Underneath the Sycamore Tree

I shake my head. The exhaustion is still bone deep, but the pain is nowhere near as bad. Besides a migraine I’ve been battling since yesterday afternoon, everything else has been tolerable to deal with. Yet, the judgment in his tone doesn’t make me want to continue the conversation.

He gestures toward my pajamas. “Aren’t you hot in those? It’s like eighty outside and probably just as warm in here.” Walking over to the space heater, he shakes his head at the setting I have it on.

I heard him ask Cam yesterday why I’ve been in bed. It’s one of the few conversations I’ve heard him have with her. The others usually end in a fight wi

th him storming out and her clamming up. I want to feel bad for Cam, but I’m still not over how dinner went down over the weekend.

From what I overheard, Cam never told Kaiden what’s wrong with me. In a way, I’m grateful for that. When people hear you’re sick, they have three reactions—they either pity you, refuse to come near you, or don’t believe you at all. None of those situations are worth my time, not the fake sympathy of people who pretend they understand what I go through, not the people who think I’m contagious and stay ten feet away, and certainly not the people who refuse to accept invisible diseases are a thing.

I’ll always remember the doctor appointment that led to me breaking down in the passenger seat of Mama’s car. As soon as the doctor walked in and realized I was the patient, his mind was set. I was “too young” to be sick. I was like any other young girl who liked to “exaggerate” for attention.

My tears had streamed silent down my cheeks, but Mama was no fool. She pulled over and coaxed me into looking at her. What she saw, I’m not sure. Probably someone flawed and broken—someone utterly defeated.

It didn’t matter that there was a family history of medical problems. If doctors can’t find one single element that stands out the most physically, they think you’re overreacting because that’s what young people are known for.

As if children don’t die from cancer.

As if Logan didn’t die from lupus.

He must have seen the note in my file.

Sister: deceased

Cause: systemic lupus, kidney failure

He didn’t care. None of them did. I wasn’t showing any physical symptoms. I was in pain. I was tired. I was…young. Just young.

Nowadays, there’s no denying I’m sick. Just like Lo, you wouldn’t have thought anything was wrong at first. I wasn’t rail thin, my hair wasn’t falling out, and I looked healthy. Inside, my immune system was waging war against itself until every part of me was drained from the fight.

I’m glad Kaiden doesn’t look at me any differently than before. Cam never mentioned that what I have is lifelong, or that I could suffer the same fate as Logan. Since I barely said anything about her the day he took me to the sycamore, I haven’t divulged any further information about my best friend.

Sometimes I’ll find little post-its of pictures in different places though. Pictures of paper plates with blue flowers, and trees with endless green leaves. I save every single one I find in places only I would be.

The way he watches me with eyes full of irritation doesn’t put me at ease. While I don’t want his pity, I also don’t want his unwarranted hatred either. Sometimes, I wonder if coming here was a mistake. Like moving in was an act against him for space and attention. Although, he doesn’t seem like he wants any attention when he’s here.

He gets his fill at school.

“Are you going tomorrow?”

I sit up so my back is against the frame of my bed. It is white metal bent into an intricate design that I don’t get. But it’s pretty, prettier than the boring wood frames that Lo and I had in our old bedroom.

“I plan to,” I answer quietly.

He nods once but doesn’t move. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but he acts like he wants to say something. Instead, he shakes his head and leaves, almost angry. I’m reeling as to what I said or did to make his lips pinch that way before he slams my door closed behind him.

Realizing it isn’t worth my time, I curl up on my side and open my newest book. Dad checked on me before leaving for work. He’s been going earlier the past few days, probably so he doesn’t have to deal with me. I can tell my illness makes him uncomfortable, like he doesn’t know how to deal with or treat me.

I don’t either, but I can’t tell him that because then we’ll have common ground. I’m not sure I want to have any with him. I don’t hate him, but in many ways, I don’t love him either. We’re stuck at an impasse—a merry-go-round of unspoken feelings and questions.

Why did you leave?

Why did you barely call?

Why didn’t you love us?

Forcing the thoughts out of my head, I lose myself in my novel. It’s better than thinking about reality. Reality is ugly and painful and full of the kind of heartache that some books help you forget exist for a short period. I get to fall in love thousands of times over, a feat I’m afraid I’ll never accomplish if my illness brings me to Lo instead of my future husband.

I fall asleep wondering if Lo is watching over me.