With a small wave to Diane, I slowly make my way out to the hallway where a woman with dirty-blond hair pulled into a messy ponytail stands.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m Connie—their mother.” Her eyes—shadowed with darkness from lack of sleep—flicker toward the boys, who are arguing over which box a specific piece of LEGO should go in. “I was watching you with them. I . . .” She clears her throat. “I don’t think I’ve seen them smile so much in weeks. Thank you.”

“I’m Livie.” I offer her my hand. Hers is rough and strong. I notice that she’s in a waitress uniform, so I suspect she just got off of work. I’d imagine she’s working a lot these days with the medical bills she’s facing. That’s probably why her skin looks drawn and the most she can offer me is a sad, worn smile. The thought makes my heart ache for her, but I push it aside. “Your little men are lovely.”

I see the infamous pursed lips as she stares through the window at them again, seemingly lost in thought. “They’re still babies to me,” she whispers, and I watch her blink back the sudden glossiness in her eyes. “Will you excuse me?” I watch her as she walks into the room, replacing the pinched face with a beaming grin full of hope and happiness.

“So?” I hear Nurse Gale ask from behind me. “How was your first day?”

“Great,” I murmur absently, watching the boys as they each grab one of their mother’s outstretched arms. She’s a small woman but she manages both of them at once, squeezing them tight. Even when Eric starts wiggling out of her grasp, she doesn’t relent, holding on for another moment, her lids pressed together firmly. Squeezing them like she never wants to let them go. And I can’t help but wonder if every hug feels like one of the last hugs she’ll have.

What if it is? What if I show up one weekend to find one of them . . . gone? It’s not as if I’ve come in blind, not expecting that. But now there are little faces and voices attached to that possibility. I suppose I’ll cry. I’ll have to accept it. And I’ll move on. But if I do this, if I become a doctor, how many more times will I stand in a window and watch parents cling to their children? How many more times will I make deals that fall through? Will I ever become immune to this sick feeling in my stomach?

Standing here with all of these thoughts swirling through my head, my eyes suddenly widen in shock. I realize that this is the first time in nine years that I’ve ever considered becoming a doctor as an “if” versus a “when.”