Terminal 19 Read online

  Terminal 19

  By L.R. Olson

  Copyright 2018 L.R. Olson

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Other Books by L.R. Olson:

  Historical Romance:

  A Dangerous Temptation (free)

  A Dangerous Deception

  New Adult Books:

  The Terminal Series:

  Terminal 19

  The St. Clare Series:

  Seduction: Prequel (free)

  Redemption: Book 1

  Adult Contemporary:

  The Southern Gents Series:

  For Hire: Book 1

  Terminal 19

  Chapter 1

  Don’t die

  Don’t die this year

  “It’s not working…is it?”

  He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.

  Although we aren’t touching and a good foot separates our chairs, I can sense my mom stiff, holding her breath next to me. She’s teetering on the edge of despair. I feel horrible for her. I suppose when you’re a parent you always cling to hope. Always. You can’t give up. Not when it’s your child, the love of your life, the being who gives your world meaning, who is threatened. It makes me sort of glad I’ll never have kids.

  He meets my gaze, his blue eyes steady. “No.”

  He’s blunt. I like that about him. It’s why I stuck with Dr. Robbins, even though at first Mom wanted to find someone more nurturing for me. Probably more nurturing for her, if I’m being honest. I’m tough. I’ve been dealing with this shit for more than five years. She…isn’t so tough.

  “You know how artists are.”

  My dad’s words come whispering back to me on a long, lost memory. Mom hated when he said she was emotional. So he said it often just to tease her. Which would result in a ten minute lecture from my mom about sexism. I miss those days.

  “It appears your numbers are the same.”

  “But not worse?” Mom asks, leaning forward in anticipation. She’ll cling to anything. She’s like someone who has been starving for months and is given a moldy potato to tide her over. Better than nothing, right?

  He hesitates, uneasy. “Well…yes.”

  Dr. Robbins has dark hair streaked with gray. Good looking, for an old guy, I suppose. He’s just told me I’m not getting better and all I can think about is how tan he is. Like really tan, bordering on offensive. It’s not fake either. For God’s sake, he’s a doctor. Hasn’t he heard of Melanoma?

  Mom grasps my hand, jerking me from my thoughts. I clear my throat. “How long? How long do I have?”

  It’s the question she wants to know, but can’t ask and so I’ll bite the bullet for her. He leans back in his leather chair and shakes his head. Of course he doesn’t want to give me a number and become liable. “We really can’t know. Two years. Three. Maybe even four.”

  I might be only nineteen but I’ve been around the block a time or two, as my grandma used to say. The four doesn’t have as much oomph as the two and three. It kind of trails off…a whisper of a word. Four is the miracle number. Something he mutters to give us faith. Four years. That would make me twenty-three. If I can last. I can drink my first legal margarita, preferably while sitting on the beach, and die happy. Okay, maybe not happy…but content.

  “There has to be…” Mom’s voice quivers. She’s close to losing it. I hope she doesn’t, at least not until we reach home. At home I can give her a Xanax, tuck her in bed, then order pizza and watch Jessica Jones on Netflix while she sleeps. “I mean isn’t there another trial? Something…”

  I bite back my sigh.

  Life is so much easier when you’ve accepted you’re going to die.

  I accepted it two years ago.

  Now, if only my family would.

  “It just doesn’t make sense. You said the trial had great results…”

  Mom is shaking. Fear, anger, despair rippling across her features in a wave that makes her look slightly older than her forty-five years. I lean to the side and wrap my arm around her shoulders. She’s thin, much thinner than she was five years ago, but then worry will do that to a person. “Let it go, Mom.”

  She jerks her gaze to me, her eyes pleading. Begging me to understand. “I can’t.”

  “Mrs. Reynolds, have you looked into the support group for grieving parents Nurse Cameron told you about?”

  “I’m not grieving,” she snaps, her sorrow turning to fury. Her emotions have been a veritable fun house lately. You never know what you’ll get when you turn the corner, Ronald McDonald or Freddy Krueger. “You grieve when someone is dead.”

  But that’s not true. You grieve just as hard when hope dies. My hope died years ago. My mom’s hope is still clinging on, like a first boyfriend you went out with just so you could say you had a boyfriend. Then once he mashed his lips to yours with his slimy, wet mouth, gropey hands traveling your pre-pubescent body, you realized not having a boyfriend was better than having one who can’t kiss. I digress.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor replies.

  I sit quietly while he talks reassuringly to my mom, and wonder how long this will take. Slyly, I glance at my phone. 2:30. Damn, I’m missing my afternoon talk shows.

  “Four years?” She finally gets it…kind of. “Just four?”

  I bite back my sigh. No, Mom. Two…three if we’re lucky.

  He nods hesitantly, and I can tell he regrets mentioning the four. Doesn’t want to get sued by some irate parent when her kid kicks the bucket a year early. Can’t lose those boats and mansion in the Caribbean he has pictures of on the wall. Why does one person need so many boats anyway?

  He clears his throat. “We just don’t know.”

  “I truly believed this would work,” she whispers, her attention piercing the good doctor, looking for some sort of confirmation that he’s made a mistake. That there might be one more trick up his tailored sleeve. But this time that confirmation doesn’t come.

  He reaches across the desk and takes her hand. “I know.”

  They stare into each other’s eyes for a length of time that starts to make me feel uncomfortable. The silence stretches. I look first at one, then the other. Realization dawns. Holy shit, they’re falling for each other. My mouth drops open as irritation, shock, and amusement race through me all at once. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. They do spend a lot of time together, thanks to me. But seriously…my doctor? The kicker is when he smiles reassuringly and pats her hand. Why don’t they just climb atop his polished mahogany desk and make out already?

  “It’s so hard.”

  That’s what she said.

  “I know,” he replies. “I’m here for you.” He glances at me. Yep, buddy, I’m still alive. Still in your office, still digesting the fact that I’m going to die soon. “
Here for both of you, that is.”

  It takes all my effort not to roll my eyes. At least Mom’s not focused my way, giving me a tiny bit of time to absorb the news before she smothers me with her unconditional love.

  Instead, she’s thinking about how she can possibly go on without her first born. How she can get up morning after morning and continue living while her child is rotting in the ground. I know this because a few years ago when things were really bad I overheard her talking to a friend. All too soon, she turns to me. Her gaze is watery, desperate. I swallow my groan.

  “Oh, Hope.”

  Yep, my name is Hope. Something I stopped believing in years ago. Something that keeps my friends and family going day after day. I’ve wondered more than once why they care so much. I’m a good person, I guess. Nothing extraordinary. I’m messy, absent-minded at times, and not good about keeping in touch. But I suppose that’s how love is…you don’t need to be someone special to be loved.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I take her hand. “It’s okay, Mom. I wasn’t expecting anything. Honestly.”

  Has she not noticed I’ve been getting rid of my clothes? My personal things? I don’t want the burden left to her when I’m gone. I know my mom well. She’ll be one of those parents who leaves my room untouched until she dies forty years later. I find that creepier than rotting in a box.

  I stand. “So then…ice cream?”

  Tears roll down my mom’s cheeks. A sob breaks through, shaking her slim shoulders. I kneel before her and wrap my arms around her waist. I can hear the doctor murmuring words of comfort, to me or my mom, I’m not sure. But if I had to guess, it’s for the hot, grieving mother.

  I pat her back in a maternal way. “I’ve never really liked ice cream anyway.”

  She mumbles something about how I’m not funny. I don’t have the heart to admit I’m telling the truth…I’ve grown to hate ice cream, our family comfort food. Way too much need for comfort, and way too much ice cream will do that.

  “We knew,” I say. “I knew. You knew…you just didn’t want to accept it.”

  She wraps her arms around me and pulls me onto her lap, holding me tight, too tight. I’m a grown woman and it’s a bit uncomfortable, and frankly, embarrassing, but I endure it the best I can. There’s a lot you realize you can endure when you’re dying. “I can’t let you go.”

  I pull back and cup the sides of her face. “You have to. You will.”

  And this is why I don’t feel bad about what I’m going to do. I’m tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of drugs. Of pain. But mostly I’m tired of seeing their fear. Their worry. Their anger. I need a break from them. More importantly, they need a break from me.

  “We will keep monitoring your numbers,” the doctor offers.

  I nod as I stand. “I get it.” Of course I get it. We’ve been through this before. I pick up my bag. “You ready to go?”

  “There’s nothing?” Mom asks, ignoring me. “Another trial. Anything?”

  He sighs again. Or maybe that was me. There’s been a lot of sighing lately. “If anything comes up, I’ll let you know. But you need to prepare yourself. Three…four years, well, it’s more than most get.”

  She nods. It’s enough for her. I’m more annoyed than anything. I know he won’t find a trial. He’s doing her harm, not good. With a trembling smile, she stands. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Unable to watch them fawn over each other again, I start out the door while they’re still saying their goodbyes. The halls are decorated with pictures of beaches. Islands. Crystalline blue water. If I were smart, I’d be going to the Caribbean to relax. But I’ve been laying around for years. I want to actually do something new, exciting. Besides, I live in Florida. Not like I don’t get enough heat and sand.

  I move by the office desk, not bothering to smile or make small talk, even though I feel their eyes on me. Poor dying girl. Her life just starting. Will she even reach twenty? I don’t have to be polite because I have a free pass. If only all females had such luxury. I push open the door and step outside. It’s June, and the humidity is heavy. My t-shirt instantly sticks to my back.

  “Every woman has to get to the point in her life in which she doesn't care if she's called a bitch.”

  My nurse told me that once. Too bad it took such an extreme condition for me to get there. It doesn’t mean I’m a horrible person, who throws plates at waiters and curses out slow cashiers. It just means I don’t make excuses, I don’t apologize when I’ve done nothing wrong, like women are so used to doing.

  I spot a teenager sitting in a wheelchair waiting on the sidewalk and my mood lightens. “Hey Zach.”

  He pulls out his earbuds and nods. His dark, bald head gleams in the sunlight, proclaiming to all he’s got cancer. A reminder of how I looked only a couple years ago. “Hi, Hope. Anything good?”

  I shake my head.

  “Sorry.” He reaches into his bag and hands me a book. “Hard to get through some parts, but you’ll like the stuff he writes.”

  I look at the title. “Walden. Cool.” I reach into my bag and hand him a copy of Jane Eyre.

  He arches the area above his eye that would be a brow, if he had any hair. “Romance?”

  “Hells to the yeah.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  I grin. “Whatevs, you’re just jelly of my coolness.”

  He covers his eyes and sighs. He’s fifteen and thinks my nineteen years make me old. “Dear god.”

  “See you next week, Nerd.” But I don’t know if I will. We never know. He nods, but is barely paying attention because he’s already opened the book. He’s one of those people who actually loves school. He hates that he can’t go anymore.

  Mom falls into step beside me and takes my hand like I’m five as we cross the parking lot. I squeeze her fingers reassuringly. She seems better. Maybe, like me, she’s numb. Maybe she’s finally accepted the truth. Or…more likely, she’s hoping some new trial will come through.

  “So, you and the good doctor?”

  She looks at me in surprise. “What?”

  I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively just to annoy her. “You know.”

  She blushes as realization dawns. “No!”

  “Mom, I’m teasing.” I slide my arm around her waist as we walk to the car. “But if you do…its ok, you know. Just wait until after I’m gone, because…ew.”

  “Don’t joke about that,” she whispers, clutching her purse to her side like it’s a tank of oxygen and she’s hyperventilating. She hates when I joke about dying. Joking is the only way I can get through it all. I take after my dad that way. He would make jokes at the most inappropriate times.

  We pause at the car. She digs around in her purse, trying to find her keys. Her hands are shaking. I study her oval face, dark eyes, the tense lines around her mouth. She’s pretty, but she’s aged these last few years. I have to believe she’ll be alright when I’m gone. I have to.

  “Would you like me to make an appointment with Dr. Powers?”

  “No, Mom. I don’t need to see a shrink.” The perfect opening. “But I do want to ask for something.”

  “Anything,” she says fiercely, taking my hands again. She’s happy to be productive, but she doesn’t know yet what I’m going to ask. “Anything you want…it’s yours.”

  I smile, expecting nothing less.

  There are, after all, perks to being terminal.

  ****

  “Bucket lists are for old people.” My sister plops down on my bed and flips over to her back, clasping her well-read Pride and Prejudice to her chest. “Not nineteen year olds.”

  “Soon to be twenty, thank you very much.”

  She’s fourteen and in denial. She’s always been in denial. But she’s had to deal with my shit for years, so I don’t blame her. If anything she should be a brat, she should be jealous, angry because of all the attention I’ve received. She’s none of those things.

  Instead, she’s a Jane Austen fan. O
ddly enough, her mental breakdown involved reading Austen, sipping tea in the afternoon and saying “brilliant” a lot. She doesn’t realize the mortality rate for women during the Regency era was horribly high. That most of those characters would have died, probably in childbirth, before thirty.

  Morbid, right? That’s me.

  “And…” I start, sorting through the clothes in my closet.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “…people who are dying.”

  She rolls over onto her stomach, her face pressed into my bedspread and screams, the sound muffled against a patchwork quilt of rose colors made by my grandma when I was first diagnosed. She wanted me to have my own blanket while I was in the hospital. To make the room seem more homey. As if I could ignore the white walls, tubes and beeping machines. But it was the smell that got to me the most. That sterile smell with the hint of chemically induced lemons. Even today when I go back I gag a little.

  “Jane Austen would not approve of screaming.”

  “I told you not to say it,” she mutters.

  I hide my smile as I pull a sweater out of my closet. It’s old, but soft and wearable. There isn’t much call for sweaters in Florida. But hey, vintage is in…right? “Why don’t you take my quilt while I’m gone?”

  She perks up. “Can I?”

  According to her, the quilt looks English. “Sure. I know you love it.”

  I pull my raincoat from my closet. I’ll need sweaters, jackets, jeans but I’m determined to pack light. No lugging heavy luggage around airports. My hiking backpack is all I’ll be taking. Dad taught me to pack when we went camping. While mom had been teaching art at a local university, it was Dad who had taken me to Girl Scouts. It seems like a lifetime ago. Another realm where I’m healthy, whole.

  “Wait,” she snaps. “You’re not giving me the quilt because you think you’re dying, are you?”

  “From the day we’re born, we’re all dying.”