Terminal 19 Read online

  She rolls her eyes. “Give me a break.” Beth’s not in the mood to joke. She sits up on the bed and wraps the quilt around her shoulders, huddling within the blanket so only her eyes and the top of her head are visible. “I don’t want you to go. What if you have one of your panic attacks?”

  I guilted mom into letting me leave. With Beth, I might have to use another tactic. Exhausted, I settle in the armchair in the corner of my room and pick up my ticket, needing something tangible to make it real. July 5. Flight 1175, Terminal B, Gate 19.

  “I don’t have attacks anymore. I stopped having them two years ago.”

  I stopped having them the moment I accepted my inevitable death. My mom labeled them panic attacks, but my doctor explained that it was my body dealing with my cancer and the harsh treatment in an unstable environment. Loud noises, crowds, strong scents…anything could make me feel uneasy.

  “What’s the real reason why you don’t want me to go?

  “I don’t want you to go because…” Her large hazel eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “Because you might not…”

  She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to. “Come back? I might die there?”

  Miserable, she nods. She’s peeked out of her fantasy life, and into the real world. Realized it’s pretty shitty, and she’s immediately uncomfortable. I can see the regret in her gaze. I want to tell her to go back, go back to Jane Austen because yes, life is pretty sucky. But we all have to face that suck sometime.

  I stand and ruffle her blonde hair. “Don’t worry. Even if I find some hot Scandinavian, I’ll still return home. Always.”

  “But our cousin Heidi is a flake. She’ll probably get you lost. You’ll end up in Russia and become sex slaves to some big, gross, hairy, Russian guy.”

  I bite back my laugh. “I gotta do this, you know that, right? No regrets.”

  She sniffs. “No regrets, you obstinate, headstrong girl.”

  I grin. “Jane Austen?”

  She nods. I relax my shoulders, relieved. Back to normal. The last thing I want her to believe is that I’m some wounded animal, going off to die alone. It’s not about that at all. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, go through my clothes while I chat with Matias. Remember, it’s cool weather clothes. Anywhere from 50s-70s.”

  With a task in hand, she jumps from my bed. She’s going to be taller than me, but then my growth was stunted so I’m stuck at a perpetual 5’4” even though women in my family are above average height.

  “You really have researched,” she says. “How long have you been planning this trip?”

  I pause and look in the mirror above my little dressing table, barely hearing her. I’m pale, like always. I’m pretty average looking, with hazel eyes and blonde hair, but the illness has given me a fragile, porcelain doll look that I detest. I hate seeming so weak. “In some ways I feel like I’ve been planning this trip my entire life. But in reality…for about a year. Not much else to do.”

  “Don’t you have anything more…girly?”

  I watch her reflection in the mirror. “Satin and ribbons?”

  “Exactly.”

  I bite back my laugh and turn to face her. Satin and ribbons aren’t exactly hospital comfort. “Nope, it’s all about relaxation with me.”

  She pulls out a brown sweater, a look of disgust on her face. “Pack your camera stuff?”

  I head to the door. “Of course.”

  “Hey, why Scandinavia?”

  I pause at the threshold and give her a grin. I can’t tell her the truth…because even I don’t really understand why I feel the need to travel there. “Have you seen Scandinavian guys?”

  She flushes, still young enough to be embarrassed by her sexuality. Not that I’m the expert in human relations. “Really?”

  I lean against the door frame. “Thor ring a bell?”

  She pulls a blue hoodie from a hanger. “He’s Australian.”

  I laugh. “Smartass.”

  “I thought, maybe, because that’s where dad went…you know, after.”

  I shrug, leaving the room. “Maybe.”

  Why Scandinavia? Because that’s where dad’s family is from. Sweden, Denmark and Norway. His parents and sister died of cancer before I got to meet them, and for some reason I’m itching to go there now. Maybe I feel as if I’ll know them, know Dad, and in the process, know me better.

  I clutch the staircase railing. The visit to Dr. Robbins’ office has exhausted me, but I can’t show it. That wouldn’t help my cause in the least. So I suck it up and move down the steps, sweat peppering my forehead. I’d been waiting for the right time to spring it on my mom. I’m not going to get any better. It’s now…or literally, never.

  As I move down the steps, I pass the many family pictures that hang on the wall. Happy photos. A wonderful life, for about the first ten years anyway. Until my father left. I hate that he tricked us. Hate that his leaving was such a surprise.

  At times when Beth makes me watch home videos, I remember his laugh. But the echo of his voice has faded over the years. That former life, that life of happiness, of family vacations, of hope…seems like a dream. Someday I’ll be a dream.

  The hiss of a blowtorch pierces the windows. It’s a constant sound in our lives, always has been. That and the pounding of hammers on metal. Mom stands in the backyard, the blowtorch in hand, staring judgmentally at her sculpture. Most people would see her work of art as a blob of silver and brass. But I have her artist’s eye and I see the truth. It’s a woman wrapped protectively around a child. It’s me…it’s her. Beth uses Jane Austen, Mom uses her art to deal with reality. What do I use?

  Denial.

  The word whispers through my head, startling me. A lump forms in my throat. I shake it off. No way. I accepted my death long ago. No denial here.

  The doorbell rings, a merry ding dong. I take in a deep, steadying breath. Mom and Beth were easy. Matias won’t be so quick to persuade. Not that it matters. No one is going to stop me, especially not an overly protective ex-boyfriend.

  “Hey,” I say as I open the door.

  He smiles down at me, that devastatingly charming smile. His black hair is still damp and he’s wearing a t-shirt and board shorts. He’s been surfing. My chest feels warm, tight. It’s not the same heart-stopping sensation I had when we first started dating, but it heats me all the same. He’s even cuter than when we met in middle school, three months before the diagnosis. I give him a hug, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. Five years ago he was still a boy.

  Not now. Saltwater, sunshine and male. He smells so good, so familiar. He won’t give up on me. He’s just like my mom, without the crying. He’s my strength. He hugs me back, resting his chin atop my head.

  “I’ll go with you,” he says immediately. “Just wait another week or two. My dad has some conference in that area. I wasn’t going to go, but I can—”

  “No.” Absolutely not. This is my vacation. My adulthood, my freedom, wrapped into one month. “My cousin Heidi is going. Girl’s trip.”

  “But what if…”

  “What if I get sick?” I pull away and head toward the living room. Our house is a small cottage but only two blocks from the beach. It’s comfortable. Relaxing. Homey. I love it here. I’m not going to perish in Scandinavia. I’m going to die at home, with the windows open, the curtains fluttering on the warm, ocean breeze. “What if I die?”

  His jaw is clenched as he settles on the couch next to me. I’ve upset him. Die. It’s like a dirty word. The worst kind of dirty word a person can say. Worse than Fuck. Bitch. People toss the word about haphazardly. I’ll just die if I don’t go to that concert. Die if I don’t get those jeans. But to truly use the word as it’s meant…no one would dare.

  I shrug. “It won’t happen. I’ll be fine.”

  There’s a hesitant relief in his dark gaze. They believe me when I say I’ll be fine, because they want to. It’s actually kind of funny. And so I tell them often. I’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.
Everything will be fine. I should know, after all it’s my body, my life. Right? Except I don’t know shit. Who the hell knows when I will die? Who knows what will happen after I die? To me…to them…to everyone. Maybe the world will implode, or maybe, just maybe, it will go on as it has before.

  “Can’t you wait to leave?” He wraps his arm around me. “He said it could be two, maybe three years.”

  “You know I can’t wait.” I take his hand in mine. His fingers are warm, calloused from his lacrosse stick. He got a college scholarship. College is part of the reason why I broke up with him. I knew he wouldn’t leave me if we were still together. “I want to go now, while I’m still…me.”

  “But for a month?” He brushes my hair back, his fingertips grazing my neck. It feels comforting, familiar. I want to sink into his strength, even as I know that this is becoming too intimate. “You have to go for a month?”

  I rest my head on his shoulder, taking comfort in his familiar scent. “I want to make it worth the travel. The money.”

  He pulls me close, and I give into temptation and nestle into his side. And for a moment I feel safe, secure. I feel grounded. We are opposites. He is youth, muscle, life. While I am aged, weak, death. “And if you meet someone while you’re there?”

  I laugh, finding true amusement for the first time in a long while. Does he honestly believe I’m going to find my future husband? That I’ll move to Denmark and settle down into marital bliss? “Matt, we broke up over a year ago.”

  “You broke up with me.”

  I had to. I can’t destroy his life like I’m destroying my mom’s. Not that it matters much since he won’t let me go. God, he’s loyal. His dad is a senator. They’re the Kennedy’s of Florida. For them, life is about helping others; the sick, the poor, the elderly. Sometimes I wonder if he sees me as his charitable project. And other times I think he’s just too damn good for me.

  “I broke up with you because I didn’t want you to hang on. I wanted you to get on with your life. I wanted you to let go.”

  He quirks a brow. “Yeah, that worked.”

  I slap his chest, annoyed, because he’s right. He grins down at me, his dark eyes sparkling. He’s so handsome with his broad shoulders, and natural tan. It would be easy to let him in. To go back to how things were. It would also be selfish. Besides, whether he admits it or not…things have changed between us since we broke up.

  “Go get me something to drink, will you?”

  A flash of concern lights his gaze. He gets up immediately and heads to the kitchen. No questions asked. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. He thinks it’s serious, that I’m not feeling well, because I would never ask him to do something I could do myself. I’ve become such a good liar since I got sick. Really, I should go into acting.

  Alone, I slump into the corner of the couch. Mom is outside, working her frustrations out with a hammer and blowtorch. Beth is upstairs, no doubt huddled under my quilt reading Pride and Prejudice. Matias is searching through the refrigerator, in an attempt to find me that perfect drink. For now, for a few minutes…it’s just me. I look at the photos on the fireplace mantel. A family photo in front of the castle at Disney World. Before everything took a turn…before our lives changed forever.

  “Meow.”

  Our fat orange cat is rubbing his head against the leg of the couch, desperate for attention. I pat the cushion. Will he notice when I’m gone? “Come on, Pancake.”

  He jumps up, a loud rumbling purr interrupting the quiet. His round, furry body settles against me, comforting and warm. How many nights did he lay at my side, keeping me company when I was too ill to sleep? Everyone, even the cat, has done so much for me. It’s time to give them a break.

  Now, if only my body will cooperate.

  Exhausted, I close my eyes. “Please. Help me through this one month without complications. One. Just give me that and I’ll accept whatever happens after.”

  Chapter 2

  Travel abroad

  Make sure to have coins for the toilet

  There are certain, special moments in our lives that we’ll remember forever. Even when we’re ninety and on our death bed. For some, it’s their first kiss. Others, it’s marriage. For many, it’s the birth of their children. Important memories we cling to in dark moments, memories that give us strength and provide happiness at the times we need joy the most.

  My most vivid memories have been of pain, heartache, fear. Memories that cloud my days, haunt my nights. Memories I’d rather forget.

  The day my dad left us.

  The day I was diagnosed.

  The day things got really bad and I almost died.

  Those memories have been my constant companions. Until now.

  As I travel through Copenhagen in the back of a taxi, the wheels bumping over cobbled roads so jarring that my teeth clank together, making me want to laugh, I know, without doubt, this is the moment I will cling to, remember fondly while I’m on my death bed.

  “Here we are,” the driver eases the car along the sidewalk.

  I left home yesterday and have been traveling non-stop across states, oceans and countries. The entire last twenty-four hours have been a blur that has left me exhausted, dazed, and somewhat giddy. It was as if I’d been put on fast-forward and only now have come to a skittering pause.

  I can hardly believe I’ve arrived. I feel like an adult for the first time in my life. I feel…what do I feel? I pause to take stock, to try and understand the thrill of excitement coursing through my veins, the sudden vividness of my surroundings despite my exhausted state. I feel…alive, I realize. I feel alive for the first time in a long, long while.

  Denmark is everything I imagined. The houses are pressed tightly together, connected as one long row, separated by colors and steep roof peaks. White plaster, brick, some are painted mauve, others blue. Cobbled roads dissect the city. Church steeples stand up tall and proud along the skyline.

  I’m truly in Europe and I’m free. No appointments. No needles. No family members hovering over me. With no one to watch, I don’t have to pretend. No one here knows I’m ill. They won’t expect anything of me, good or bad. I can make up any identity I want.

  I start to push open the taxi door, but he stops me by thrusting his hand in front of my face. “Tip,” he insists. “Tip.”

  “Oh, right.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a few coins I picked up at the airport. He takes them from my palm before I have time to add them up. I’d read they don’t take tips in Europe. And here I thought everything on the internet was true. I grab my camera and squeeze out the door, my backpack bumping against my butt. It’s awkward, but I manage.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He barely waits for me to shut the door before he’s off, zooming back toward the airport, in a rush to make more money. The flurry of activity is more familiar than I wish. It’s all too modern-age. These people have jobs, lives. While I’m…what am I? Floating, bobbing in a sea of nothingness.

  I shake off the depressing thought and look at my change. I’ve just given him a thirty dollar tip. Most of my cash. “Shit.”

  But the sun is rising, and across the sky float fluffy, white clouds. I’m in Copenhagen, alone…completely on my own and free to do what I please. Sleep in, go to a café and eat pastries all day, stay up all night wandering the streets. Whatever I want.

  The city is romantic, but chic. Cosmopolitan, yet filled with history. It doesn’t seem like reality. At least not the reality I know. My reality, a reality of hospitals and illness, doesn’t exist here. I’m determined to explore and enjoy every inch of this wonderful place. I lift my camera to take a picture.

  “Undskyld mig,” someone calls out behind me, followed by the ring of a bell.

  Startled, I stumble back toward the building as a bike races by. I clutch my backpack and camera to my chest, somewhat terrified, and somewhat amused. How funny would it be if a bicycle ran over me on the first day of my trip? Imagine my mom getting that call?


  I hike my pack onto my shoulders and stroll down the road, searching the skyline for a tower. Find the tower and find Kobmagergade, at least that’s what the email said. My legs and ankles are weak from lack of exercise and I wobble like a drunk as I make my way across the cobbled lane. I feel like I’m learning to walk all over again, and maybe I am.

  No one notices me or cares, and that’s the best part. I love being so anonymous. The sidewalk curves and I spot the round tower right in the middle, where the road splits into two. Behind the tower is the steeple from an attached church.

  I pause, knowing I’m gawking but I can’t seem to stop. From the pitched rooflines, to the cobbled streets, to the cafes, everything is so…European. I want to be this, I want to merge in, to sink into the walls and lanes, leave behind my impression. I want to sit at the small tables, drink coffee, and get out my camera. Most of all I want to blend in as a local. But right now, standing in the middle of the sidewalk while wearing a huge backpack, I am anything but blending in.

  On a little cobbled side street, I find my building; a tall, three story row house with a white front and a steeply pitched roof. It seems alive, breathing with memories. My heart expands, sighs, and skips a beat. I’ve fallen in love. According to the advertisement, the building is three hundred years old. I want to learn everything I can about this building, this area. I push the buzzer.

  “Is it Hope there?” Someone calls out over a speaker moments later. She barely has an accent. “To rent the apartment?”

  I lean closer. “Yes. Alexandra? I’ve made it.”

  “Wonderful! Call me Alex. I’ll buzz you in.”

  The door buzzes, and before I know it I’m making my way up a set of narrow stairs that creak and groan as if they’re exhausted by carrying the weight of three hundred years. I’d wanted a view. But as my lungs began to burn and my legs quiver, I realize how stupid it was of me to rent a third floor apartment. At the top, I spot a curvy woman dressed in a colorful, bohemian dress and a bright, welcoming smile.

  “Welcome, Hope!” She kisses me on each cheek. In her thirties, she’s apparently from France. The scent of expensive perfume lingering around her is everything I expect from a chic, European woman. “You look tired, so I’ll be quick. The house was built in the 1700s. Two bedrooms, one bathroom. It’s petit, oui? But there’s a full kitchen and a small grocery store on the corner.”