BEYOND THE ROSES

Two-1

“Lola, can you hear me?” Zoe’s words fade in and out of focus, but I’m familiar with the muted voices. It started when I was twenty-one.

I did what every socialite my age did—I shopped, partied. I didn’t have a care in the world. But when I began hearing voices no one else heard, I thought I was going crazy. And when the voices came with debilitating headaches, I went to the best doctors in New York because I knew something wasn’t right. They ran endless tests, and that was when they found it—a black blob inside my head.

It turns out, the blob was a glioblastoma, also known as grade four astrocytoma, which was devouring the right side of my brain. In layman’s terms, I had an inoperable brain tumor.

However, I refused to accept my fate, adamant there was some mistake. This didn’t happen to people like me. How naïve I was because no matter who I saw, the prognosis was always the same.

The symptoms amplified weeks later. I was a car wreck. Not only did I have blurred vision, occasional blackouts, and spoke with a stutter, but I also walked with a slight limp. It goes without saying the supposedly best years of my life ended up being my worst.

All of my so-called friends hit the road when things got serious, proving to me just how superficial and shallow my life really was.

My mother couldn’t deal with everyone looking at her differently because word spread the Van Allen name was tarnished. That’s how smallminded the social circle my mother belonged to was—the circle I once belonged to.

But I made the most out of my shitty situation. For the first time in my life, I opened a book and studied. I became the master of my own disease; educating myself, I was determined to find a cure. I exhausted every drug my doctors gave me, but to no avail. The chemotherapy drugs may as well have been aspirin.

It took me a long while, but finally, my perseverance paid off. A doctor in Germany claimed to have found a drug that broke down the protein in the tumor I had, thus reducing the size. Trials were taking place in Germany, and I wanted in.

I phoned my doctor, Dr. Carter, who was aware of the trials. He said I didn’t have anything to lose, and I was put on the wait list.

Three weeks later, I was taking every color of drug known to mankind four times a day for the next year. The side effects were hideous, but so was having the sword of Damocles hanging over my head. I was constantly sick with flu-like symptoms as the drugs depleted my immune system. My hair fell out completely, which was fine, as it was thinning from the chemo anyway. But to my mother, I highlighted the fact that her perfect life wasn’t so perfect after all. She preferred me the spoiled brat I once was as opposed to the sick young woman I became.

But I continued because, after the first quarter of the trial, my tumor had shrunk. It was now roughly the size of a small lemon.

Dr. Carter told me not to get my hopes up, but I was thrilled. I was convinced I would beat this. I was beating the odds as it was for surviving for as long as I had, but it was all in vain. Regardless, for the first time in a long time, I had hope. And that hope was thanks to someone who changed my life forever.

Georgia Faye was my one and only true friend. All my socialite friends had long forgotten about me, and our “friendship” presented itself for what it truly was—superficial, just like the world I once lived and thrived in.

I met Georgia while she too was receiving the trial drugs. We would chat daily, and it was nice to have someone who understood just how hard life was. Soon, we grew inseparable, as our dire circumstances bound us together.

We decided we wouldn’t let this disease beat us without a fight. Georgia’s tumor was slightly larger and more aggressive than mine was, but that only inspired her to fight harder. Georgia was the most positive and inspirational person I knew.

We joined a gym, grew strong, and obliterated the stigma that came with being sick. We drank disgusting potions believed to keep the brain healthy, but we downed that gunk like it was going out of fashion. Everything was better back then because Georgia was by my side.

When our results came back as showing improvement, we felt like the luckiest girls alive.

Both our muscle masses had grown thanks to our strenuous workouts, so my limp was gone. Georgia helped me with my stutter while I helped her with her blackouts by teaching her some meditation I learned in yoga.

Life was good. Well, as good as good can be for two women, such as Georgia and me.

Georgia and I were friends for a year, and it was the best year of my life. But life can be cruel, and it showed me just how unforgiving it could be. To celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday, we were going to go out to a bar.

I was applying my favorite shade of lipstick when my cell rang. There was a bounce to my step, but it was the last I ever had. On the other end of the line was Georgia’s mom—she was sobbing, inconsolable, her words a blubbering mess. She informed me that Georgia had passed in her sleep. She had succumbed to the disease we were certain we would beat.

The funeral was beautiful. Georgia would have loved it. It was colorful and vivacious, just like Georgia. But my best friend would be none of those things ever again. After Georgia’s death, I lost all hope. It felt as if my heart was ripped from my chest. I stopped doing all the things Georgia and I used to do as the memories were too painful to bear alone.

If the strongest person I knew couldn’t beat this, then how could I?

Dr. Carter said a new trial drug had just become available, and that I was the perfect candidate. It was stronger than the previous drugs, and because of my positive test results, he thought I had a good shot at making my inoperable tumor operable. The previous drugs had reduced the size of my tumor, but it was still inoperable. He had hope. But me, I didn’t. Once upon a time, I had hope, but all it did was give me a false sense of normalcy. So I stopped taking any drugs and accepted that I would eventually end up in a hole in the ground, just like the only person I ever loved, and who had loved me back in return.

Wiping away the torrent of tears, I force myself to return to the now. Since Georgia’s death, it’s been too easy to slip back into the darkness.

“S-sorry, Zoe, I didn’t m-mean to scare y-you.” I stand slowly, the world constantly spinning. When I meet her wide, concerned eyes, my stomach drops.

“It’s completely okay. Please don’t apologize. Are you all right?”

“I’ll be okay.” Zoe doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t press.

“Can I help you unpack?”

“I can unpack later. I’d love to take a look around.”

“I’d be happy to show you.”

“Sure, thank you.”

A grin lights up her face. “Would you mind if I go to my room first? I need to grab a sweater.”

“Of course, no problem.” She’s out the door, promising to be back in five minutes.

Deciding to go barefoot, I sit on the edge of the bed and untie my laces. As I kick off my shoes, a flesh of red from inside my backpack catches my eye. I know without looking what it is.

This red bandana I packed with care belonged to Georgia.

She used to wear it around her pale head with pride. Deciding to honor my friend, I reach for it, fingering the soft material between my fingers. “I miss you,” I whisper, wishing she was here with me.

Suppressing my sadness, I wobble as I walk over to the wall mirror. I hate that my limp comes and goes because I know that I can be strong again. But there’s no point.

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror as I comb my fingers through my chestnut hair. It’s grown healthy since I stopped taking the drugs. It’s just past my shoulders. I tie the bandana in my hair, styling it like a headband, just how Georgia did. The red draws out the green in my eyes. It also emphasizes the dark circles. I look and feel so much older than twenty-five.

Looking around my room, I appreciate Strawberry Fields for what it is—it’s a holiday camp, a summer vacation for the dying. The membership requirements—you must be dying to get in—pun completely intentional.

And that’s why I’m here.

The doctors have told me it’s only a matter of time before I succumb to my illness, just like Georgia. But until that time comes, I want to help people. I’ve volunteered for three months because after reading the brochure, no matter how much time I have left, I want to make a difference. I can relate to what these kids are going through because all I ever wanted was for someone to listen to me and to be treated normally. I intend to be here for these kids and let them know they’re not alone. I want them to know that even though they’ve been given a life sentence, that doesn’t mean they can’t live life to the fullest. I want them to know that it’s okay to be different.

This is the first time in so many months I feel like I belong.

A smile is etched on my face as I close my door, thankful I listened to my gut and came here. However, a yelp replaced that smile when I turn without looking and bump straight into something hard.

At first, I’m certain it’s the wall, but that’s impossible, considering I’m standing in the open corridor. That only leaves one other option. I’ve just rudely slammed into someone.

“I am so…” The words die in a gargled mess when I peer up, and up, and see the striking face of a man who emanates sheer masculinity. The first thing that catches my attention is the vibrancy of his blue-gray eyes. They are crystal clear, mesmerizing beneath his black, horn-rimmed glasses. His dark brown hair is slicked back with short sides.

His face is complete perfection, and I’m staring like a total creep.

Mortified, I look down, which is a bad idea because I see that perfect face is attached to a perfect body. I now understand why I believed I bumped into a wall—a brick wall, that is—because he has muscles where I didn’t even know muscles existed.

“Sorry,” I choke out, finishing my sentence spoken a lifetime ago.

“No problem,” he replies a moment later. His voice is deep, honeyed. I suddenly wonder why my arms feel like they’re on fire. Peering down, I see his strong fingers are wrapped around my biceps. The gesture was to stop me from falling, which I’m grateful for because I’m certain I’m about to collapse in a messy heap.

He is the most handsome man I have ever seen. I can’t help but wonder who he is.

Zoe answers the question for me. “Hello, Dr. Archibald.”

Her voice seems to snap us from whatever bubble we’re in because he smoothly removes his hands while I physically shake my head, hoping to knock some sense into it.

He clears his throat before turning to look at her. “Hi, Zoe. Keeping out of mischief, I hope?”

She chuckles, and I’m thankful I can breathe again. “Shh, I have a reputation to uphold.”

He’s a doctor? I suddenly feel beyond mortified for slobbering all over myself.

“Okay. Your secret is safe with me.” There is a weighty silence before Dr. Archibald spins slowly. I hold my breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Dr. Archibald. I’m one of the many doctors who work here.”

“Hello, Dr. Archibald. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lola. Lola Van Allen.” I give him a small wave, thankful I managed to spit out my sentence in one attempt.

“Likewise.” He places his hands into his pressed pants pockets. “Did you just arrive?”

His innocent comment snaps me from my hormone-fueled episode, and I nod. “Yes. Zoe was just about to show me around.”

A dimple kisses his right whiskered cheek. “Well, you’re in good hands. I’ll see you around, Lola.” I nod, incapable of speech.

He lingers for a moment, clearly sizing me up. He gives me a once-over before those stunning blue eyes rest on the bandana in my hair. Can he see the significance? How I tied it with love and care.