Letting you go [COMPLETE]

Chapter 24

Unedited.

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I have a boyfriend. I have a boyfriend.

I repeat the words like a mantra, smiling to myself. Dad keeps glancing at me through the drivers' window, with a frown on his face. Rick, thankfully, isn't in the car with us. He's at school, dropped off by mum an hour earlier. He doesn't even know I'm seeing the oncologist today. I want to keep it that way.

I have a boyfriend.

"What's got you smiling like that?" dad mutters, voice carefully blank.

"No reason, dad," the lie is said too quickly.

Dad doesn't miss it. "Uh huh, honey. Sure there's none."

Mum narrows her eyes at dad. "What he means to say, is that we're glad you're happen. For whatever reason."

I smile tightly. The words seem innocent enough. But I can see the sadness in her eyes, the tears ready to fall at any given moment. Seeing my oncologist can mean a lot of things. Good things. Bad things. Each appointment is the same—I'm basically given a death sentence, only no one's going to kill me, my own body is.

But, this one is different. They'll deliberate on how close I am to getting the lung transfer. Of course, there had to be an organ donor, but the cancer is ultimately the deciding factor. I'm not a doctor but even I know that if the cancer is spreading too quickly, the transfer will be pointless. They have to alienate the cancer to get rid of it. If it's spreading it will be useless.

The last visit to the oncologist hadn't ended well—mum in tears, dad consoling her the best he could. I don't imagine this one going any different, but I'm optimistic. The news should be good this time, considering the luck I've been having.

"Alyson."

I look over to dad. "Yeah?"

"We're early for your appointment, so you'll have wait a bit," he says.

I nod, unsurprised. It isn't something I haven't heard before. Every appointment we have with the oncologist, we leave early. They've never told me the reason but it wasn't hard to figure out. It's to prepare themselves mentally—mum in particular.

She's usually holding back tears the minute we walk in. It gets worse when I have to lie flat so they can do the x-ray for the Radiation. Years ago, it had been through an Endoscopy that the oncologist had used to see how far it had spread. The process had been too traumatising for a younger me, so we'd moved onto Radiation instead.

"That's fine dad. I brought a book with me," I say, reaching down into my small cream bag. Inside is my phone, a random notebook if I want scribble on paper and my book. Mum had bottles of water in her bag in case of an emergency, which is a little ironic. Of all the places for a life or death situation, the hospital with experts is the last place you expect it to be.

"Is it that book?" dad asks.

I roll my eyes, crossing my legs over the seat. Dark jeans cover my legs, the grey hoodie falling easily down to mid-thigh. It's one of dad's old jumpers that he didn't want anymore. When I'd asked for it, he'd stared at me, like he'd been waiting for the punch line. I'd been completely serious though. In the end, he'd given it to me.

It's unusually cold, even for eight in the morning.

The rain falls down heavily, hitting the window loudly next to me. I stare the drops as they roll down the window, gathering more droplets as they go. It's a metaphor for my life really. As I get older, life gets more emotionally draining. It's a process that never stops.