buy time ... until a cure . ' .."
Poppy couldn't stand it. She could feel her mother's pain.
Literally. It carne in palpable waves that seemed to echo through her bloodstream, making her dizzy.
It's that bloo d, s he thought. It's doing something to me-changing me.
Even as she thought it, she went to her mother. She wanted to hug her, and she needed help standing up.
"Mom, I'm not scar ed," she said, muffled against her mother's shoulder. "I can't explain, but I'm not scared. And I don't want you to be unhappy over me."
Her mother just held on fiercely, as if Death might try to snatch Poppy out of her arms that minute. She was crying.
Poppy cried, too. Real tears, because even if she wasn't going to die truly, she was going to lose so much. Her old life, her family, everything familiar. It felt good to cry over it; it was something she needed to do.
But when it was done, she tried again.
"The one thing I don't want is for you to be unhappy or worry,"
she said, and looked up at her mother. "So could you just try not to? For my sake?"
Oh, God, I'm coming off like Beth in Little Women, she thought. Saint Poppy. And the truth is, if I were really dying, I'd go kicking and screaming all the way.
Still, she'd managed to comfort her mother, who drew back looking tearstained but quietly proud. "You're really something, Poppet," was all she said, but her lips trembled.
Saint Poppy looked away, horribly embarrasseduntil another wave of dizziness saved her. She allowed her mother to help her back into bed.
And it was then that she finally found a way to pose the question she needed to ask.
"Mom," she said slowly, "what if there was a cure for me somewhere-like in some other country or something-and I could go there and get better, but they wouldn't ever let me come back? I mean, you'd know I was okay, but you wouldn't ever be able to see me again." She looked at her mother intently. "Would you want me to do it?"
Her mother answered instantly. "Sweetheart, I'd want you cured if you had to go to the moon. As long as you were happy." She had to pause a mo ment, th en resumed steadily.
"But, honey, there isn't such a place. I wish there were."
"I know." Poppy patted her arm gently. "I was just asking. I love you, Mom."
Later that morning Dr. Franklin and Dr. Loftus came by.
Facing them wasn't as horrible as Poppy expected, but she felt like a hypocrite when they marveled over her "wonderful attitude." They talked about quality time, and the fact that no two cases of cancer were the same, and about people they'd known who'd beaten the percentages. Saint Poppy squirmed inside, but she listened and nodded-until they began to talk about more tests.
"We'd like to do an angiogram and a laparotomy," Dr. Loftus said. "Now an angiogram is-"
"Tubes stuck in my veins?" Poppy said before she could help herself.
Everyone looked startled. Then Dr. Loftus gave a rueful smile.
"Sounds like you've been reading up on it."
"No, I just-I guess I remember it from somewhere," Poppy said. She knew where she was getting the images-from Dr.
Loftus's head. And she probably should cover her tracks instead of talking anymore, but she was too distressed. "And a laparotomy's an operation, right?"
Dr. Loftus and Dr. Franklin exchanged glances. "An exploratory operation, yes," Dr. Franklin said.
"But I don't need those tests, do I? I mean, you already know what I've got. And the tests hurt."
"Poppy," her mother said gently. But Dr. Loftus was answering slowly.
"Well, sometimes we need the tests to confirm a diagnosis. But in your case ... no, Poppy. We don't really need them. We're already sure."
"Then I don't see why I have to have them," Poppy said simply.
"I'd rather go home."
The doctors looked at each. other, then at Poppy's mother.
Then, without even trying to be subtle about it, the three adults went out into the corridor to deliberate.
When they came back, Poppy knew she'd won.
"You can go home, Poppy," Dr. Franklin said quietly. "At least until you develop any further symptoms. The nurse will tell your mother what to look out for."
The first thing Poppy did was call James. He answered on the first ring and said, "How do you feel?"
"Dizzy. But pretty good," Poppy said, whispering because her mother was outside talking to a nurse. "I'm coming home."
"I'll come over this afternoon," James said. "Call me when you think you'll have an hour or so alone. And, Poppy ... don't tell Phil I'm coming."
"Why not?"
"I'll explain later."
When she actually got home, it was strange. Cliff and Phil were there. Everybody was unusually nice to her, while still trying to pretend that nothing unusual was going on. (Poppy had heard the nurse tell her mother that it was good to try and maintain a normal routine.) It's like my birthday, Poppy thought dazedly. Like some terribly important birthday and graduation rolled into one. Every few minutes the doorbell would ring as another flower arrangement arrived. Poppy's bedroom looked like a garden.
She felt badly for Phil. He looked so stricken-and so brave.
She wanted to comfort him the way she'd comforted her mother-but how?
"Come here," she ordered, opting for direct action. And when he obeyed, she hugged him tightly.
"You'll beat this thing," he whispered. "I know you will.
Nobody's ever had as much will to live as you do. And nobody's ever, ever been as stubborn."
It was then that Poppy realized just how terribly she was going to miss him.
When she let go, she felt light-headed.
"Maybe you'd better lie down," Cliff said gently. And Poppy's mother helped her to the bedroom.
"Does Dad know?" she asked as her mother moved around the bedroom, straightening things.
"I tried to get hold of him yesterday, but the people at the station said he'd moved to somewhere in Vermont. They don't know where."
Poppy nodded. It sounded like her dad always on the move.
He was a DJ-when he wasn't being an artist or a stage magician. He'd split up with her mom because he wasn't very good at being any of those things-or at least not good enough to get paid much.