Free Breathless by Lurlene McDaniel Page B

remission get me? Will it return my lost leg and restore my diving ability?
    “Mom, listen to me, I don’t want to go.”
    Dad waves me off. “We totally checked this out, son. This program’s had amazing success.”
    “Like? How much success?”
    They glance at one another.
    “Fifty percent cure rate,” Mom says.
    Doctors never use the term “cure.” It’s “remission,” never “cure,” because no one’s ever cured; you just live waiting and wondering if it’s coming back.
    “Don’t think about percentages,” Dad says. “Think about a treatment that works. It helps to keep a positive attitude.”
    I’ve been through three protocols of tried-and-true drugs and two protocols of new drugs touted as “revolutionary.” For me, nothing has worked.
    “Please don’t make me go.”
    Mom looks frustrated. “This is your best hope.”
    I no longer have hope. “It’s in my bones. That’s a death sentence.” My friend Sally fromchemo died last year. Nothing saved her. There was only her long, painful exit from life.
    “Don’t think that way. We’re holding it at bay.” Mom takes my hand.
    “Won’t this cost a lot of money?” I know our insurance is about maxed out.
    “That’s not your concern.”
    “Where will you get the money?”
    They look surprised, like I’m an idiot and am not supposed to think about such things.
    Mom opens her mouth, but it’s Dad who says, “We have equity in the house and we’re getting another mortgage.”
    “Phil!” Mom interrupts.
    “What? He’s not old enough to hear this? If he’s old enough to ask, we can level with him.”
    “It’s not about the money,” Mom says firmly. “It’s about survival. Every day you live, every breath you take, is worth any price we pay. Every day could bring a scientific breakthrough or a new wonder drug. We love you, Travis. We want you with us!”
    “Then let me die and have me stuffed.”
    Mom goes ballistic. “That’s not one bit funny, mister!”
    I can’t tell her I’ve already made my exit plans. I’m through hanging around dying cell by painful cell. “When are we supposed to go to Switzerland?”
    “In June. We can keep you stable until we leave.”
    May is mine, then. “All right,” I say with a sense of relief. “That’ll be good timing.”

Darla
    F unny how priorities change. Two days ago I was totally focused on getting the lead in the school play It was all I could think about. Then on a rainy afternoon Travis tells me what he’s planning, and now I can’t think about anything else.
    My love is choosing to die. It will be simple, he tells me. As simple as allowing himself to drown in the lake.
    I sob and beg him not to do this thing.
    All he tells me is “Can’t you see it’s better this way?”
    “Better for who? Not me. I don’t want you to die.”
    He wipes my cheeks. “Living isn’t an option anymore. Not this way. If I could have beaten thisthing—” His voice cracks and I hug him tight. He tells me, “This is how I win, baby. This is me taking control. Carpe diem.”
    I can’t get my head around this decision he’s made. I text him that night, asking him to reconsider. I come back the next day and try again to talk him out of it. He won’t budge. I tell him it isn’t fair to ask me to keep this terrible secret. When I tell him this, he looks alarmed. “You have to act normal, like nothing’s wrong.”
    “How can I do that? I feel like I’m going to break down and cry every minute.”
    He takes my shoulders and pulls me close. “You just have to, Darla. Don’t betray me.”
    I go for tryouts in our auditorium with about fifty other kids—mostly seniors. We still don’t know what play Mrs. Paulson’s chosen; we just know that we’ll read parts today and she’ll post roles in two days. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. I should feel my competitive spirit rise. Instead I feel as if the world’s gone dark. I can’t stop thinking about Travis.
    Mrs. Paulson walks