The In-Betweener (Between Life and Death) (S) Read Online Free PDF

weak my voice sounds.
    My mother’s hand comes to a stop on my arm, her fingers resting near the latest IV. For what I’m about to do, my port isn’t enough. I need more points of entry into my body, more needles.
    “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” she whispers, her voice urgent.
    I’ve never said anything like that before and it scares her. I’m agreeable because I’ve always been lost as to what else to say except, “Okay.”
    I’m no doctor and I never cared a bit about medical stuff. I’m twelve and most of what I read about medulloblastoma scares me half to death. Why would I have cared about that stuff before I got sick? And after my diagnosis I was curious, but my mom screened everything. No blogs by dying kids for me. No playdates with the other terminals. And no medical websites, ever.
    She looks around the hospital room, even though there’s no one in here except the two of us. It’s as if she’s afraid that whoever authorized my upcoming treatment will change their mind if they hear me say I’m sick of being sick. I’m sick of dying . But I think anyone who deals with people dying of cancer every day would understand how I feel. Only someone who has been healthy their whole life wouldn’t get it. I’ve had this since I was nine years old. That’s a long time.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, relenting at the hurt look on her face.
    She nods, her face worried and her lips tight with the fear she won’t admit she carries around inside her. Otherwise, she looks no different than any other day. Her uniform is perfect, as usual, but even that can’t erase the fact that she’s not a Marine right now, she’s a mom in full mom-mode.
    She takes a deep breath and then tilts my chin up toward her, so I’ll have to look at her or try really hard not to. As always, she focuses only on my left eye because that’s the one that works. My right eye doesn’t sit correctly in its socket and my sight is all but gone in it. My tumor is big and there’s just no room in my head now. Her eyes flit once toward the giant pink scar on my bald head, but return to my eye again. Her two sighted eyes are filled with love.
    “I know you’re tired, baby girl. There’s just one more hurdle to get through. This is going to work. Have I ever made that promise before? I’m making it now. This is going to work and you will get better.”
    There’s a light in her eyes that’s almost frightening. It’s fervent and desperate. For a moment, I’m convinced that her life is tied to mine, that she’ll die when I do. And I know I will die. I know it like I know that tonight they’ll give me something to “relax” me and then wake me at least three times to check my vitals while I try to sleep, ensuring that I don’t relax at all. This thing we’re doing is a pipe dream.
    We both startle as the door opens abruptly and two doctors stride in. They have white coats, but their camouflaged trousers showing below the hems give them away as military. One is sporting blue camis, while the other is wearing a sort of muddled tan cami pattern similar to my mother’s.
    Blue Cami doctor says, “Hello there, Emily. I’m Doctor Reed. We’re here to walk you through the procedure for tomorrow. Is this a good time?”
    My mother stands, her posture straight and her hands curled into loose fists at her sides. I know that posture. It’s called standing at attention and my mom doesn’t do that often, I don’t think. She wears silver oak leaves on her dressier uniforms and I thought that was a pretty high rank. It actually makes me nervous that she feels she has to remain at attention for these doctors.
    Tan Cami doctor gives her a little downward wave and she sags a bit, her hands once more twisting at her waist and the strain deepening the lines of her face.
    “Of course,” she says.
    I nod because both doctors look at me, seeming to expect an answer from me as well.
    Tan Cami doctor eyes my mother again and then suggests,