Free Before I Go by Colleen Oakley Page B

forms between my neck and his naked shoulder; even when the sun peeks through our window blinds.

    I WAKE UP in our bed alone, the digital clock announcing 10:37 in big red figures. Groggy and confused—I never sleep past seven—I call out into the still house for Jack.
    I’m surprised when he responds.
    “What are you still doing here?” I yell, sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “You’re late!”
    He appears at our bedroom door. “I’m not going in today.”
    “ What? What about clinic? What about Rocky?”
    “Daisy,” he says, and the ache in his eyes reminds me of Dr. Saunders and everything comes screaming back at me like a freight train.
    “Oh. Right.” And suddenly I wish Dr. Saunders had given me a pamphlet like I got from the dentist the time I was diagnosed with gingivitis: “You Have Lots of Cancer: Here’s What to Do Now.”
    “Well, what are we supposed to do?” I ask Jack. “We can’t just sit around the house. What about school?” Shit. Gender Studies. “I havean exam today. And what about you? You’re about to graduate. You can’t miss clinic.”
    He comes to sit next to me on the bed and puts his hand on my thigh. It feels heavy. He says I should email my professors. He says he’s already called his vet clinic director, Dr. Ling, and that he understood. He says that he’s going to take the rest of the week off while we sort this out. And I wonder if my cancer is something that’s just been placed in the wrong pile at a garage sale.

    THE FIRST THING I see when I walk into the kitchen is the half-empty box of Cheez-Its on the counter. I cringe. I can’t believe I let myself eat those fake, processed crackers. I pick up the box, walk it over to the trash can, and let it drop with a satisfying thud into the plastic liner.
    I open the refrigerator and nearly gasp. All of my bad impulse purchases stare back at me. They lay chaotically on the shelves, like a group of children who have had assigned seating all semester and are suddenly given free rein of the classroom. Wrinkling my nose, I reach behind a six-pack of artificially flavored cherry Jell-O and grab the organic cranberry juice. I shut the fridge door. I’ll reorganize it later.
    As I pour the red liquid into a glass, my eye is drawn to the errant orange Froot Loop under the cabinet. I should get a broom and sweep it up, but I don’t have the energy. Is it the cancer? Would I start feeling symptoms so quickly? No, that’s ridiculous. And to prove it to myself, I retrieve the broom from the hall closet, take it back into the kitchen, and aggressively stab it under the cabinets, directing the Froot Loop and other debris into a neat pile in the center of the tile floor.
    I transfer the mound into the dustpan and deposit it in the trashand then stand in the middle of the kitchen. See? I’m fine. I used a broom just like someone who doesn’t have Lots of Cancer. And that niggling, hopeful thought sneaks into my mind again. Maybe, just maybe, I don’t.
    I look at the counter where I plug my cell phone into the wall every night, but the end of the white cord is empty. I must have left it in my shoulder bag. I walk down the hall to our bedroom and hear the water running. Jack’s in the shower. I move faster. I can probably call Dr. Saunders before he gets out and he’ll never have to know.
    I retrieve my phone from its pocket and see that I have three missed calls and two text messages from Kayleigh. One of them says: Are you alive?
    I clear the screen and dial the main office line at the cancer center. My heart thumps in my chest as it rings. Dah-dump, dump dump. Dah-dump, dump dump.
    “Athens Regional Cancer Center,” a woman’s voice says. I ask to speak to Dr. Saunders.
    “May I tell him who’s calling?”
    “Daisy Richmond.”
    “Hold, please.”
    The line clicks and flowery music fills my ear.
    After a few minutes, Dr. Saunders’ voice breaks in. “Daisy,” he says. “I’m glad you