Fix You

Somehow, you roped me into watching a hockey game with you. Dr. Beleznay had been telling me all week how good you’d been about taking your medication and getting your treatments so I figured it was the least I could do. I still had no idea what was going on other than two teams of big, burly men skating around trying to score on one another, but you filled in the blanks as best you could. Although hockey was your new thing, you still had a lot to learn, which prompted my trip to the library to find any—and every—book I could about the sport.

There were millions. There were rulebooks, biographies of famous players, collections of old newspaper clippings from championship games, strategy guides, and, right up my alley, Watching Hockey For Dummies. I’d skimmed through it briefly, looking for answers to my most pressing questions (“What the hell constitutes an offside?”) before deciding it would be a good starting point for you. I was certain that whatever I chose would become your bedtime story for the next few weeks so I had to make sure I didn’t pick one that’d bore the two of us to tears.

I checked the time and noted that you still had a little over an hour before you were finished the day’s round of chemotherapy. You didn’t like me to be there when it was administered so I always pretended to have errands to run or an imaginary meeting to go to. That usually meant taking a nap in the car or walking around town aimlessly, but after you had a particularly bad week back in August, I locked myself in a cubicle in the library and began spending the rest my free time there. I’m sure it looked bizarre: a twenty-something with her nose stuck in a book for hours while she should’ve been doing anything else, but I didn’t care. Literature was my escape, much as it always had been.

“Did you get it, Annie?” were the first words out of your mouth when I entered your room. You looked awful: pale skin, dark circles around your brilliant blue eyes, and what little hair you had left was dull and lifeless. I didn’t say any of these things to you, though. To me you were always the most handsome man in the world.

“Sure did, buddy.” I pulled the book out of my tote bag and handed it to you, smiling at the way your face lit up with excitement over something so simple. “How’s it look?”

“Wow!” you gasped, pointing to a picture of the Stanley Cup. “The Penguins won that.”

“Did they?”

You nodded. “This book is so cool.”

“I’m glad you like it,” I said. “Are you hungry, kiddo?”

You shook your head. “My tummy hurts.”

It always did after chemo. If it didn’t make you sick for a week straight, it did other awful things to your already fragile body. I couldn’t imagine the pain you experienced on a daily basis—the pain of your cancer, the pain of having a normal childhood taken away from you, the pain of losing your parents. It all would’ve been too much for me to bear, yet you were still able to smile over things like hockey and books and peanut butter cookies. You never failed to amaze me.

“Want me to get you some Ginger Ale from the cafeteria?”

“No,” you answered, “it doesn’t work.”

I laughed softly. “It’s a proven fact that ginger helps settle an upset stomach.”

“Not-uh,” you argued.

“Have I ever lied to you?”

You shook your head again. “No.” Another picture caught your eye and you waved me over. “What’s this?”

“What’s it say underneath?” I asked, pointing to the caption underneath a photo of the 1980 US olympic hockey team. “They beat the Soviets and won a gold medal at the Olympics.”

Your eyes widened to the size of saucers. “What are Soviets?”

“The Soviet Union was a Communist section of Europe.”

“What’s a Communist?”

As I thought up a reply, Marjorie entered your room with a tray of food. She must’ve heard your last question because she sent me a questioning look. “Teaching him bad things, Annie?”

“Never,” I grinned.

She turned to you. “Is she teaching you bad things, Alex?”

“I dunno,” you shrugged.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, only to get the same response I did. “I’m going to leave it here incase you do, okay?” You nodded. “Do you want me to put on the hockey game? I hear it’s gonna be a good one.”

Marjorie knew as much about hockey as I did. Regardless, you nodded again, too immersed in the book to answer her properly. She turned on the television and got it set on the right channel before bidding us both goodnight and disappearing down the hallway. Every once in awhile you’d break the silence to ask me what a certain word meant or have me explain something you didn’t understand, but until the Penguins took the ice at seven-o’clock I didn’t hear a peep from you.

I recognized some of the faces from earlier in the week when I’d met them. You’d gotten me up to date with Sidney Crosby’s injury as well as Kris’s, which I hadn’t known about. According to you, Kris was out with a “headache,” which I took to mean he had a concussion. Dr. Beleznay must’ve given you the diagnosis in layman terms—the easiest way for you to remember it.

“Hey, Alex?” I asked, looking down at you from my spot on your bed. You must’ve been sleeping for awhile, as you’d begun to snore quietly.

The book I’d gotten you from the library was open to a page explaining the scoring system but it was ignored in your slumber, cracked open and laying across your tiny chest. I removed it as gently as I could, careful not to wake you, and set it on the small wooden nightstand to my right.

On the other side of town, the Penguins had defeated the Buffalo Sabres easily: 8-3. The commentators were talking about Evgeni Malkin’s hat trick, which prompted another look in the book to see what such a thing was. The scoring of three goals in a game by one player. I raised my eyebrows, impressed, and shut the book again. Part of me wished you’d been awake to see the victory, to squeeze even a tiny bit more happiness out of the day, but chemo was hell on your body and I couldn’t fault you for trying to sleep it off.

I shut off the television and scooted out of your bed. You rolled on your side and I tucked you in, adjusting your pillows and blankets to make you more comfortable. You looked so tiny and out of place amongst the white bedding though I must admit you blended in. Your skin, which was once the same olive tan we shared with our parents, had paled. Simply put, you looked just as sick as you were. I pinched the bridge of my nose to keep from crying as I moved into the hallway.

Marjorie had been sitting at the nurse’s station when she saw me exit your room. She grabbed a few tissues and made her way over, handing them to me before wrapping me in a hug.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“I just can’t—this is killing me, Marj.”

Sobs racked my body as my heart broke for the millionth time. Why it kept piecing itself together was beyond me; it’d only break again. Since the day our parents left us it’d been one heartbreak after another. I was tired.

“Shh,” she soothed. “Your brother is an incredibly strong little boy. He’ll get through this, Annie.” She paused. “And so will you.”


Christmas was six days away. I never knew what to buy you, simply because you never claimed to want anything. It wasn’t natural for a child your age to not have a Christmas list three pages long and I’d told you that. I tried to reassure you that money wasn’t an issue and that I didn’t mind celebrating the holiday with you in the hospital. Whatever worries you had, I wanted them gone. Christmas wasn’t the time for worrying.

I wasn’t alone in my procrastination. It was only a Monday afternoon but the mall was crowded. Shoppers filled every inch of space in every single store, leaving just enough room to breathe comfortably. The sound of cash registers dinging made the Christmas music coming from the speakers sound like a whisper. To top it all off, no one was in the holiday spirit. Curse words and aggressive shopping were certainly in style this year.

I’d just exited the book store when I noticed a large group of people standing outside the jewelry store. Normally I would ignore them, finding something more interesting to occupy my time than flash mobs, but something about the group seemed to rope me in. As I made my way over, it was obvious why: there stood Kris Letang in all his French-Canadian glory, signing autographs and making small talk.

Deciding to wait until the crowd got smaller, I took a seat on a nearby bench and observed. With his long hair and shy, alluring smile, Kris was intimidatingly handsome, almost too much so because it was effortless. He stood only a few feet away from me in a simple pair of dark jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt, and a black beanie, but he still looked like a million bucks. It wasn’t fair to be so good-looking without even having to try.

“Have time for one more?” I asked casually like we were old friends. Where that sort of confidence came from I didn’t know. I hadn’t been around people enough to know how to flirt or make simple conversation that didn’t involve medicine.

“Oh,” Kris replied, seeming genuinely surprised, “Annie. Wow.”

“Mr. Kris,” I acknowledged.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “How’s your brother?”

“He’s…okay,” I answered. “He’s been busying himself with trying to learn hockey jargon. I figure he’ll be on television soon.”

“Good to hear. What are you doing here?” I chuckled at the stupidity of his question which made him blush. “Sorry, stupid question.”

“Happens to the best of us. I just finished my shopping, actually.”

“Buy anything good? I’m sure there’s not much left.”

I shrugged. “Alex is the only person I have to buy for, so if I see something I think he’ll like I grab it. He’s getting a lot of hockey stuff this year.”

Kris peered in the bag I carried from the local sporting goods store. “You didn’t buy him a crappy jersey, did you?”

“Actually, I think I did.” I pulled out the small Letang jersey with a grimace. “Damn, I meant to buy him a Crosby one.”

Kris’s face scrunched in mock-disgust. “Non, non, non, mon cherie, you did not mean to buy him a Crosby jersey. Il est un con.”

I smiled. “Then who do you suggest?”

“Kris Letang. Very good defenseman and very handsome.”

I rolled my eyes as I began walking away. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“Where are you going?” he called after me.

“I have errands to run.”

Kris didn’t say another word as I made a bee-line for the bathroom. The entire conversation I’d just held felt like an out of body experience. I hadn’t talked to anyone that way since high school—certainly not since my parents passed away or you got sick. And, truthfully, it made me feel disgusting, like I should be more concerned with the little boy hooked up to machines at UPMC than flirting with professional hockey players in the middle of a crowded mall.

Every stall was empty. I locked myself in the handicap one and emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet, trying to force out the guilt I felt, too. I couldn’t decide which was worse: the guilt of somewhat having a life outside of you, or the guilt of knowing I’d never let myself be happy.