ALSOBYJOHNGREEN
LookingforAlaska
AnAbundanceofKatherines
PaperTowns
WillGrayson,WillGrayson
WITHDAVIDLEVITHAN
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TOESTHEREARL
Contents
EPIGRAPH
AUTHOR’SNOTE
CHAPTERONE
CHAPTERTWO
CHAPTERTHREE
CHAPTERFOUR
CHAPTERFIVE
CHAPTERSIX
CHAPTERSEVEN
CHAPTEREIGHT
CHAPTERNINE
CHAPTERTEN
CHAPTERELEVEN
CHAPTERTWELVE
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
CHAPTERNINETEEN
CHAPTERTWENTY
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
As the tide washed in, the Dutch Tulip Man faced the ocean:
“Conjoinerrejoinderpoisonerconcealerrevelator.Lookatit,rising
upandrisingdown,takingeverythingwithit.”
“What’sthat?”Iasked.
“Water,”theDutchmansaid.“Well,andtime.”
—PETERVANHOUTEN,AnImperialAffliction
AUTHOR’SNOTE
This is not somuch an author’s note as an author’s reminder ofwhatwas
printedinsmalltypeafewpagesago:Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Imade
itup.
Neithernovelsnortheirreadersbenefitfromattemptstodivinewhether
anyfactshide insideastory.Sucheffortsattack thevery idea thatmade-up
storiescanmatter,whichissortofthefoundationalassumptionofourspecies.
Iappreciateyourcooperationinthismatter.
CHAPTERONE
Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was
depressed,presumablybecauseIrarelyleftthehouse,spentquitealotoftime
inbed,readthesamebookoverandover,ateinfrequently,anddevotedquite
abitofmyabundantfreetimetothinkingaboutdeath.
Wheneveryoureadacancerbookletorwebsiteorwhatever,theyalways
listdepressionamongthesideeffectsofcancer.But,infact,depressionisnot
asideeffectofcancer.Depressionisasideeffectofdying.(Cancerisalsoa
side effect of dying.Almost everything is, really.)Butmymombelieved I
requiredtreatment,soshetookmetoseemyRegularDoctorJim,whoagreed
thatIwasveritablyswimminginaparalyzingandtotallyclinicaldepression,
and that therefore mymeds should be adjusted and also I should attend a
weeklySupportGroup.
This Support Group featured a rotating cast of characters in various
statesof tumor-drivenunwellness.Whydid thecast rotate?Asideeffectof
dying.
The Support Group, of course, was depressing as hell. It met every
Wednesdayinthebasem*ntofastone-walledEpiscopalchurchshapedlikea
cross.Weall sat in a circle right in themiddle of the cross,where the two
boardswouldhavemet,wheretheheartofJesuswouldhavebeen.
InoticedthisbecausePatrick,theSupportGroupLeaderandonlyperson
over eighteen in the room, talked about the heart of Jesus every freaking
meeting, all about howwe, as young cancer survivors,were sitting right in
Christ’sverysacredheartandwhatever.
So here’s how it went in God’s heart: The six or seven or ten of us
walked/wheeled in, grazed at a decrepit selectionof cookies and lemonade,
sat down in the Circle of Trust, and listened to Patrick recount for the
thousandthtimehisdepressinglymiserablelifestory—howhehadcancerin
hisballsandtheythoughthewasgoingtodiebuthedidn’tdieandnowhere
he is, a full-grown adult in a church basem*nt in the 137th nicest city in
America, divorced, addicted to video games,mostly friendless, eking out a
meager living by exploiting his cancertastic past, slowly working his way
towardamaster’sdegreethatwillnotimprovehiscareerprospects,waiting,
aswealldo,fortheswordofDamoclestogivehimthereliefthatheescaped
lo thosemanyyearsagowhencancer tookbothofhisnutsbutsparedwhat
onlythemostgeneroussoulwouldcallhislife.
ANDYOUTOOMIGHTBESOLUCKY!
Thenwe introducedourselves:Name.Age.Diagnosis.Andhowwe’re
doing today. I’m Hazel, I’d say when they’d get to me. Sixteen. Thyroid
originally but with an impressive and long-settled satellite colony in my
lungs.AndI’mdoingokay.
Oncewegotaroundthecircle,Patrickalwaysaskedifanyonewantedto
share. And then began the circle jerk of support: everyone talking about
fightingandbattlingandwinningandshrinkingandscanning.Tobe fair to
Patrick,heletustalkaboutdying,too.Butmostofthemweren’tdying.Most
wouldliveintoadulthood,asPatrickhad.
(Which meant there was quite a lot of competitiveness about it, with
everybodywantingtobeatnotonlycanceritself,butalsotheotherpeoplein
theroom.Like,Irealizethatthisisirrational,butwhentheytellyouthatyou
have,say,a20percentchanceoflivingfiveyears,themathkicksinandyou
figure that’s one in five . . . so you look around and think, as any healthy
personwould:Igottaoutlastfourofthesebastards.)
TheonlyredeemingfacetofSupportGroupwasthiskidnamedIsaac,a
long-faced,skinnyguywithstraightblondhairsweptoveroneeye.
Andhis eyeswere theproblem.Hehad some fantastically improbable
eyecancer.Oneeyehadbeencutoutwhenhewasakid,andnowheworethe
kindofthickglassesthatmadehiseyes(boththerealoneandtheglassone)
preternaturallyhuge,likehiswholeheadwasbasicallyjustthisfakeeyeand
this realeyestaringatyou.Fromwhat Icouldgatheron the rareoccasions
whenIsaacsharedwiththegroup,arecurrencehadplacedhisremainingeye
inmortalperil.
Isaacand Icommunicatedalmostexclusively throughsighs.Each time
someone discussed anticancer diets or snorting ground-up shark fin or
whatever,he’dglanceoveratmeandsigheversoslightly.I’dshakemyhead
microscopicallyandexhale
,I don’t know
aboutyou,butIhavethevaguesensethatwearebeingoutflanked.”Andthen
backtome,“IsaacandMonicaarenolongeragoingconcern,buthedoesn’t
wanttotalkaboutit.HejustwantstocryandplayCounterinsurgence2:The
PriceofDawn.”
“Fairenough,”Isaid.
“Isaac, I feelagrowingconcernaboutourposition. Ifyouagree,head
overtothatpowerstation,andI’llcoveryou.”Isaacrantowardanondescript
building while Augustus fired a machine gun wildly in a series of quick
bursts,runningbehindhim.
“Anyway,”Augustus said tome,“itdoesn’thurt to talk tohim. Ifyou
haveanysagewordsoffeminineadvice.”
“Iactuallythinkhisresponseisprobablyappropriate,”Isaidasaburst
ofgunfirefromIsaackilledanenemywho’dpeekedhisheadoutfrombehind
theburned-outhuskofapickuptruck.
Augustusnoddedatthescreen.“Paindemandstobefelt,”hesaid,which
was a line fromAn ImperialAffliction. “You’re sure there’s no one behind
us?”heaskedIsaac.Momentslater,tracerbulletsstartedwhizzingovertheir
heads.“Oh,goddamnit,Isaac,”Augustussaid.“Idon’tmeantocriticizeyou
inyourmomentofgreatweakness,butyou’veallowedus tobeoutflanked,
and now there’s nothing between the terrorists and the school.” Isaac’s
character took off running toward the fire, zigging and zagging down a
narrowalleyway.
“Youcouldgoover thebridgeandcircleback,” I said,a tactic Iknew
aboutthankstoThePriceofDawn.
Augustus sighed. “Sadly, the bridge is already under insurgent control
duetoquestionablestrategizingbymybereftcohort.”
“Me?” Isaac said, his voice breathy. “Me?! You’re the one who
suggestedweholeupinthefreakingpowerstation.”
Gus turnedawayfromthescreen forasecondandflashedhiscrooked
smileat Isaac.“Iknewyoucould talk,buddy,”hesaid.“Nowlet’sgosave
somefictionalschoolchildren.”
Together, they ran down the alleyway, firing and hiding at the right
moments, until they reached this one-story, single-room schoolhouse. They
crouchedbehindawallacrossthestreetandpickedofftheenemyonebyone.
“Whydotheywanttogetintotheschool?”Iasked.
“They want the kids as hostages,” Augustus answered. His shoulders
rounded over his controller, slamming buttons, his forearms taut, veins
visible. Isaac leaned toward the screen, the controller dancing in his thin-
fingeredhands.“Get itget itget it,”Augustussaid.Thewavesof terrorists
continued, and they mowed down every one, their shooting astonishingly
precise,asithadtobe,lesttheyfireintotheschool.
“Grenade!Grenade!”Augustus shouted as something arced across the
screen, bounced in the doorway of the school, and then rolled against the
door.
Isaacdroppedhiscontrollerindisappointment.“Ifthebastardscan’ttake
hostages,theyjustkillthemandclaimwedidit.”
“Coverme!”Augustussaidashejumpedoutfrombehindthewalland
raced toward the school. Isaac fumbled for his controller and then started
firingwhilethebulletsraineddownonAugustus,whowasshotonceandthen
twicebutstillran,Augustusshouting,“YOUCAN’TKILLMAXMAYHEM!”
and with a final flurry of button combinations, he dove onto the grenade,
whichdetonatedbeneathhim.Hisdismemberedbodyexplodedlikeageyser
and the screenwent red. A throaty voice said, “MISSION FAILURE,” but
Augustus seemed to think otherwise as he smiled at his remnants on the
screen. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and shoved it
betweenhisteeth.“Savedthekids,”hesaid.
“Temporarily,”Ipointedout.
“All salvation is temporary,” Augustus shot back. “I bought them a
minute.Maybe that’s theminute that buys themanhour,which is thehour
thatbuysthemayear.Noone’sgonnabuythemforever,HazelGrace,butmy
lifeboughtthemaminute.Andthat’snotnothing.”
“Whoa,okay,”Isaid.“We’rejusttalkingaboutpixels.”
Heshrugged,asifhebelievedthegamemightbereallyreal.Isaacwas
wailing again.Augustus snapped his head back to him. “Another go at the
mission,corporal?”
Isaac shook his head no. He leaned over Augustus to look atme and
throughtightlystrungvocalcordssaid,“Shedidn’twanttodoitafter.”
“Shedidn’twanttodumpablindguy,”Isaid.Henodded,thetearsnot
liketearssomuchasaquietmetronome—steady,endless.
“She said she couldn’t handle it,” he told me. “I’m about to lose my
eyesightandshecan’thandleit.”
Iwasthinkingaboutthewordhandle,andalltheunholdablethingsthat
gethandled.“I’msorry,”Isaid.
Hewipedhissoppingfacewithasleeve.Behindhisglasses,Isaac’seyes
seemedsobigthateverythingelseonhisfacekindofdisappearedanditwas
justthesedisembodiedfloatingeyesstaringatme—onereal,oneglass.“It’s
unacceptable,”hetoldme.“It’stotallyunacceptable.”
“Well,tobefair,”Isaid,“Imean,sheprobablycan’thandle it.Neither
canyou,butshedoesn’thavetohandleit.Andyoudo.”
“Ikeptsaying‘always’tohertoday,‘alwaysalwaysalways,’andshejust
kept talkingovermeandnotsayingitback.ItwaslikeIwasalreadygone,
youknow?‘Always’wasapromise!Howcanyoujustbreakthepromise?”
“Sometimespeopledon’tunderstandthepromisesthey’remakingwhen
theymakethem,”Isaid.
Isaac shot me a look. “Right, of course. But you keep the promise
anyway.That’swhatloveis.Loveiskeepingthepromiseanyway.Don’tyou
believeintruelove?”
Ididn’tanswer.Ididn’thaveananswer.ButI thought that if true love
didexist,thatwasaprettygooddefinitionofit.
“Well, I believe in true love,” Isaac said. “And I love her. And she
promised.Shepromisedmealways.”Hestoodandtookasteptowardme.I
pushedmyselfup, thinkinghewantedahugor something,but thenhe just
spunaround,likehecouldn’trememberwhyhe’dstoodupinthefirstplace,
andthenAugustusandIbothsawthisragesettleintohisface.
“Isaac,”Gussaid.
“What?”
“Youlookalittle...Pardonthedoubleentendre,myfriend,butthere’s
somethingalittleworrisomeinyoureyes.”
Suddenly Isaacstartedkicking thecrapoutofhisgamingchair,which
somersaulted back toward Gus’s bed. “Here we go,” said Augustus. Isaac
chasedafterthechairandkickeditagain.“Yes,”Augustussaid.“Getit.Kick
the sh*t out of that chair!” Isaac kicked the chair again, until it bounced
against Gus’s bed, and then he grabbed one of the pillows and started
slammingitagainstthewallbetweenthebedandthetrophyshelfabove.
Augustuslookedoveratme,cigarettestillinhismouth,andhalfsmiled.
“Ican’tstopthinkingaboutthatbook.”
“Iknow,right?”
“Heneversaidwhathappenstotheothercharacters?”
“No,”Itoldhim.Isaacwasstillthrottlingthewallwiththepillow.“He
moved toAmsterdam,whichmakesme thinkmaybehe iswriting a sequel
featuringtheDutchTulipMan,buthehasn’tpublishedanything.He’snever
interviewed.Hedoesn’tseemtobeonline.I’vewrittenhimabunchofletters
asking what happens to everyone, but he never responds. So . . . yeah.” I
stopped talking becauseAugustus didn’t appear to be listening. Instead, he
wassquintingatIsaac.
“Holdon,”hemumbledtome.HewalkedovertoIsaacandgrabbedhim
bytheshoulders.“Dude,pillowsdon’tbreak.Trysomethingthatbreaks.”
Isaac reached forabasketball trophy from theshelfabove thebedand
thenhelditoverhisheadasifwaitingforpermission.“Yes,”Augustussaid.
“Yes!”The trophy smashed against the floor, theplastic basketball player’s
armsplinteringoff,stillgraspingits
,ball.Isaacstompedonthetrophy.“Yes!”
Augustussaid.“Getit!”
Andthenbacktome,“I’vebeenlookingforawaytotellmyfatherthatI
actually sort of hate basketball, and I think we’ve found it.” The trophies
came down one after the other, and Isaac stomped on them and screamed
whileAugustusandIstoodafewfeetaway,bearingwitnesstothemadness.
The poor, mangled bodies of plastic basketballers littered the carpeted
ground:here,aballpalmedbyadisembodiedhand;there,twotorsolesslegs
caughtmidjump.Isaackeptattackingthetrophies,jumpingonthemwithboth
feet, screaming, breathless, sweaty, until finally he collapsed on top of the
jaggedtrophicremnants.
Augustussteppedtowardhimandlookeddown.“Feelbetter?”heasked.
“No,”Isaacmumbled,hischestheaving.
“That’s the thingaboutpain,”Augustus said,and thenglancedbackat
me.“Itdemandstobefelt.”
CHAPTERFIVE
IdidnotspeaktoAugustusagainforaboutaweek.Ihadcalledhimonthe
NightoftheBrokenTrophies,sopertraditionitwashisturntocall.Buthe
didn’t.Now,itwasn’tasifIheldmyphoneinmysweatyhandallday,staring
at it while wearing my Special Yellow Dress, patiently waiting for my
gentleman caller to live up to his sobriquet. I went about my life: I met
Kaitlynandher (cutebut franklynotAugustinian)boyfriend forcoffeeone
afternoon; I ingested my recommended daily allowance of Phalanxifor; I
attended classes three mornings that week at MCC; and every night, I sat
downtodinnerwithmymomanddad.
Sundaynight,wehadpizzawithgreenpeppersandbroccoli.Wewere
seatedaroundour little circular table in thekitchenwhenmyphone started
singing,butIwasn’tallowedtocheckitbecausewehaveastrictno-phones-
during-dinnerrule.
SoIatealittlewhileMomandDadtalkedaboutthisearthquakethathad
justhappenedinPapuaNewGuinea.TheymetinthePeaceCorpsinPapua
New Guinea, and so whenever anything happened there, even something
terrible,itwaslikeallofasuddentheywerenotlargesedentarycreatures,but
theyoungandidealisticandself-sufficientandruggedpeopletheyhadonce
been,andtheirrapturewassuchthattheydidn’tevenglanceoveratmeasI
atefasterthanI’devereaten,transmittingitemsfrommyplateintomymouth
with a speed and ferocity that leftme quite out of breath,which of course
mademeworrythatmylungswereagainswimminginarisingpooloffluid.
IbanishedthethoughtasbestIcould.IhadaPETscanscheduledinacouple
weeks. If something was wrong, I’d find out soon enough. Nothing to be
gainedbyworryingbetweennowandthen.
And yet still Iworried. I liked being a person. Iwanted to keep at it.
Worryisyetanothersideeffectofdying.
Finally I finished and said, “Can I be excused?” and they hardly even
paused from their conversation about the strengths and weaknesses of
Guinean infrastructure. I grabbedmy phone frommy purse on the kitchen
counterandcheckedmyrecentcalls.AugustusWaters.
Iwentoutthebackdoorintothetwilight.Icouldseetheswingset,andI
thought aboutwalking out there and swingingwhile I talked to him, but it
seemedprettyfarawaygiventhateatingtiredme.
Instead,Ilaydowninthegrassonthepatio’sedge,lookedupatOrion,
theonlyconstellationIcouldrecognize,andcalledhim.
“HazelGrace,”hesaid.
“Hi,”Isaid.“Howareyou?”
“Grand,”hesaid.“Ihavebeenwantingtocallyouonanearlyminutely
basis,butIhavebeenwaitinguntilIcouldformacoherentthoughtinreAn
ImperialAffliction.”(Hesaid“inre.”Hereallydid.Thatboy.)
“And?”Isaid.
“Ithinkit’s,like.Readingit,Ijustkeptfeelinglike,like.”
“Like?”Iasked,teasinghim.
“Likeitwasagift?”hesaidaskingly.“Likeyou’dgivenmesomething
important.”
“Oh,”Isaidquietly.
“That’scheesy,”hesaid.“I’msorry.”
“No,”Isaid.“No.Don’tapologize.”
“Butitdoesn’tend.”
“Yeah,”Isaid.
“Torture.Itotallygetit,like,Igetthatshediedorwhatever.”
“Right,Iassumeso,”Isaid.
“And okay, fair enough, but there is this unwritten contract between
author and reader and I think not ending your book kind of violates that
contract.”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling defensive of PeterVanHouten. “That’s
partofwhatIlikeaboutthebookinsomeways.Itportraysdeathtruthfully.
Youdie in themiddleof your life, in themiddleof a sentence.But I do—
God,Idoreallywanttoknowwhathappenstoeveryoneelse.That’swhatI
askedhiminmyletters.Buthe,yeah,heneveranswers.”
“Right.Yousaidheisarecluse?”
“Correct.”
“Impossibletotrackdown.”
“Correct.”
“Utterlyunreachable,”Augustussaid.
“Unfortunatelyso,”Isaid.
“‘DearMr.Waters,’”heanswered.“‘Iamwritingtothankyouforyour
electroniccorrespondence, receivedviaMs.Vliegenthart thissixthofApril,
fromtheUnitedStatesofAmerica,insofarasgeographycanbesaidtoexist
inourtriumphantlydigitizedcontemporaneity.’”
“Augustus,whatthehell?”
“Hehasanassistant,”Augustussaid.“LidewijVliegenthart.Ifoundher.
Iemailedher.Shegavehimtheemail.Herespondedviaheremailaccount.”
“Okay,okay.Keepreading.”
“‘My response is being written with ink and paper in the glorious
tradition of our ancestors and then transcribed by Ms. Vliegenthart into a
seriesof1sand0stotravelthroughtheinsipidwebwhichhaslatelyensnared
ourspecies,soIapologizeforanyerrorsoromissionsthatmayresult.
“‘Giventheentertainmentbacchanaliaatthedisposalofyoungmenand
womenofyourgeneration,Iamgratefultoanyoneanywherewhosetsaside
thehoursnecessarytoreadmylittlebook.ButIamparticularlyindebtedto
you,sir,bothforyourkindwordsaboutAnImperialAfflictionandfortaking
thetimetotellmethatthebook,andhereIquoteyoudirectly,“meantagreat
deal”toyou.
“‘Thiscomment,however, leadsme towonder:Whatdoyoumeanby
meant?Giventhefinalfutilityofourstruggle,isthefleetingjoltofmeaning
that art gives us valuable? Or is the only value in passing the time as
comfortablyaspossible?Whatshouldastoryseektoemulate,Augustus?A
ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? Of course, like all
interrogation of the universe, this line of inquiry inevitably reduces us to
askingwhatitmeanstobehumanandwhether—toborrowaphrasefromthe
angst-encumberedsixteen-year-oldsyounodoubtrevile—thereisapointtoit
all.
“‘I fear there is not, my friend, and that you would receive scant
encouragementfromfurtherencounterswithmywriting.Buttoansweryour
question:No, Ihavenotwrittenanythingelse,norwill I. I donot feel that
continuing to sharemy thoughtswith readerswould benefit either them or
me.Thankyouagainforyourgenerousemail.
“‘Yoursmostsincerely,PeterVanHouten,viaLidewijVliegenthart.’”
“Wow,”Isaid.“Areyoumakingthisup?”
“HazelGrace,couldI,withmymeagerintellectualcapacities,makeupa
letter from Peter Van Houten featuring phrases like ‘our triumphantly
digitizedcontemporaneity’?”
“Youcouldnot,”Iallowed.“CanI,canIhavetheemailaddress?”
“Ofcourse,”Augustussaid,likeitwasnotthebestgiftever.
IspentthenexttwohourswritinganemailtoPeterVanHouten.Itseemedto
getworseeachtimeIrewroteit,butIcouldn’tstopmyself.
DearMr.PeterVanHouten
(c/oLidewijVliegenthart),
My name is Hazel Grace Lancaster. My friend Augustus
Waters, who read An Imperial Affliction at my recommendation,
justreceivedanemailfromyouatthisaddress.Ihopeyouwillnot
,mindthatAugustussharedthatemailwithme.
Mr. Van Houten, I understand from your email to Augustus
thatyouarenotplanningtopublishanymorebooks.Inaway,Iam
disappointed,butI’malsorelieved:Ineverhavetoworrywhether
your next book will live up to the magnificent perfection of the
original.Asathree-yearsurvivorofStageIVcancer,Icantellyou
thatyougoteverything right inAn ImperialAffliction.Or at least
you gotme right. Your book has a way of telling me what I’m
feelingbeforeIevenfeelit,andI’verereaditdozensoftimes.
I wonder, though, if you would mind answering a couple
questions I have aboutwhat happens after the end of the novel. I
understandthebookendsbecauseAnnadiesorbecomestooill to
continuewritingit,butIwouldreallyliketoknowwhathappensto
Anna’smom—whethershemarriedtheDutchTulipMan,whether
sheeverhasanotherchild,andwhethershestaysat917W.Temple,
etc. Also, is theDutch TulipMan a fraud or does he really love
them? What happens to Anna’s friends—particularly Claire and
Jake?Do they stay together?And lastly—I realize that this is the
kind of deep and thoughtful question you always hoped your
readerswouldask—whatbecomesofSisyphustheHamster?These
questionshavehauntedmeforyears—andIdon’tknowhowlongI
havelefttogetanswerstothem.
Iknowthesearenotimportantliteraryquestionsandthatyour
bookisfullof important literaryquestions,butIwould just really
liketoknow.
And of course, if you ever do decide towrite anything else,
evenifyoudon’twanttopublish*t,I’dlovetoreadit.Frankly,I’d
readyourgrocerylists.
Yourswithgreatadmiration,
HazelGraceLancaster
(age16)
AfterIsentit,IcalledAugustusback,andwestayeduplatetalkingaboutAn
Imperial Affliction, and I read him the Emily Dickinson poem that Van
Houtenhadusedforthetitle,andhesaidIhadagoodvoiceforreadingand
didn’tpause too long for the linebreaks,and thenhe toldme that thesixth
PriceofDawnbook,TheBloodApproves,beginswithaquotefromapoem.
It tookhim aminute to find the book, but finally he read the quote tome.
“‘Sayyourlifebrokedown.Thelastgoodkiss/Youhadwasyearsago.’”
“Notbad,”Isaid.“Bitpretentious.IbelieveMaxMayhemwouldrefer
tothatas‘sissysh*t.’”
“Yes,withhisteethgritted,nodoubt.God,Mayhemgritshisteethalot
in these books. He’s definitely going to get TMJ, if he survives all this
combat.”Andthenafterasecond,Gusasked,“Whenwasthelastgoodkiss
youhad?”
I thought about it. My kissing—all prediagnosis—had been
uncomfortableandslobbery,andonsomelevelitalwaysfeltlikekidsplaying
atbeinggrown.Butofcourseithadbeenawhile.“Yearsago,”Isaidfinally.
“You?”
“Ihadafewgoodkisseswithmyex-girlfriend,CarolineMathers.”
“Yearsago?”
“Thelastonewasjustlessthanayearago.”
“Whathappened?”
“Duringthekiss?”
“No,withyouandCaroline.”
“Oh,”hesaid.Andthenafterasecond,“Carolineisnolongersuffering
frompersonhood.”
“Oh,”Isaid.
“Yeah,”hesaid.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.I’dknownplentyofdeadpeople,ofcourse.ButI’d
neverdatedone.Icouldn’tevenimagineit,really.
“Notyourfault,HazelGrace.We’realljustsideeffects,right?”
“‘Barnacles on the container ship of consciousness,’” I said, quoting
AIA.
“Okay,”hesaid.“Igottagotosleep.It’salmostone.”
“Okay,”Isaid.
“Okay,”hesaid.
Igiggledandsaid,“Okay.”Andthenthelinewasquietbutnotdead.I
almostfeltlikehewasthereinmyroomwithme,butinawayitwasbetter,
likeIwasnotinmyroomandhewasnotinhis,butinsteadweweretogether
in some invisible and tenuous third space that could only be visited on the
phone.
“Okay,”hesaidafterforever.“Maybeokaywillbeouralways.”
“Okay,”Isaid.
ItwasAugustuswhofinallyhungup.
PeterVanHoutenrepliedtoAugustus’semailfourhoursafterhesentit,but
twodayslater,VanHoutenstillhadn’trepliedtome.Augustusassuredmeit
wasbecausemyemailwasbetter and required amore thoughtful response,
thatVanHoutenwasbusywritinganswerstomyquestions,andthatbrilliant
prosetooktime.ButstillIworried.
OnWednesdayduringAmericanPoetry forDummies101, Igot a text
fromAugustus:
Isaacoutofsurgery.Itwentwell.He’sofficiallyNEC.
NECmeant“noevidenceofcancer.”Asecondtextcameafewsecondslater.
Imean,he’sblind.Sothat’sunfortunate.
Thatafternoon,MomconsentedtoloanmethecarsoIcoulddrivedown
toMemorialtocheckinonIsaac.
Ifoundmywaytohisroomonthefifthfloor,knockingeventhoughthe
doorwasopen,andawoman’svoicesaid,“Comein.”Itwasanursewhowas
doingsomethingtothebandagesonIsaac’seyes.“Hey,Isaac,”Isaid.
Andhesaid,“Mon?”
“Oh,no.Sorry.No, it’s,um,Hazel.Um,SupportGroupHazel?Night-
of-the-broken-trophiesHazel?”
“Oh,”hesaid.“Yeah,peoplekeepsayingmyothersenseswillimprove
to compensate, butCLEARLYNOTYET.Hi,SupportGroupHazel.Come
overheresoIcanexamineyourfacewithmyhandsandseedeeperintoyour
soulthanasightedpersonevercould.”
“He’skidding,”thenursesaid.
“Yes,”Isaid.“Irealize.”
Itookafewstepstowardthebed.Ipulledachairupandsatdown,took
hishand.“Hey,”Isaid.
“Hey,”hesaidback.Thennothingforawhile.
“Howyoufeeling?”Iasked.
“Okay,”hesaid.“Idon’tknow.”
“Youdon’tknowwhat?”Iasked. I lookedathishandbecauseIdidn’t
want to look at his face blindfolded by bandages. Isaac bit his nails, and I
couldseesomebloodonthecornersofacoupleofhiscuticles.
“Shehasn’t evenvisited,”he said. “Imean,wewere together fourteen
months.Fourteenmonthsisalongtime.God,thathurts.”Isaacletgoofmy
handtofumbleforhispainpump,whichyouhit togiveyourselfawaveof
narcotics.
Thenurse,havingfinishedthebandagechange,steppedback.“It’sonly
been a day, Isaac,” she said, vaguely condescending. “You’ve gotta give
yourselftimetoheal.Andfourteenmonthsisn’tthatlong,notinthescheme
ofthings.You’rejustgettingstarted,buddy.You’llsee.”
Thenurseleft.“Isshegone?”
Inodded,thenrealizedhecouldn’tseemenod.“Yeah,”Isaid.
“I’llsee?Really?Didsheseriouslysaythat?”
“Qualitiesofa*goodNurse:Go,”Isaid.
“1.Doesn’tpunonyourdisability,”Isaacsaid.
“2.Getsbloodonthefirsttry,”Isaid.
“Seriously,thatishuge.Imeanisthismyfreakingarmoradartboard?3.
Nocondescendingvoice.”
“Howareyoudoing,sweetie?”Iasked,cloying.“I’mgoingtostickyou
withaneedlenow.Theremightbealittleouchie.”
“Ismywittle fuffywump sickywicky?” he answered.And then after a
second, “Most of them are good, actually. I just want the hell out of this
place.”
“Thisplaceasinthehospital?”
“That, too,” he said. His mouth tightened. I could see the pain.
“Honestly, I think a hell of a lot more aboutMonica thanmy eye. Is that
crazy?That’scrazy.”
“It’salittlecrazy,”Iallowed.
“But I believe in true love, you know? I don’t believe that everybody
getstokeeptheireyesornotgetsickorwhatever,buteverybodyshouldhave
truelove,anditshouldlastatleastaslongasyourlifedoes.”
“Yeah,”Isaid.
“I just wish the whole thing hadn’t happened sometimes. The whole
cancerthing.”Hisspeechwasslowingdown.Themedicineworking.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.
“Guswashere earlier.Hewasherewhen Iwokeup.Tookoff school.
He...”Hisheadturnedtothesidealittle.“It’sbetter,”hesaidquietly.
“Thepain?”Iasked.Henoddedalittle.
“Good,”
,I said. And then, like the bitch I am: “You were saying
somethingaboutGus?”Buthewasgone.
Iwentdownstairstothetinywindowlessgiftshopandaskedthedecrepit
volunteersittingonastoolbehindacashregisterwhatkindofflowerssmell
thestrongest.
“Theyallsmellthesame.TheygetsprayedwithSuperScent,”shesaid.
“Really?”
“Yeah,theyjustsquirt’emwithit.”
I opened the cooler to her left and sniffed at a dozen roses, and then
leanedoversomecarnations.Samesmell,andlotsofit.Thecarnationswere
cheaper,soIgrabbedadozenyellowones.Theycostfourteendollars.Iwent
backintotheroom;hismomwasthere,holdinghishand.Shewasyoungand
reallypretty.
“Are you a friend?” she asked, which struck me as one of those
unintentionallybroadandunanswerablequestions.
“Um,yeah,”Isaid.“I’mfromSupportGroup.Theseareforhim.”
Shetookthemandplacedtheminherlap.“DoyouknowMonica?”she
asked.
Ishookmyheadno.
“Well,he’ssleeping,”shesaid.
“Yeah.Italkedtohimalittlebefore,whentheyweredoingthebandages
orwhatever.”
“IhatedleavinghimforthatbutIhadtopickupGrahamatschool,”she
said.
“He did okay,” I told her. She nodded. “I should let him sleep.” She
noddedagain.Ileft.
ThenextmorningIwokeupearlyandcheckedmyemailfirstthing.
lidewij.vliegenthart@gmail.comhadfinallyreplied.
DearMs.Lancaster,
I fear your faith has beenmisplaced—but then, faith usually is. I
cannot answer your questions, at least not in writing, because to
write out such answers would constitute a sequel toAn Imperial
Affliction, which you might publish or otherwise share on the
networkthathasreplacedthebrainsofyourgeneration.Thereisthe
telephone, but then youmight record the conversation.Not that I
don’ttrustyou,ofcourse,butIdon’ttrustyou.Alas,dearHazel,I
could never answer such questions except in person, and you are
there,whileIamhere.
Thatnoted,Imustconfessthattheunexpectedreceiptofyour
correspondence via Ms. Vliegenthart has delighted me: What a
wondrousthingtoknowthatImadesomethingusefultoyou—even
ifthatbookseemssodistantfrommethatIfeelitwaswrittenbya
differentmanaltogether. (Theauthorof thatnovelwasso thin,so
frail,socomparativelyoptimistic!)
Should you find yourself inAmsterdam, however, please do
payavisitatyourleisure.Iamusuallyhome.Iwouldevenallow
youapeekatmygrocerylists.
Yoursmostsincerely,
PeterVanHouten
c/oLidewijVliegenthart
“WHAT?!”Ishoutedaloud.“WHATISTHISLIFE?”
Momranin.“What’swrong?”
“Nothing,”Iassuredher.
Still nervous, Mom knelt down to check on Philip to ensure he was
condensing oxygen appropriately. I imagined sitting at a sun-drenched café
withPeterVanHoutenasheleanedacrossthetableonhiselbows,speaking
inasoftvoicesonooneelsewouldhear the truthofwhathappened to the
charactersI’dspentyearsthinkingabout.He’dsaidhecouldn’ttellmeexcept
inperson,and then invitedme toAmsterdam. I explained this toMom,and
thensaid,“Ihavetogo.”
“Hazel,Iloveyou,andyouknowI’ddoanythingforyou,butwedon’t
—wedon’thavethemoneyforinternationaltravel,andtheexpenseofgetting
equipmentoverthere—love,it’sjustnot—”
“Yeah,”Isaid,cuttingheroff.IrealizedI’dbeensillyeventoconsider
it.“Don’tworryaboutit.”Butshelookedworried.
“It’sreallyimportanttoyou,yeah?”sheasked,sittingdown,ahandon
mycalf.
“Itwouldbeprettyamazing,”Isaid,“tobetheonlypersonwhoknows
whathappensbesideshim.”
“Thatwouldbeamazing,”shesaid.“I’lltalktoyourfather.”
“No,don’t,”Isaid.“Just,seriously,don’tspendanymoneyonitplease.
I’llthinkofsomething.”
Itoccurredtomethatthereasonmyparentshadnomoneywasme.I’d
sappedthefamilysavingswithPhalanxiforcopays,andMomcouldn’twork
because she had taken on the full-time profession ofHoveringOverMe. I
didn’twanttoputthemevenfurtherintodebt.
ItoldMomIwantedtocallAugustustogetheroutoftheroom,because
Icouldn’thandleherI-can’t-make-my-daughter’s-dreams-come-truesadface.
AugustusWaters–style,Ireadhimtheletterinlieuofsayinghello.
“Wow,”hesaid.
“Iknow,right?”Isaid.“HowamIgoingtogettoAmsterdam?”
“Do you have a Wish?” he asked, referring to this organization, The
GenieFoundation,whichisinthebusinessofgrantingsickkidsonewish.
“No,”Isaid.“IusedmyWishpre-Miracle.”
“What’dyoudo?”
Isighedloudly.“Iwasthirteen,”Isaid.
“NotDisney,”hesaid.
Isaidnothing.
“YoudidnotgotoDisneyWorld.”
Isaidnothing.
“HazelGRACE!”heshouted.“YoudidnotuseyouronedyingWishto
gotoDisneyWorldwithyourparents.”
“AlsoEpcotCenter,”Imumbled.
“Oh,myGod,”Augustussaid.“Ican’tbelieveIhaveacrushonagirl
withsuchclichéwishes.”
“Iwas thirteen,” I said again, although of course I was only thinking
crush crush crush crush crush. I was flattered but changed the subject
immediately.“Shouldn’tyoubeinschoolorsomething?”
“I’mplayinghookytohangoutwithIsaac,buthe’ssleeping,soI’min
theatriumdoinggeometry.”
“How’shedoing?”Iasked.
“I can’t tell if he’s just not ready to confront the seriousness of his
disabilityorifhereallydoescaremoreaboutgettingdumpedbyMonica,but
hewon’ttalkaboutanythingelse.”
“Yeah,”Isaid.“Howlong’shegonnabeinthehospital?”
“Fewdays.Thenhegoestothisrehaborsomethingforawhile,buthe
getstosleepathome,Ithink.”
“Sucks,”Isaid.
“Iseehismom.Igottago.”
“Okay,”Isaid.
“Okay,”heanswered.Icouldhearhiscrookedsmile.
OnSaturday,myparents and Iwent down to the farmers’market inBroad
Ripple. It was sunny, a rarity for Indiana in April, and everyone at the
farmers’marketwaswearingshortsleeveseventhoughthetemperaturedidn’t
quite justify it.WeHoosiersareexcessivelyoptimisticaboutsummer.Mom
andIsatnexttoeachotheronabenchacrossfromagoat-soapmaker,aman
inoverallswhohadtoexplaintoeverysinglepersonwhowalkedbythatyes,
theywerehisgoats,andno,goatsoapdoesnotsmelllikegoats.
Myphonerang.“Whoisit?”MomaskedbeforeIcouldevencheck.
“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.ItwasGus,though.
“Areyoucurrentlyatyourhouse?”heasked.
“Um,no,”Isaid.
“Thatwasatrickquestion.Iknewtheanswer,becauseIamcurrentlyat
yourhouse.”
“Oh.Um.Well,weareonourway,Iguess?”
“Awesome.Seeyousoon.”
AugustusWaterswassittingonthefrontstepaswepulledintothedriveway.
Hewasholdingabouquetofbrightorangetulipsjustbeginningtobloom,and
wearing an Indiana Pacers jersey under his fleece, a wardrobe choice that
seemedutterlyoutofcharacter,although itdid lookquitegoodonhim.He
pushedhimselfupoffthestoop,handedmethetulips,andasked,“Wannago
onapicnic?”Inodded,takingtheflowers.
MydadwalkedupbehindmeandshookGus’shand.
“IsthataRikSmitsjersey?”mydadasked.
“Indeeditis.”
“God,Ilovedthatguy,”Dadsaid,andimmediatelytheywereengrossed
inabasketballconversationIcouldnot(anddidnotwantto)join,soItook
mytulipsinside.
“Doyouwantmetoputthoseinavase?”MomaskedasIwalkedin,a
hugesmileonherface.
“No,it’sokay,”Itoldher.Ifwe’dputtheminavaseinthelivingroom,
theywouldhavebeeneveryone’sflowers.Iwantedthemtobemyflowers.
Iwent tomyroombutdidn’tchange. Ibrushedmyhairand teethand
putonsomelipglossandthesmallestpossibledabofperfume.Ikeptlooking
attheflowers.Theywereaggressivelyorange,almosttooorange
,tobepretty.
I didn’t have a vase or anything, so I took my toothbrush out of my
toothbrushholderandfilledithalfwaywithwaterandlefttheflowerstherein
thebathroom.
WhenIreenteredmyroom,Icouldhearpeopletalking,soIsatonthe
edgeofmybedforawhileandlistenedthroughmyhollowbedroomdoor:
Dad:“SoyoumetHazelatSupportGroup.”
Augustus: “Yes, sir. This is a lovely house you’ve got. I like your
artwork.”
Mom:“Thankyou,Augustus.”
Dad:“You’reasurvivoryourself,then?”
Augustus: “I am. I didn’t cut this fella off for the sheer unadulterated
pleasure of it, although it is an excellent weight-loss strategy. Legs are
heavy!”
Dad:“Andhow’syourhealthnow?”
Augustus:“NECforfourteenmonths.”
Mom:“That’swonderful.Thetreatmentoptionsthesedays—itreallyis
remarkable.”
Augustus:“Iknow.I’mlucky.”
Dad:“YouhavetounderstandthatHazelisstillsick,Augustus,andwill
befortherestofherlife.She’llwanttokeepupwithyou,butherlungs—”
AtwhichpointIemerged,silencinghim.
“Sowhereareyougoing?”askedMom.Augustusstoodupand leaned
overtoher,whisperingtheanswer,andthenheldafingertohislips.“Shh,”
hetoldher.“It’sasecret.”
Mom smiled. “You’ve got your phone?” she askedme. I held it up as
evidence, tiltedmy oxygen cart onto its front wheels, and startedwalking.
Augustus hustled over, offering me his arm, which I took. My fingers
wrappedaroundhisbiceps.
Unfortunately, he insisted upon driving, so the surprise could be a
surprise. As we shuddered toward our destination, I said, “You nearly
charmedthepantsoffmymom.”
“Yeah, andyourdad is aSmits fan,whichhelps.You think they liked
me?”
“Suretheydid.Whocares,though?They’rejustparents.”
“They’reyourparents,”hesaid,glancingoveratme.“Plus,Ilikebeing
liked.Isthatcrazy?”
“Well, you don’t have to rush to hold doors open or smother me in
complimentsformetolikeyou.”Heslammedthebrakes,andIflewforward
hardenoughthatmybreathingfeltweirdandtight.IthoughtofthePETscan.
Don’tworry.Worryisuseless.Iworriedanyway.
Weburnedrubber,roaringawayfromastopsignbeforeturningleftonto
the misnomered Grandview (there’s a view of a golf course, I guess, but
nothing grand). The only thing I could think of in this direction was the
cemetery.Augustusreachedintothecenterconsole,flippedopenafullpack
ofcigarettes,andremovedone.
“Doyoueverthrowthemaway?”Iaskedhim.
“Oneofthemanybenefitsofnotsmokingisthatpacksofcigaretteslast
forever,”heanswered.“I’vehadthisoneforalmostayear.Afewofthemare
broken near the filters, but I think this pack could easily get me to my
eighteenthbirthday.”Heheldthefilterbetweenhisfingers,thenputitinhis
mouth.“So,okay,”hesaid.“Okay.Namesomethingsthatyouneverseein
Indianapolis.”
“Um.Skinnyadults,”Isaid.
Helaughed.“Good.Keepgoing.”
“Mmm,beaches.Family-ownedrestaurants.Topography.”
“Allexcellentexamplesofthingswelack.Also,culture.”
“Yeah,weareabit shortonculture,” I said, finally realizingwherehe
wastakingme.“Arewegoingtothemuseum?”
“Inamannerofspeaking.”
“Oh,arewegoingtothatparkorwhatever?”
Guslookedabitdeflated.“Yes,wearegoingtothatparkorwhatever,”
hesaid.“You’vefigureditout,haven’tyou?”
“Um,figuredwhatout?”
“Nothing.”
Therewas thisparkbehind themuseumwhereabunchof artistshadmade
big sculptures. I’d heard about it but had never visited.We drove past the
museumandparked rightnext to thisbasketballcourt filledwithhugeblue
andredsteelarcsthatimaginedthepathofabouncingball.
Wewalkeddownwhatpasses forahill in Indianapolis to thisclearing
wherekidswereclimbingalloverthishugeoversizeskeletonsculpture.The
boneswereeachaboutwaisthigh,andthethighbonewaslongerthanme.It
lookedlikeachild’sdrawingofaskeletonrisingupoutoftheground.
My shoulder hurt. I worried the cancer had spread from my lungs. I
imagined the tumormetastasizing intomyownbones,boringholes intomy
skeleton,aslitheringeelof insidiousintent.“FunkyBones,”Augustussaid.
“CreatedbyJoepVanLieshout.”
“SoundsDutch.”
“Heis,”Gussaid.“So isRikSmits.Soare tulips.”Gusstoppedin the
middle of the clearing with the bones right in front of us and slipped his
backpack off one shoulder, then the other. He unzipped it, producing an
orange blanket, a pint of orange juice, and some sandwiches wrapped in
plasticwrapwiththecrustscutoff.
“What’s with all the orange?” I asked, still not wanting to let myself
imaginethatallthiswouldleadtoAmsterdam.
“NationalcoloroftheNetherlands,ofcourse.YourememberWilliamof
Orangeandeverything?”
“Hewasn’tontheGEDtest.”Ismiled,tryingtocontainmyexcitement.
“Sandwich?”heasked.
“Letmeguess,”Isaid.
“Dutchcheese.Andtomato.ThetomatoesarefromMexico.Sorry.”
“You’realwayssuchadisappointment,Augustus.Couldn’tyouhaveat
leastgottenorangetomatoes?”
He laughed, and we ate our sandwiches in silence, watching the kids
playonthesculpture.Icouldn’tverywellaskhimaboutit,soIjustsatthere
surroundedbyDutchness,feelingawkwardandhopeful.
Inthedistance,soakedintheunblemishedsunlightsorareandprecious
in our hometown, a gaggle of kids made a skeleton into a playground,
jumpingbackandforthamongtheprostheticbones.
“TwothingsIloveaboutthissculpture,”Augustussaid.Hewasholding
theunlitcigarettebetweenhisfingers,flickingatitasiftogetridoftheash.
Heplaceditbackinhismouth.“First,thebonesarejustfarenoughapartthat
ifyou’reakid,youcannotresist theurge to jumpbetween them.Like,you
just have to jump from rib cage to skull. Which means that, second, the
sculpture essentially forces children to play on bones. The symbolic
resonancesareendless,HazelGrace.”
“You do love symbols,” I said, hoping to steer the conversation back
towardthemanysymbolsoftheNetherlandsatourpicnic.
“Right,aboutthat.Youareprobablywonderingwhyyouareeatingabad
cheesesandwichanddrinkingorangejuiceandwhyIamwearingthejersey
ofaDutchmanwhoplayedasportIhavecometoloathe.”
“Ithascrossedmymind,”Isaid.
“Hazel Grace, like so many children before you—and I say this with
great affection—you spent your Wish hastily, with little care for the
consequences.TheGrimReaperwasstaringyou in the faceand the fearof
dyingwithyourWish still in your proverbial pocket, ungranted, ledyou to
rushtowardthefirstWishyoucouldthinkof,andyou,likesomanyothers,
chosethecoldandartificialpleasuresofthethemepark.”
“Iactuallyhadagreattimeonthattrip.ImetGoofyandMinn—”
“Iaminthemidstofasoliloquy!Iwrotethisoutandmemorizeditand
if you interrupt me I will completely screw it up,” Augustus interrupted.
“Please to be eating your sandwich and listening.” (The sandwich was
inediblydry,butIsmiledandtookabiteanyway.)“Okay,wherewasI?”
“Theartificialpleasures.”
He returned the cigarette to its pack. “Right, the cold and artificial
pleasuresofthethemepark.ButletmesubmitthattherealheroesoftheWish
FactoryaretheyoungmenandwomenwhowaitlikeVladimirandEstragon
wait for Godot and good Christian girls wait for marriage. These young
heroeswaitstoicallyandwithoutcomplaintfor theironetrueWishtocome
along.Sure,itmaynevercomealong,butatleasttheycanresteasily
,inthe
graveknowing that they’vedone their littlepart topreserve the integrityof
theWishasanidea.
“But then again, maybe itwill come along:Maybe you’ll realize that
your one true Wish is to visit the brilliant Peter Van Houten in his
Amsterdamianexile,andyouwillbegladindeedtohavesavedyourWish.”
AugustusstoppedspeakinglongenoughthatIfiguredthesoliloquywas
over.“ButIdidn’tsavemyWish,”Isaid.
“Ah,”hesaid.Andthen,afterwhatfeltlikeapracticedpause,headded,
“ButIsavedmine.”
“Really?” I was surprised that AugustuswasWish-eligible, what with
beingstill inschoolandayearintoremission.Youhadtobeprettysickfor
theGeniestohookyouupwithaWish.
“Igotitinexchangefortheleg,”heexplained.Therewasallthislight
on his face; he had to squint to look at me, which made his nose crinkle
adorably.“Now,I’mnotgoingtogiveyoumyWishoranything.ButIalso
haveaninterestinmeetingPeterVanHouten,anditwouldn’tmakesenseto
meethimwithoutthegirlwhointroducedmetohisbook.”
“Itdefinitelywouldn’t,”Isaid.
“So I talked to theGenies, and they are in total agreement.They said
Amsterdam is lovely in the beginningofMay.Theyproposed leavingMay
thirdandreturningMayseventh.”
“Augustus,really?”
HereachedoverandtouchedmycheekandforamomentI thoughthe
mightkissme.Mybodytensed,andIthinkhesawit,becausehepulledhis
handaway.
“Augustus,”Isaid.“Really.Youdon’thavetodothis.”
“SureIdo,”hesaid.“IfoundmyWish.”
“God,you’rethebest,”Itoldhim.
“Ibetyousaythattoalltheboyswhofinanceyourinternationaltravel,”
heanswered.
CHAPTERSIX
Mom was folding my laundry while watching this TV show called The
View when I got home. I told her that the tulips and the Dutch artist and
everything were all because Augustus was using his Wish to take me to
Amsterdam.“That’stoomuch,”shesaid,shakingherhead.“Wecan’taccept
thatfromavirtualstranger.”
“He’snotastranger.He’seasilymysecondbestfriend.”
“BehindKaitlyn?”
“Behindyou,”Isaid.Itwastrue,butI’dmostlysaiditbecauseIwanted
togotoAmsterdam.
“I’llaskDr.Maria,”shesaidafteramoment.
***
Dr. Maria said I couldn’t go to Amsterdam without an adult intimately
familiarwithmy case,whichmore or lessmeant eitherMomorDr.Maria
herself. (My dad understood my cancer the way I did: in the vague and
incompletewaypeopleunderstandelectricalcircuitsandoceantides.Butmy
momknewmoreaboutdifferentiated thyroidcarcinoma inadolescents than
mostoncologists.)
“So you’ll come,” I said. “TheGenieswill pay for it. TheGenies are
loaded.”
“But your father,” she said. “Hewouldmiss us. Itwouldn’t be fair to
him,andhecan’tgettimeoffwork.”
“Are you kidding? You don’t think Dad would enjoy a few days of
watching TV shows that are not about aspiringmodels and ordering pizza
everynight,usingpapertowelsasplatessohedoesn’thavetodothedishes?”
Mom laughed. Finally, she started to get excited, typing tasks into her
phone: She’d have to call Gus’s parents and talk to the Genies about my
medicalneedsanddotheyhaveahotelyetandwhatarethebestguidebooks
andweshoulddoourresearchifweonlyhavethreedays,andsoon.Ikindof
hadaheadache,soIdownedacoupleAdvilanddecidedtotakeanap.
But I ended up just lying in bed and replaying the whole picnic with
Augustus.Icouldn’tstopthinkingaboutthelittlemomentwhenI’dtensedup
as he touched me. The gentle familiarity felt wrong, somehow. I thought
maybe it was how orchestrated the whole thing had been: Augustus was
amazing, but he’d overdone everything at the picnic, right down to the
sandwiches that were metaphorically resonant but tasted terrible and the
memorizedsoliloquythatpreventedconversation.ItallfeltRomantic,butnot
romantic.
Butthetruthis thatIhadneverwantedhimtokissme,notintheway
you are supposed to want these things. I mean, he was gorgeous. I was
attractedtohim.Ithoughtabouthiminthatway,toborrowaphrasefromthe
middleschoolvernacular.Buttheactualtouch,therealizedtouch...itwas
allwrong.
ThenIfoundmyselfworryingIwouldhavetomakeoutwithhimtoget
to Amsterdam, which is not the kind of thing you want to be thinking,
because (a) It shouldn’t’ve even been a question whether I wanted to kiss
him, and (b) Kissing someone so that you can get a free trip is perilously
close to full-on hooking, and I have to confess that while I did not fancy
myselfaparticularlygoodperson,Ineverthoughtmyfirstrealsexualaction
wouldbeprostitutional.
But thenagain,hehadn’t tried tokissme;he’donly touchedmy face,
whichisnotevensexual.Itwasnotamovedesignedtoelicitarousal,butit
wascertainlyadesignedmove,becauseAugustusWaterswasnoimproviser.
Sowhathadhebeentryingtoconvey?Andwhyhadn’tIwantedtoacceptit?
Atsomepoint,IrealizedIwasKaitlyningtheencounter,soIdecidedto
textKaitlynandaskforsomeadvice.Shecalledimmediately.
“Ihaveaboyproblem,”Isaid.
“DELICIOUS,”Kaitlynresponded.Itoldherallaboutit,completewith
the awkward face touching, leaving out only Amsterdam and Augustus’s
name.“You’resurehe’shot?”sheaskedwhenIwasfinished.
“Prettysure,”Isaid.
“Athletic?”
“Yeah,heusedtoplaybasketballforNorthCentral.”
“Wow.How’dyoumeethim?”
“ThishideousSupportGroup.”
“Huh,” Kaitlyn said. “Out of curiosity, how many legs does this guy
have?”
“Like,1.4,”Isaid,smiling.BasketballplayerswerefamousinIndiana,
andalthoughKaitlyndidn’tgotoNorthCentral,hersocialconnectivitywas
endless.
“AugustusWaters,”shesaid.
“Um,maybe?”
“Oh,myGod.I’veseenhimatparties.ThethingsIwoulddotothatboy.
Imean, not now that I know you’re interested in him.But, oh, sweet holy
Lord,Iwouldridethatone-leggedponyallthewayaroundthecorral.”
“Kaitlyn,”Isaid.
“Sorry.Doyouthinkyou’dhavetobeontop?”
“Kaitlyn,”Isaid.
“What were we talking about. Right, you and Augustus Waters.
Maybe...areyougay?”
“Idon’tthinkso?Imean,Idefinitelylikehim.”
“Does he have ugly hands? Sometimes beautiful people have ugly
hands.”
“No,hehaskindofamazinghands.”
“Hmm,”shesaid.
“Hmm,”Isaid.
Afterasecond,Kaitlynsaid,“RememberDerek?Hebrokeupwithme
last week because he’d decided there was something fundamentally
incompatible about us deep down and that we’d only get hurt more if we
played it out. He called it preemptive dumping. So maybe you have this
premonition that there is something fundamentally incompatible and you’re
preemptingthepreemption.”
“Hmm,”Isaid.
“I’mjustthinkingoutloudhere.”
“SorryaboutDerek.”
“Oh,Igotoverit,darling.IttookmeasleeveofGirlScoutThinMints
andfortyminutestogetoverthatboy.”
Ilaughed.“Well,thanks,Kaitlyn.”
“Intheeventyoudohookupwithhim,Iexpectlasciviousdetails.”
“But of course,” I said, and thenKaitlynmade a kissy sound into the
phoneandIsaid,“Bye,”andshehungup.
***
IrealizedwhilelisteningtoKaitlynthatIdidn’thaveapremonitionofhurting
him.Ihadapostmonition.
I pulled outmy laptop and looked upCarolineMathers. The physical
similarities were striking: same steroidally round face, same nose, same
approximate overall body shape. But her eyes were dark brown (mine are
green)andhercomplexionwasmuchdarker—Italian
,orsomething.
Thousands of people—literally thousands—had left condolence
messagesforher.Itwasanendlessscrollofpeoplewhomissedher,somany
thatittookmeanhourofclickingtogetpasttheI’msorryyou’redeadwall
posts to the I’mpraying for youwall posts. She’d died a year agoof brain
cancer.Iwasabletoclickthroughtosomeofherpictures.Augustuswasina
bunchoftheearlierones:pointingwithathumbs-uptothejaggedscaracross
her bald skull; arm in arm at Memorial Hospital’s playground, with their
backsfacingthecamera;kissingwhileCarolineheldthecameraout,soyou
couldonlyseetheirnosesandclosedeyes.
Themost recentpictureswereallofherbefore,whenshewashealthy,
uploadedpostmortembyfriends:abeautifulgirl,wide-hippedandcurvy,with
long, straight deadblack hair falling over her face.My healthy self looked
very little likeherhealthyself.Butourcancerselvesmight’vebeensisters.
Nowonderhe’dstaredatmethefirsttimehesawme.
Ikeptclickingbacktothisonewallpost,writtentwomonthsago,nine
monthsaftershedied,byoneofherfriends.Weallmissyousomuch.Itjust
neverends.Itfeelslikewewereallwoundedinyourbattle,Caroline.Imiss
you.Iloveyou.
After awhile,MomandDad announced itwas time for dinner. I shut
down the computer and got up, but I couldn’t get thewall post out ofmy
mind,andforsomereasonitmademenervousandunhungry.
I kept thinking aboutmy shoulder,which hurt, and also I still had the
headache,butmaybeonlybecauseI’dbeenthinkingaboutagirlwho’ddied
ofbraincancer.Ikepttellingmyselftocompartmentalize,tobeherenowat
the circular table (arguably too large in diameter for three people and
definitelytoolargefortwo)withthissoggybroccoliandablack-beanburger
thatalltheketchupintheworldcouldnotadequatelymoisten.Itoldmyself
that imagining a met in my brain or my shoulder would not affect the
invisible reality going on inside ofme, and that therefore all such thoughts
werewastedmomentsinalifecomposedofadefinitionallyfinitesetofsuch
moments.Ieventriedtotellmyselftolivemybestlifetoday.
ForthelongesttimeIcouldn’tfigureoutwhysomethingastrangerhad
writtenontheInternettoadifferent(anddeceased)strangerwasbotheringme
somuchandmakingmeworry that therewassomething insidemybrain—
whichreallydidhurt,althoughIknewfromyearsofexperiencethatpainisa
bluntandnonspecificdiagnosticinstrument.
Because there had not been an earthquake in Papua NewGuinea that
day,my parentswere all hyperfocused onme, and so I could not hide this
flashfloodofanxiety.
“Iseverythingallright?”askedMomasIate.
“Uh-huh,” I said. I took a bite of burger. Swallowed. Tried to say
somethingthatanormalpersonwhosebrainwasnotdrowninginpanicwould
say.“Istherebroccoliintheburgers?”
“Alittle,”Dadsaid.“PrettyexcitingthatyoumightgotoAmsterdam.”
“Yeah,” I said. I tried not to think about thewordwounded, which of
courseisawayofthinkingaboutit.
“Hazel,”Momsaid.“Whereareyourightnow?”
“Justthinking,Iguess,”Isaid.
“Twitterpated,”mydadsaid,smiling.
“Iamnotabunny,andIamnotinlovewithGusWatersoranyone,”I
answered,waytoodefensively.Wounded.LikeCarolineMathershadbeena
bomb andwhen she blew up everyone around herwas leftwith embedded
shrapnel.
DadaskedmeifIwasworkingonanythingforschool.“I’vegotsome
veryadvancedAlgebrahomework,”Itoldhim.“SoadvancedthatIcouldn’t
possiblyexplainittoalayperson.”
“Andhow’syourfriendIsaac?”
“Blind,”Isaid.
“You’re being very teenagery today,”Mom said. She seemed annoyed
aboutit.
“Isn’tthiswhatyouwanted,Mom?Formetobeteenagery?”
“Well,notnecessarilythiskindateenagery,butofcourseyourfatherand
I are excited to seeyoubecomeayoungwoman,making friends, goingon
dates.”
“I’m not going on dates,” I said. “I don’t want to go on dates with
anyone.It’saterribleideaandahugewasteoftimeand—”
“Honey,”mymomsaid.“What’swrong?”
“I’m like.Like. I’m like agrenade,Mom. I’m a grenade and at some
point I’m going to blow up and I would like to minimize the casualties,
okay?”
Mydadtiltedhisheadalittletotheside,likeascoldedpuppy.
“I’magrenade,”Isaidagain.“Ijustwanttostayawayfrompeopleand
readbooksandthinkandbewithyouguysbecausethere’snothingIcando
abouthurtingyou;you’re too invested, so justplease letmedo that, okay?
I’m not depressed. I don’t need to get out more. And I can’t be a regular
teenager,becauseI’magrenade.”
“Hazel,”Dadsaid,andthenchokedup.Hecriedalot,mydad.
“I’m going to go tomy room and read for awhile, okay? I’m fine. I
reallyamfine;Ijustwanttogoreadforawhile.”
IstartedouttryingtoreadthisnovelI’dbeenassigned,butwelivedina
tragically thin-walled home, so I could hear much of the whispered
conversationthatensued.Mydadsaying,“Itkillsme,”andmymomsaying,
“That’sexactlywhatshedoesn’tneedtohear,”andmydadsaying,“I’msorry
but—”andmymomsaying,“Areyounotgrateful?”Andhimsaying,“God,
ofcourseI’mgrateful.”IkepttryingtogetintothisstorybutIcouldn’tstop
hearingthem.
So I turned on my computer to listen to some music, and with
Augustus’sfavoriteband,TheHecticGlow,asmysoundtrack,Iwentbackto
CarolineMathers’stributepages,readingabouthowheroicherfightwas,and
howmuchshewasmissed,andhowshewasinabetterplace,andhowshe
would live forever in their memories, and how everyone who knew her—
everyone—waslaidlowbyherleaving.
Maybe Iwas supposed tohateCarolineMathersor somethingbecause
she’dbeenwithAugustus,butIdidn’t.Icouldn’tseeherveryclearlyamidall
the tributes, but there didn’t seem to be much to hate—she seemed to be
mostlyaprofessionalsickperson,likeme,whichmademeworrythatwhenI
diedthey’dhavenothingtosayaboutmeexceptthatIfoughtheroically,asif
theonlythingI’deverdonewasHaveCancer.
Anyway, eventually I started reading Caroline Mathers’s little notes,
whichweremostlyactuallywrittenbyherparents,becauseIguessherbrain
cancerwas of the variety thatmakes you not you before itmakes you not
alive.
Soitwasalllike,Carolinecontinuestohavebehavioralproblems.She’s
strugglingalotwithangerandfrustrationovernotbeingabletospeak(we
are frustratedabout these things, too, of course, butwehavemore socially
acceptable ways of dealing with our anger). Gus has taken to calling
CarolineHULKSMASH,which resonateswith the doctors. There’s nothing
easyaboutthisforanyofus,butyoutakeyourhumorwhereyoucangetit.
HopingtogohomeonThursday.We’llletyouknow...
Shedidn’tgohomeonThursday,needlesstosay.
SoofcourseItensedupwhenhetouchedme.Tobewithhimwastohurthim
—inevitably.Andthat’swhatI’dfeltashereachedforme:I’dfeltasthoughI
werecommittinganactofviolenceagainsthim,becauseIwas.
Idecidedtotexthim.Iwantedtoavoidawholeconversationaboutit.
Hi,sookay,Idon’tknowifyou’llunderstandthisbutIcan’tkiss
youoranything.Notthatyou’dnecessarilywantto,butIcan’t.
WhenItrytolookatyoulikethat,allIseeiswhatI’mgoingtoput
youthrough.Maybethatdoesn’tmakesensetoyou.
Anyway,sorry.
Herespondedafewminuteslater.
Okay.
Iwroteback.
Okay.
Heresponded:
Oh,myGod,stopflirtingwithme!
Ijustsaid:
Okay.
,Myphonebuzzedmomentslater.
Iwaskidding,HazelGrace.Iunderstand.(Butwebothknowthat
okayisaveryflirtyword.OkayisBURSTINGwithsensuality.)
IwasverytemptedtorespondOkayagain,butIpicturedhimatmyfuneral,
andthathelpedmetextproperly.
Sorry.
***
Itriedtogotosleepwithmyheadphonesstillon,butthenafterawhilemy
momanddadcamein,andmymomgrabbedBluiefromtheshelfandhugged
him to her stomach, and my dad sat down in my desk chair, and without
cryinghesaid,“Youarenotagrenade,nottous.Thinkingaboutyoudying
makesussad,Hazel,butyouarenotagrenade.Youareamazing.Youcan’t
know, sweetie, because you’ve never had a baby become a brilliant young
readerwithasideinterestinhorribletelevisionshows,butthejoyyoubring
usissomuchgreaterthanthesadnesswefeelaboutyourillness.”
“Okay,”Isaid.
“Really,”mydadsaid.“Iwouldn’tbullsh*tyouabout this. Ifyouwere
moretroublethanyou’reworth,we’djusttossyououtonthestreets.”
“We’renotsentimentalpeople,”Momadded,deadpan.“We’dleaveyou
atanorphanagewithanotepinnedtoyourpajamas.”
Ilaughed.
“Youdon’thavetogotoSupportGroup,”Momadded.“Youdon’thave
todoanything.Exceptgotoschool.”Shehandedmethebear.
“IthinkBluiecansleepontheshelftonight,”Isaid.“Letmeremindyou
thatIammorethanthirty-threehalfyearsold.”
“Keephimtonight,”shesaid.
“Mom,”Isaid.
“He’slonely,”shesaid.
“Oh,myGod,Mom,”Isaid.ButItookstupidBluieandkindofcuddled
withhimasIfellasleep.
I still hadone armdrapedoverBluie, in fact,when I awoke just after
four in the morning with an apocalyptic pain fingering out from the
unreachablecenterofmyhead.
CHAPTERSEVEN
I screamed towakeupmyparents,and theyburst into the room,but there
wasnothingtheycoulddotodimthesupernovaeexplodinginsidemybrain,
an endless chain of intracranial firecrackers thatmademe think that I was
onceandforallgoing,andItoldmyself—asI’vetoldmyselfbefore—thatthe
bodyshutsdownwhenthepaingetstoobad,thatconsciousnessistemporary,
that thiswillpass.But just likealways, Ididn’tslipaway. Iwas lefton the
shorewiththewaveswashingoverme,unabletodrown.
Daddrove,talkingonthephonewiththehospital,whileIlayintheback
withmy head inMom’s lap. Therewas nothing to do: Screamingmade it
worse.Allstimulimadeitworse,actually.
Theonlysolutionwastotrytounmaketheworld,tomakeitblackand
silentanduninhabitedagain,toreturntothemomentbeforetheBigBang,in
thebeginningwhentherewastheWord,andtoliveinthatvacuousuncreated
spacealonewiththeWord.
Peopletalkaboutthecourageofcancerpatients,andIdonotdenythat
courage.Ihadbeenpokedandstabbedandpoisonedforyears,andstillItrod
on. But make no mistake: In that moment, I would have been very, very
happytodie.
IwokeupintheICU.IcouldtellIwasintheICUbecauseIdidn’thavemy
ownroom,andbecausetherewassomuchbeeping,andbecauseIwasalone:
They don’t let your family stay with you 24/7 in the ICU at Children’s
becauseit’saninfectionrisk.Therewaswailingdownthehall.Somebody’s
kidhaddied.Iwasalone.Ihittheredcallbutton.
Anursecameinsecondslater.“Hi,”Isaid.
“Hello,Hazel.I’mAlison,yournurse,”shesaid.
“Hi,AlisonMyNurse,”Isaid.
WhereuponIstartedtofeelprettytiredagain.ButIwokeupabitwhen
myparentscamein,cryingandkissingmyfacerepeatedly,andIreachedup
forthemandtriedtosqueeze,butmyeverythinghurtwhenIsqueezed,and
MomandDadtoldmethatIdidnothaveabraintumor,butthatmyheadache
wascausedbypooroxygenation,whichwascausedbymylungsswimming
influid,aliterandahalf(!!!!)ofwhichhadbeensuccessfullydrainedfrom
mychest,whichwaswhyImightfeelaslightdiscomfortinmyside,where
therewas, hey look at that, a tube that went frommy chest into a plastic
bladderhalffullof liquidthatforall theworldresembledmydad’sfavorite
amber ale.Mom toldme Iwas going to go home, that I reallywas, that I
wouldjusthavetogetthisdrainedeverynowandagainandgetbackonthe
BiPAP,thisnighttimemachinethatforcesairinandoutofmycraplungs.But
I’dhadatotalbodyPETscanonthefirstnightinthehospital,theytoldme,
andthenewswasgood:notumorgrowth.Nonewtumors.Myshoulderpain
hadbeenlack-of-oxygenpain.Heart-working-too-hardpain.
“Dr.Maria said thismorning that she remains optimistic,”Dad said. I
likedDr.Maria,andshedidn’tbullsh*tyou,sothatfeltgoodtohear.
“This is just a thing, Hazel,”mymom said. “It’s a thingwe can live
with.”
Inodded,andthenAlisonMyNursekindofpolitelymadethemleave.
SheaskedmeifIwantedsomeicechips,andInodded,andthenshesatatthe
bedwithmeandspoonedthemintomymouth.
“Soyou’vebeengoneacoupledays,”Alisonsaid.“Hmm,what’dyou
miss . . . A celebrity did drugs. Politicians disagreed. A different celebrity
wore a bikini that revealed a bodily imperfection. A team won a sporting
event, but another team lost.” I smiled. “You can’t go disappearing on
everybodylikethis,Hazel.Youmisstoomuch.”
“More?”Iasked,noddingtowardthewhiteStyrofoamcupinherhand.
“I shouldn’t,” she said, “but I’ma rebel.”Shegavemeanotherplastic
spoonfulofcrushedice.Imumbledathank-you.PraiseGodforgoodnurses.
“Gettingtired?”sheasked.Inodded.“Sleepforawhile,”shesaid.“I’lltryto
run interference andgiveyoua couplehoursbefore somebodycomes in to
check vitals and the like.” I said Thanks again. You say thanks a lot in a
hospital. I tried to settle into the bed. “You’re not gonna ask about your
boyfriend?”sheasked.
“Don’thaveone,”Itoldher.
“Well,there’sakidwhohashardlyleftthewaitingroomsinceyougot
here,”shesaid.
“Hehasn’tseenmelikethis,hashe?”
“No.Familyonly.”
Inoddedandsankintoanaqueoussleep.
It would take me six days to get home, six undays of staring at acoustic
ceiling tile and watching television and sleeping and pain and wishing for
timetopass.IdidnotseeAugustusoranyoneotherthanmyparents.Myhair
lookedlikeabird’snest;myshufflinggait likeadementiapatient’s. I felta
little better each day, though: Each sleep ended to reveal a person who
seemedabitmorelikeme.Sleepfightscancer,RegularDr.Jimsaidforthe
thousandthtimeashehoveredovermeonemorningsurroundedbyacoterie
ofmedicalstudents.
“ThenIamacancer-fightingmachine,”Itoldhim.
“That you are,Hazel.Keep resting, andhopefullywe’ll get youhome
soon.”
OnTuesday, they toldme I’dgohomeonWednesday.OnWednesday, two
minimally supervised medical students removed my chest tube, which felt
like getting stabbed in reverse and generally didn’t go very well, so they
decidedI’dhave tostayuntilThursday. Iwasbeginning to think that Iwas
the subject of some existentialist experiment in permanently delayed
gratificationwhenDr.Maria showedup onFridaymorning, sniffed around
meforaminute,andtoldmeIwasgoodtogo.
So Mom opened her oversize purse to reveal that she’d had my Go
HomeClotheswithherallalong.AnursecameinandtookoutmyIV.Ifelt
untetheredeventhoughIstillhadtheoxygentanktocarryaroundwithme.I
went into the bathroom, tookmy first shower in a week, got dressed, and
when I got out, I was so tired I had to lie down and getmy breath.Mom
asked,“Doyouwanttosee
,Augustus?”
“Iguess,”Isaidafteraminute.Istoodupandshuffledovertooneofthe
moldedplasticchairsagainst thewall, tuckingmytankbeneath thechair. It
woremeout.
DadcamebackwithAugustusafewminuteslater.Hishairwasmessy,
sweeping down over his forehead. He lit up with a real Augustus Waters
Goofy Smilewhen he sawme, and I couldn’t help but smile back.He sat
downinthebluefaux-leatherreclinernexttomychair.Heleanedintoward
me,seeminglyincapableofstiflingthesmile.
MomandDadleftusalone,whichfeltawkward.Iworkedhardtomeet
hiseyes,even though theywere thekindofpretty that’shard to lookat. “I
missedyou,”Augustussaid.
Myvoicewassmaller thanIwantedit tobe.“Thanksfornot tryingto
seemewhenIlookedlikehell.”
“Tobefair,youstilllookprettybad.”
Ilaughed.“Imissedyou,too.Ijustdon’twantyoutosee...allthis.I
justwant,like...Itdoesn’tmatter.Youdon’talwaysgetwhatyouwant.”
“Is that so?” he asked. “I’d always thought the world was a wish-
grantingfactory.”
“Turnsoutthatisnotthecase,”Isaid.Hewassobeautiful.Hereached
formyhandbutIshookmyhead.“No,”Isaidquietly.“Ifwe’regonnahang
out,ithastobe,like,notthat.”
“Okay,” he said. “Well, I have good news and bad news on thewish-
grantingfront.”
“Okay?”Isaid.
“Thebadnewsisthatweobviouslycan’tgotoAmsterdamuntilyou’re
better.TheGenieswill,however,worktheirfamousmagicwhenyou’rewell
enough.”
“That’sthegoodnews?”
“No, thegoodnewsis thatwhileyouweresleeping,PeterVanHouten
sharedabitmoreofhisbrilliantbrainwithus.”
He reached for my hand again, but this time to slip into it a heavily
folded sheet of stationery on the letterhead of Peter Van Houten, Novelist
Emeritus.
Ididn’treadituntilIgothome,situatedinmyownhugeandemptybedwith
nochanceofmedicalinterruption.IttookmeforevertodecodeVanHouten’s
sloped,scratchyscript.
DearMr.Waters,
Iaminreceiptofyourelectronicmaildatedthe14thofApriland
duly impressedby theShakespearean complexity of your tragedy.
Everyoneinthistalehasarock-solidhamartia:hers,thatsheisso
sick;yours,thatyouaresowell.Wereshebetteroryousicker,then
thestarswouldnotbesoterriblycrossed,butitisthenatureofstars
tocross,andneverwasShakespearemorewrongthanwhenhehad
Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in
ourselves.”Easyenoughtosaywhenyou’reaRomannobleman(or
Shakespeare!),butthereisnoshortageoffaulttobefoundamidour
stars.
While we’re on the topic of old Will’s insufficiencies, your
writing about young Hazel reminds me of the Bard’s Fifty-fifth
sonnet, which of course begins, “Not marble, nor the gilded
monuments /Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; /But
youshallshinemorebrightinthesecontents/Thanunsweptstone,
besmear’dwithslu*ttishtime.”(Off topic,but:Whataslu*t timeis.
Shescrewseverybody.)It’safinepoembutadeceitfulone:Wedo
indeed remember Shakespeare’s powerful rhyme, butwhat dowe
remember about the person it commemorates? Nothing. We’re
prettysurehewasmale;everythingelseisguesswork.Shakespeare
told us precious little of the man whom he entombed in his
linguistic sarcophagus. (Witness also that when we talk about
literature, we do so in the present tense. When we speak of the
dead, we are not so kind.) You do not immortalize the lost by
writingabout them.Languageburies,butdoesnot resurrect. (Full
disclosure: I am not the first to make this observation. cf, the
MacLeishpoem“NotMarble,NortheGildedMonuments,”which
contains the heroic line “I shall say you will die and none will
rememberyou.”)
Idigress,buthere’s the rub:Thedeadarevisibleonly in the
terriblelidlesseyeofmemory.Theliving,thankheaven,retainthe
ability to surprise and to disappoint. YourHazel is alive,Waters,
and you mustn’t impose your will upon another’s decision,
particularlyadecisionarrivedat thoughtfully.Shewishes tospare
youpain,andyoushouldlether.YoumaynotfindyoungHazel’s
logic persuasive, but I have trod through this vale of tears longer
thanyou,andfromwhereI’msitting,she’snotthelunatic.
Yourstruly,
PeterVanHouten
Itwasreallywrittenbyhim.Ilickedmyfingeranddabbedthepaperandthe
inkbledalittle,soIknewitwasreallyreal.
“Mom,” I said. I did not say it loudly, but I didn’t have to. She was
alwayswaiting.Shepeekedherheadaroundthedoor.
“Youokay,sweetie?”
“CanwecallDr.Mariaandaskifinternationaltravelwouldkillme?”
CHAPTEREIGHT
WehadabigCancerTeamMeetingacoupledayslater.Everysooften,a
bunchofdoctorsandsocialworkersandphysicaltherapistsandwhoeverelse
got together around a big table in a conference room and discussed my
situation.(NottheAugustusWaterssituationortheAmsterdamsituation.The
cancersituation.)
Dr.Marialedthemeeting.ShehuggedmewhenIgotthere.Shewasa
hugger.
Ifeltalittlebetter,Iguess.SleepingwiththeBiPAPallnightmademy
lungsfeelalmostnormal,although,thenagain,Ididnotreallyrememberlung
normality.
Everyonegotthereandmadeabigshowofturningofftheirpagersand
everythingsoitwouldbeallaboutme,andthenDr.Mariasaid,“Sothegreat
news is that Phalanxifor continues to control your tumor growth, but
obviouslywe’restillseeingseriousproblemswithfluidaccumulation.Sothe
questionis,howshouldweproceed?”
And then she just looked at me, like she was waiting for an answer.
“Um,”Isaid,“I feel likeIamnot themostqualifiedperson in theroomto
answerthatquestion?”
Shesmiled.“Right,IwaswaitingforDr.Simons.Dr.Simons?”Hewas
anothercancerdoctorofsomekind.
“Well,weknowfromotherpatientsthatmosttumorseventuallyevolvea
waytogrowinspiteofPhalanxifor,butifthatwerethecase,we’dseetumor
growthonthescans,whichwedon’tsee.Soit’snotthatyet.”
Yet,Ithought.
Dr.Simonstappedatthetablewithhisforefinger.“Thethoughtaround
here is that it’s possible the Phalanxifor is worsening the edema, but we’d
facefarmoreseriousproblemsifwediscontinueditsuse.”
Dr.Maria added, “We don’t really understand the long-term effects of
Phalanxifor.Veryfewpeoplehavebeenonitaslongasyouhave.”
“Sowe’regonnadonothing?”
“We’regoingtostaythecourse,”Dr.Mariasaid,“butwe’llneedtodo
more to keep that edema from building up.” I felt kind of sick for some
reason, like I was going to throw up. I hated Cancer Team Meetings in
general, but I hated this one in particular. “Your cancer is not going away,
Hazel.Butwe’veseenpeoplelivewithyourleveloftumorpenetrationfora
longtime.”(Ididnotaskwhatconstitutedalongtime.I’dmadethatmistake
before.)“IknowthatcomingoutoftheICU,itdoesn’tfeelthisway,butthis
fluidis,atleastforthetimebeing,manageable.”
“Can’tIjustgetlikealungtransplantorsomething?”Iasked.
Dr.Maria’slipsshrankintohermouth.“Youwouldnotbeconsidereda
strongcandidate for a transplant, unfortunately,” she said. I understood:No
usewastinggoodlungsonahopelesscase.Inodded,tryingnottolooklike
that comment hurtme.My dad started crying a little. I didn’t look over at
him,butnoonesaidanythingfora long time,sohishiccupingcrywas the
onlysoundintheroom.
I hated hurting him.Most of the time, I could forget about it,
,but the
inexorabletruthisthis:Theymightbegladtohavemearound,butIwasthe
alphaandtheomegaofmyparents’suffering.
JustbeforetheMiracle,whenIwasintheICUanditlookedlikeIwasgoing
todieandMomwastellingmeitwasokaytoletgo,andIwastryingtoletgo
butmylungskeptsearchingforair,MomsobbedsomethingintoDad’schest
thatIwishIhadn’theard,andthatIhopesheneverfindsoutthatIdidhear.
Shesaid,“Iwon’tbeamomanymore.”Itguttedmeprettybadly.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that during the whole Cancer Team
Meeting. I couldn’t get it out ofmyhead, how she soundedwhen she said
that,likeshewouldneverbeokayagain,whichprobablyshewouldn’t.
Anyway, eventually we decided to keep things the same only with more
frequentfluiddrainings.At theend, Iasked if Icould travel toAmsterdam,
andDr.Simonsactuallyandliterallylaughed,butthenDr.Mariasaid,“Why
not?”AndSimonssaid,dubiously,“Whynot?”AndDr.Mariasaid,“Yeah,I
don’tseewhynot.They’vegotoxygenontheplanes,afterall.”Dr.Simons
said,“Aretheyjustgoingtogate-checkaBiPAP?”AndMariasaid,“Yeah,or
haveonewaitingforher.”
“Placingapatient—oneofthemostpromisingPhalanxiforsurvivors,no
less—an eight-hour flight from the only physicians intimately familiarwith
hercase?That’sarecipefordisaster.”
Dr.Mariashrugged.“Itwouldincreasesomerisks,”sheacknowledged,
butthenturnedtomeandsaid,“Butit’syourlife.”
Exceptnot really.On thecar ridehome,myparentsagreed: Iwouldnotbe
going to Amsterdam unless and until there was medical agreement that it
wouldbesafe.
***
Augustuscalledthatnightafterdinner.Iwasalreadyinbed—afterdinnerhad
becomemybedtimeforthemoment—proppedupwithagajillionpillowsand
alsoBluie,withmycomputeronmylap.
Ipickedup,saying,“Badnews,”andhesaid,“sh*t,what?”
“Ican’tgotoAmsterdam.Oneofmydoctorsthinksit’sabadidea.”
Hewasquietforasecond.“God,”hesaid.“Ishould’vejustpaidforit
myself. Should’ve just taken you straight from the Funky Bones to
Amsterdam.”
“But thenIwould’vehadaprobablyfatalepisodeofdeoxygenation in
Amsterdam,andmybodywouldhavebeenshippedhomeinthecargoholdof
anairplane,”Isaid.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “But before that, my grand romantic gesture
wouldhavetotallygottenmelaid.”
I laughedprettyhard,hardenough that I feltwhere thechest tubehad
been.
“Youlaughbecauseit’strue,”hesaid.
Ilaughedagain.
“It’strue,isn’tit!”
“Probably not,” I said, and then after amoment added, “although you
neverknow.”
Hemoanedinmisery.“I’mgonnadieavirgin,”hesaid.
“You’reavirgin?”Iasked,surprised.
“HazelGrace,”hesaid,“doyouhaveapenandapieceofpaper?”Isaid
Idid.“Okay,pleasedrawacircle.”Idid.“Nowdrawasmallercirclewithin
that circle.” I did. “The larger circle is virgins. The smaller circle is
seventeen-year-oldguyswithoneleg.”
I laughed again, and told him that having most of your social
engagements occur at a children’s hospital also did not encourage
promiscuity,andthenwetalkedaboutPeterVanHouten’samazinglybrilliant
commentabout theslu*ttinessof time,andeven though Iwas inbedandhe
was inhisbasem*nt, it really felt likewewereback in thatuncreated third
space,whichwasaplaceIreallylikedvisitingwithhim.
ThenIgotoffthephoneandmymomanddadcameintomyroom,and
eventhoughitwasreallynotbigenoughforallthreeofus,theylayoneither
side of the bedwithme andwe allwatchedANTM on the little TV inmy
room.This girl I didn’t like, Selena, got kicked off,whichmademe really
happyforsomereason.ThenMomhookedmeup to theBiPAPand tucked
me in, andDad kissedme on the forehead, the kiss all stubble, and then I
closedmyeyes.
The BiPAP essentially took control of my breathing away from me,
whichwasintenselyannoying,butthegreatthingaboutitwasthatitmadeall
this noise, rumblingwith each inhalation andwhirring as I exhaled. I kept
thinking that it sounded likeadragonbreathing in timewithme, like Ihad
thispetdragonwhowascuddledupnexttomeandcaredenoughaboutmeto
timehisbreathstomine.IwasthinkingaboutthatasIsankintosleep.
Igotup late thenextmorning. IwatchedTVinbedandcheckedmyemail
and then after awhile started crafting an email to PeterVanHouten about
howIcouldn’tcometoAmsterdambutIsworeuponthe lifeofmymother
that Iwouldnever share any information about the characterswith anyone,
thatIdidn’tevenwanttoshareit,becauseIwasaterriblyselfishperson,and
couldhepleasejusttellmeiftheDutchTulipManisforrealandifAnna’s
mommarrieshimandalsoaboutSisyphustheHamster.
ButIdidn’tsendit.Itwastoopatheticevenforme.
Around three,when I figuredAugustuswouldbehome fromschool, I
wentintothebackyardandcalledhim.Asthephonerang,Isatdownonthe
grass,whichwasallovergrownanddandeliony.Thatswingsetwasstillback
there,weedsgrowingoutof the littleditch I’dcreated fromkickingmyself
higherasalittlekid.IrememberedDadbringinghomethekitfromToys“R”
Usandbuildingitinthebackyardwithaneighbor.He’dinsistedonswinging
onitfirsttotestit,andthethingdamnnearbroke.
Theskywasgrayandlowandfullofrainbutnotyetraining.Ihungup
when I gotAugustus’s voicemail and then put the phone down in the dirt
besidemeandkeptlookingattheswingset,thinkingthatIwouldgiveupall
the sick days I had left for a fewhealthy ones. I tried to tellmyself that it
could beworse, that theworldwas not awish-granting factory, that I was
livingwithcancernotdyingof it, that Imustn’t let itkillmebefore itkills
me,andthenIjuststartedmutteringstupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupid
over and over again until the sound unhinged from itsmeaning. Iwas still
sayingitwhenhecalledback.
“Hi,”Isaid.
“HazelGrace,”hesaid.
“Hi,”Isaidagain.
“Areyoucrying,HazelGrace?”
“Kindof?”
“Why?”heasked.
“’CauseI’mjust—IwanttogotoAmsterdam,andIwanthimtotellme
whathappensafterthebookisover,andIjustdon’twantmyparticularlife,
andalsotheskyisdepressingme,andthereisthisoldswingsetoutherethat
mydadmadeformewhenIwasakid.”
“Imustseethisoldswingsetoftearsimmediately,”hesaid.“I’llbeover
intwentyminutes.”
I stayed in the backyard because Mom was always really smothery and
concernedwhenIwascrying,becauseIdidnotcryoften,andIknewshe’d
want to talk and discuss whether I shouldn’t consider adjusting my
medication, and the thought of that whole conversation made me want to
throwup.
It’s not like I had some utterly poignant,well-litmemory of a healthy
fatherpushing ahealthy child and the child sayinghigherhigherhigher or
someothermetaphorically resonantmoment.The swing setwas just sitting
there, abandoned, the two little swings hanging still and sad froma grayed
plankofwood,theoutlineoftheseatslikeakid’sdrawingofasmile.
Behindme,Iheardthesliding-glassdooropen.I turnedaround.Itwas
Augustus,wearingkhakipantsandashort-sleeveplaidbutton-down.Iwiped
myfacewithmysleeveandsmiled.“Hi,”Isaid.
It took him a second to sit down on the ground next to me, and he
grimacedashelandedratherungracefullyonhisass.“Hi,”hesaidfinally.I
lookedoverathim.Hewas lookingpastme, into thebackyard.“Iseeyour
,inresponse.
SoSupportGroupblew,andafterafewweeks,Igrewtoberatherkicking-
and-screamingabout thewholeaffair. Infact,ontheWednesdayImadethe
acquaintanceofAugustusWaters,ItriedmylevelbesttogetoutofSupport
Groupwhilesittingonthecouchwithmymominthethirdlegofatwelve-
hour marathon of the previous season’s America’s Next Top Model, which
admittedlyIhadalreadyseen,butstill.
Me:“IrefusetoattendSupportGroup.”
Mom:“Oneofthesymptomsofdepressionisdisinterestinactivities.”
Me: “Please just let me watch America’s Next Top Model. It’s an
activity.”
Mom:“Televisionisapassivity.”
Me:“Ugh,Mom,please.”
Mom: “Hazel, you’re a teenager.You’re not a little kid anymore.You
needtomakefriends,getoutofthehouse,andliveyourlife.”
Me:“Ifyouwantmetobeateenager,don’tsendmetoSupportGroup.
BuymeafakeIDsoIcangotoclubs,drinkvodka,andtakepot.”
Mom:“Youdon’ttakepot,forstarters.”
Me:“See,that’sthekindofthingI’dknowifyougotmeafakeID.”
Mom:“You’regoingtoSupportGroup.”
Me:“UGGGGGGGGGGGGG.”
Mom:“Hazel,youdeservealife.”
That shut me up, although I failed to see how attendance at Support
Groupmet the definition of life. Still, I agreed to go—after negotiating the
righttorecordthe1.5episodesofANTMI’dbemissing.
IwenttoSupportGroupforthesamereasonthatI’donceallowednurses
with a mere eighteen months of graduate education to poison me with
exotically named chemicals: I wanted tomakemy parents happy. There is
onlyone thing in thisworld sh*ttier thanbiting it fromcancerwhenyou’re
sixteen,andthat’shavingakidwhobitesitfromcancer.
Mompulledintothecirculardrivewaybehindthechurchat4:56.Ipretended
tofiddlewithmyoxygentankforasecondjusttokilltime.
“Doyouwantmetocarryitinforyou?”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. The cylindrical green tank onlyweighed a few
pounds, and I had this little steel cart to wheel it around behind me. It
delivered two liters of oxygen to me each minute through a cannula, a
transparenttubethatsplitjustbeneathmyneck,wrappedbehindmyears,and
thenreunitedinmynostrils.Thecontraptionwasnecessarybecausemylungs
suckedatbeinglungs.
“Iloveyou,”shesaidasIgotout.
“Youtoo,Mom.Seeyouatsix.”
“Make friends!” she said through the rolled-downwindowas Iwalked
away.
I didn’twant to take the elevator because taking the elevator is aLast
DayskindofactivityatSupportGroup,soItookthestairs.Igrabbedacookie
andpouredsomelemonadeintoaDixiecupandthenturnedaround.
Aboywasstaringatme.
IwasquitesureI’dneverseenhimbefore.Longandleanlymuscular,he
dwarfed the molded plastic elementary school chair he was sitting in.
Mahoganyhair,straightandshort.Helookedmyage,maybeayearolder,and
hesatwithhistailboneagainsttheedgeofthechair,hispostureaggressively
poor,onehandhalfinapocketofdarkjeans.
I lookedaway, suddenlyconsciousofmymyriad insufficiencies. Iwas
wearingoldjeans,whichhadoncebeentightbutnowsaggedinweirdplaces,
andayellowT-shirtadvertisingabandIdidn’tevenlikeanymore.Alsomy
hair:Ihadthispageboyhaircut,andIhadn’tevenbotheredto,like,brush*t.
Furthermore, I had ridiculously fat chipmunked cheeks, a side effect of
treatment.I lookedlikeanormallyproportionedpersonwithaballoonfora
head. Thiswas not even tomention the cankle situation.And yet—I cut a
glancetohim,andhiseyeswerestillonme.
Itoccurredtomewhytheycalliteyecontact.
IwalkedintothecircleandsatdownnexttoIsaac,twoseatsawayfrom
theboy.Iglancedagain.Hewasstillwatchingme.
Look, let me just say it: He was hot. A nonhot boy stares at you
relentlesslyanditis,atbest,awkwardand,atworst,aformofassault.Buta
hotboy...well.
Ipulledoutmyphoneandclickeditsoitwoulddisplaythetime:4:59.
The circle filled in with the unlucky twelve-to-eighteens, and then Patrick
startedusoutwith theserenityprayer:God,grantmetheserenity toaccept
the thingsIcannotchange, thecourage tochange the thingsIcan,and the
wisdomtoknowthedifference.Theguywasstill staringatme. I felt rather
blushy.
Finally,Idecidedthattheproperstrategywastostareback.Boysdonot
haveamonopolyontheStaringBusiness,afterall.SoIlookedhimoveras
Patrickacknowledgedforthethousandthtimehisball-lessnessetc.,andsoon
itwasastaringcontest.Afterawhiletheboysmiled,andthenfinallyhisblue
eyesglancedaway.Whenhelookedbackatme,Iflickedmyeyebrowsupto
say,Iwin.
He shrugged. Patrick continued and then finally it was time for the
introductions. “Isaac, perhaps you’d like to go first today. I know you’re
facingachallengingtime.”
“Yeah,” Isaac said. “I’m Isaac. I’m seventeen. And it’s looking like I
have to get surgery in a couple weeks, after which I’ll be blind. Not to
complainor anythingbecause Iknowa lotofushave itworse,butyeah, I
mean,beingblinddoessortofsuck.Mygirlfriendhelps,though.Andfriends
likeAugustus.”Henoddedtowardtheboy,whonowhadaname.“So,yeah,”
Isaac continued.Hewas looking at his hands,which he’d folded into each
otherlikethetopofatepee.“There’snothingyoucandoaboutit.”
“We’rehereforyou,Isaac,”Patricksaid.“LetIsaachearit,guys.”And
thenweall,inamonotone,said,“We’rehereforyou,Isaac.”
Michaelwas next.Hewas twelve.Hehad leukemia.He’d alwayshad
leukemia.Hewasokay.(Orsohesaid.He’dtakentheelevator.)
Lidawassixteen,andprettyenoughtobetheobjectofthehotboy’seye.
Shewasaregular—inalongremissionfromappendicealcancer,whichIhad
not previously known existed. She said—as she had every other time I’d
attendedSupportGroup—thatshefeltstrong,whichfeltlikebraggingtome
astheoxygen-drizzlingnubstickledmynostrils.
Therewerefiveothersbeforetheygottohim.Hesmiledalittlewhenhis
turncame.Hisvoicewaslow,smoky,anddeadsexy.“MynameisAugustus
Waters,”hesaid.“I’mseventeen.Ihadalittletouchofosteosarcomaayear
andahalfa*go,butI’mjustheretodayatIsaac’srequest.”
“Andhowareyoufeeling?”askedPatrick.
“Oh, I’m grand.”AugustusWaters smiledwith a corner of hismouth.
“I’monarollercoasterthatonlygoesup,myfriend.”
Whenitwasmyturn, Isaid,“MynameisHazel. I’msixteen.Thyroid
withmetsinmylungs.I’mokay.”
The hour proceeded apace: Fights were recounted, battles won amid
wars sure to be lost; hopewas clung to; familieswere both celebrated and
denounced; it was agreed that friends just didn’t get it; tears were shed;
comfort proffered.NeitherAugustusWaters nor I spoke again until Patrick
said,“Augustus,perhapsyou’dliketoshareyourfearswiththegroup.”
“Myfears?”
“Yes.”
“I fear oblivion,”he saidwithout amoment’s pause. “I fear it like the
proverbialblindmanwho’safraidofthedark.”
“Toosoon,”Isaacsaid,crackingasmile.
“Was that insensitive?”Augustusasked.“Icanbeprettyblind toother
people’sfeelings.”
Isaac was laughing, but Patrick raised a chastening finger and said,
“Augustus,please.Let’sreturntoyouandyour struggles.Yousaidyoufear
oblivion?”
“Idid,”Augustusanswered.
Patrickseemedlost.“Would,uh,wouldanyoneliketospeaktothat?”
Ihadn’tbeeninproperschool in threeyears.Myparentsweremytwo
bestfriends.MythirdbestfriendwasanauthorwhodidnotknowIexisted.I
wasafairlyshyperson—not
,point,” he said as he put an arm around my shoulder. “That is one sad
goddamnedswingset.”
Inudgedmyheadintohisshoulder.“Thanksforofferingtocomeover.”
“You realize that trying to keepyour distance frommewill not lessen
myaffectionforyou,”hesaid.
“Iguess?”Isaid.
“Alleffortstosavemefromyouwillfail,”hesaid.
“Why?Whywouldyouevenlikeme?Haven’tyouputyourselfthrough
enoughofthis?”Iasked,thinkingofCarolineMathers.
Gusdidn’tanswer.Hejustheldontome,hisfingersstrongagainstmy
leftarm.“Wegottadosomethingaboutthisfriggingswingset,”hesaid.“I’m
tellingyou,it’sninetypercentoftheproblem.”
OnceI’drecovered,wewentinsideandsatdownonthecouchrightnextto
eachother,thelaptophalfonhis(fake)kneeandhalfonmine.“Hot,”Isaid
ofthelaptop’sbase.
“Is it now?”He smiled.Gus loaded this giveaway site calledFreeNo
Catchandtogetherwewroteanad.
“Headline?”heasked.
“‘SwingSetNeedsHome,’”Isaid.
“‘DesperatelyLonelySwingSetNeedsLovingHome,’”hesaid.
“‘Lonely,VaguelyPedophilicSwingSetSeekstheButtsofChildren,’”I
said.
Helaughed.“That’swhy.”
“What?”
“That’swhyIlikeyou.Doyourealizehowrareitistocomeacrossahot
girlwhocreatesanadjectivalversionofthewordpedophile?Youaresobusy
beingyouthatyouhavenoideahowutterlyunprecedentedyouare.”
Itookadeepbreaththroughmynose.Therewasneverenoughairinthe
world,buttheshortagewasparticularlyacuteinthatmoment.
Wewrotetheadtogether,editingeachotheraswewent.Intheend,we
settleduponthis:
DesperatelyLonelySwingSetNeedsLovingHome
Oneswingset,wellwornbutstructurallysound,seeksnewhome.
Makememorieswithyourkidorkidssothatsomedayheorsheor
theywilllookintothebackyardandfeeltheacheofsentimentality
as desperately as I did this afternoon. It’s all fragile and fleeting,
dear reader, but with this swing set, your child(ren) will be
introduced to the ups and downs of human life gently and safely,
andmayalsolearnthemostimportantlessonofall:Nomatterhow
hardyoukick,nomatterhowhighyouget,youcan’tgoalltheway
around.
Swingsetcurrentlyresidesnear83rdandSpringMill.
After that, we turned on the TV for a little while, but we couldn’t find
anything towatch, so IgrabbedAnImperialAffliction off thebedside table
and brought it back into the living room and AugustusWaters read tome
whileMom,makinglunch,listenedin.
“‘Mother’sglasseyeturnedinward,’”Augustusbegan.Asheread,Ifell
inlovethewayyoufallasleep:slowly,andthenallatonce.
When I checked my email an hour later, I learned that we had plenty of
swing-setsuitorstochoosefrom.Intheend,wepickedaguynamedDaniel
Alvarezwho’dincludedapictureofhisthreekidsplayingvideogameswith
thesubject line I justwant themtogooutside. Iemailedhimbackand told
himtopickitupathisleisure.
AugustusaskedifIwantedtogowithhimtoSupportGroup,butIwas
reallytiredfrommybusydayofHavingCancer,soIpassed.Weweresitting
thereonthecouchtogether,andhepushedhimselfuptogobutthenfellback
downontothecouchandsneakedakissontomycheek.
“Augustus!”Isaid.
“Friendly,” he said. He pushed himself up again and really stood this
time,thentooktwostepsovertomymomandsaid,“Alwaysapleasuretosee
you,”andmymomopenedherarmstohughim,whereuponAugustusleaned
inandkissedmymomonthecheek.Heturnedbacktome.“See?”heasked.
I went to bed right after dinner, the BiPAP drowning out the world
beyondmyroom.
Ineversawtheswingsetagain.
***
Isleptforalongtime,tenhours,possiblybecauseoftheslowrecoveryand
possibly because sleep fights cancer and possibly because Iwas a teenager
with no particularwake-up time. Iwasn’t strong enough yet to go back to
classes atMCC.When I finally felt like getting up, I removed the BiPAP
snout frommy nose, putmy oxygen nubbins in, turned them on, and then
grabbed my laptop from beneath my bed, where I’d stashed it the night
before.
IhadanemailfromLidewijVliegenthart.
DearHazel,
IhavereceivedwordviatheGeniesthatyouwillbevisitinguswith
AugustusWatersandyourmotherbeginningon4thofMay.Onlya
weekaway!PeterandIaredelightedandcannotwaittomakeyour
acquaintance.Yourhotel,theFilosoof,isjustonestreetawayfrom
Peter’shome.Perhapsweshouldgiveyouonedayfor the jet lag,
yes? So if convenient, we will meet you at Peter’s home on the
morningof5thMayatperhapsteno’clockforacupofcoffeeand
for him to answer questions you have about his book. And then
perhapsafterwardwecantouramuseumortheAnneFrankHouse?
Withallbestwishes,
LidewijVliegenthart
ExecutiveAssistanttoMr.PeterVanHouten,authorofAnImperialAffliction
***
“Mom,” I said. She didn’t answer. “MOM!” I shouted. Nothing. Again,
louder,“MOM!”
Sheraninwearingathreadbarepinktowelunderherarmpits,dripping,
vaguelypanicked.“What’swrong?”
“Nothing.Sorry,Ididn’tknowyouwereintheshower,”Isaid.
“Bath,” she said. “Iwas just . . .”She closedher eyes. “Just trying to
takeabathforfiveseconds.Sorry.What’sgoingon?”
“CanyoucalltheGeniesandtellthemthetripisoff?Ijustgotanemail
fromPeterVanHouten’sassistant.Shethinkswe’recoming.”
Shepursedherlipsandsquintedpastme.
“What?”Iasked.
“I’mnotsupposedtotellyouuntilyourfathergetshome.”
“What?”Iaskedagain.
“Trip’son,”shesaidfinally.“Dr.Mariacalleduslastnightandmadea
convincingcasethatyouneedtoliveyour—”
“MOM,ILOVEYOUSOMUCH!”Ishouted,andshecametothebed
andletmehugher.
ItextedAugustusbecauseIknewhewasinschool:
StillfreeMaythree?:-)
Hetextedbackimmediately.
Everything’scomingupWaters.
IfIcouldjuststayaliveforaweek,I’dknowtheunwrittensecretsofAnna’s
momandtheDutchTulipGuy.Ilookeddownmyblouseatmychest.
“Keepyoursh*ttogether,”Iwhisperedtomylungs.
CHAPTERNINE
ThedaybeforeweleftforAmsterdam,IwentbacktoSupportGroupforthe
firsttimesincemeetingAugustus.Thecasthadrotatedabitdownthereinthe
Literal Heart of Jesus. I arrived early, enough time for perennially strong
appendicealcancersurvivorLidatobringmeup-to-dateoneveryoneasIate
agrocery-storechocolatechipcookiewhileleaningagainstthedesserttable.
Twelve-year-old leukemicMichaelhadpassedaway.He’dfoughthard,
Lida toldme,as if therewereanotherway to fight.Everyoneelsewas still
around.KenwasNECafterradiation.Lucashadrelapsed,andshesaiditwith
a sad smile and a little shrug, the way you might say an alcoholic had
relapsed.
A cute, chubby girlwalked over to the table and said hi toLida, then
introducedherself tomeasSusan. Ididn’tknowwhatwaswrongwithher,
butshehadascarextendingfromthesideofhernosedownherlipandacross
hercheek.Shehadputmakeupoverthescar,whichonlyservedtoemphasize
it. Iwas feeling a little out of breath from all the standing, so I said, “I’m
gonnagosit,”andthentheelevatoropened,revealingIsaacandhismom.He
wore sunglasses and clung to hismom’s armwith one hand, a cane in the
other.
“SupportGroupHazel notMonica,” I saidwhen he got close enough,
andhesmiledandsaid,“Hey,Hazel.How’sitgoing?”
“Good.I’vegottenreallyhotsinceyouwentblind.”
“Ibet,”hesaid.Hismomledhimtoachair,kissedthetopofhishead,
andshuffledback
,toward theelevator.Hefeltaroundbeneathhimand then
sat.Isatdowninthechairnexttohim.“Sohow’sitgoing?”
“Okay.Gladtobehome,Iguess.GustoldmeyouwereintheICU?”
“Yeah,”Isaid.
“Sucks,”hesaid.
“I’malotbetternow,”Isaid.“I’mgoingtoAmsterdamtomorrowwith
Gus.”
“I know. I’m pretty well up-to-date on your life, because Gus never.
Talks.About.Anything.Else.”
Ismiled.Patrickclearedhisthroatandsaid,“Ifwecouldalltakeaseat?”
Hecaughtmyeye.“Hazel!”hesaid.“I’msogladtoseeyou!”
Everyone sat andPatrick beganhis retellingof his ball-lessness, and I
fell into the routine of Support Group: communicating through sighs with
Isaac,feelingsorryforeveryoneintheroomandalsoeveryoneoutsideofit,
zoningoutoftheconversationtofocusonmybreathlessnessandtheaching.
Theworldwenton,asitdoes,withoutmyfullparticipation,andIonlywoke
upfromthereveriewhensomeonesaidmyname.
It was Lida the Strong. Lida in remission. Blond, healthy, stout Lida,
whoswamonherhighschoolswimteam.Lida,missingonlyherappendix,
sayingmyname, saying, “Hazel is such an inspiration tome; she really is.
Shejustkeepsfightingthebattle,wakingupeverymorningandgoingtowar
withoutcomplaint.She’ssostrong.She’ssomuchstrongerthanIam.Ijust
wishIhadherstrength.”
“Hazel?”Patrickasked.“Howdoesthatmakeyoufeel?”
Ishruggedand lookedoveratLida.“I’llgiveyoumystrength if Ican
haveyourremission.”IfeltguiltyassoonasIsaidit.
“Idon’tthinkthat’swhatLidameant,”Patricksaid.“Ithinkshe...”But
I’dstoppedlistening.
After theprayersforthelivingandtheendlesslitanyofthedead(with
Michaeltackedontotheend),weheldhandsandsaid,“Livingourbestlife
today!”
Lidaimmediatelyrusheduptomefullofapologyandexplanation,andI
said,“No,no, it’s really fine,”wavingheroff,and I said to Isaac,“Care to
accompanymeupstairs?”
Hetookmyarm,andIwalkedwithhimtotheelevator,gratefultohave
anexcuse toavoid the stairs. I’dalmostmade it all theway to theelevator
whenIsawhismomstandinginacorneroftheLiteralHeart.“I’mhere,”she
saidtoIsaac,andheswitchedfrommyarmtohersbeforeasking,“Youwant
tocomeover?”
“Sure,” I said. I felt bad for him. Even though I hated the sympathy
peoplefelttowardme,Icouldn’thelpbutfeelittowardhim.
IsaaclivedinasmallranchhouseinMeridianHillsnexttothisfancyprivate
school.Wesatdowninthelivingroomwhilehismomwentofftothekitchen
tomakedinner,andthenheaskedifIwantedtoplayagame.
“Sure,”Isaid.Soheaskedfortheremote.Igaveittohim,andheturned
ontheTVandthenacomputerattachedtoit.TheTVscreenstayedblack,but
afterafewsecondsadeepvoicespokefromit.
“Deception,”thevoicesaid.“Oneplayerortwo?”
“Two,”Isaacsaid.“Pause.”Heturnedtome.“IplaythisgamewithGus
all the time, but it’s infuriating because he is a completely suicidal video-
game player. He’s, like, way too aggressive about saving civilians and
whatnot.”
“Yeah,”Isaid,rememberingthenightofthebrokentrophies.
“Unpause,”Isaacsaid.
“Playerone,identifyyourself.”
“Thisisplayerone’ssexysexyvoice,”Isaacsaid.
“Playertwo,identifyyourself.”
“Iwouldbeplayertwo,Iguess,”Isaid.
StaffSergeantMaxMayhemandPrivateJasperJacksawakeinadark,
emptyroomapproximatelytwelvefeetsquare.
IsaacpointedtowardtheTV,likeIshouldtalktoitorsomething.“Um,”
Isaid.“Istherealightswitch?”
No.
“Isthereadoor?”
PrivateJackslocatesthedoor.Itislocked.
Isaacjumpedin.“There’sakeyabovethedoorframe.”
Yes,thereis.
“Mayhemopensthedoor.”
Thedarknessisstillcomplete.
“Takeoutknife,”Isaacsaid.
“Takeoutknife,”Iadded.
Akid—Isaac’sbrother, Iassume—dartedoutfromthekitchen.Hewas
maybeten,wiryandoverenergetic,andhekindofskippedacross the living
room before shouting in a really good imitation of Isaac’s voice, “KILL
MYSELF.”
SergeantMayhemplaceshisknifetohisneck.Areyousureyou—
“No,” Isaac said. “Pause. Graham, don’t make me kick your ass.”
Grahamlaughedgiddilyandskippedoffdownahallway.
AsMayhemand Jacks, Isaac and I felt ourway forward in the cavern
untilwebumpedintoaguywhomwestabbedaftergettinghimtotellusthat
wewereinaUkrainianprisoncave,morethanamilebeneaththeground.As
wecontinued,soundeffects—aragingundergroundriver,voicesspeakingin
Ukrainian and accented English—led you through the cave, but there was
nothingtoseeinthisgame.Afterplayingforanhour,webegantohearthe
criesofadesperateprisoner,pleading,“God,helpme.God,helpme.”
“Pause,” Isaac said. “This is when Gus always insists on finding the
prisoner, even though that keeps you fromwinning the game, and the only
waytoactuallyfreetheprisoneristowinthegame.”
“Yeah, he takes video games too seriously,” I said. “He’s a bit too
enamoredwithmetaphor.”
“Doyoulikehim?”Isaacasked.
“OfcourseIlikehim.He’sgreat.”
“Butyoudon’twanttohookupwithhim?”
Ishrugged.“It’scomplicated.”
“Iknowwhatyou’retryingtodo.Youdon’twanttogivehimsomething
hecan’thandle.Youdon’twanthimtoMonicayou,”hesaid.
“Kinda,”Isaid.Butitwasn’tthat.Thetruthwas,Ididn’twanttoIsaac
him. “Tobe fair toMonica,” I said, “what you did to herwasn’t very nice
either.”
“What’dIdotoher?”heasked,defensive.
“Youknow,goingblindandeverything.”
“Butthat’snotmyfault,”Isaacsaid.
“I’mnotsayingitwasyourfault.I’msayingitwasn’tnice.”
CHAPTERTEN
We couldonly takeone suitcase. I couldn’t carryone, andMom insisted
that she couldn’t carry two, so we had to jockey for space in this black
suitcasemyparents hadgotten as aweddingpresent amillionyears ago, a
suitcase that was supposed to spend its life in exotic locales but ended up
mostly going back and forth toDayton,whereMorris Property, Inc., had a
satelliteofficethatDadoftenvisited.
I argued withMom that I should have slightly more than half of the
suitcase,sincewithoutmeandmycancer,we’dneverbegoingtoAmsterdam
inthefirstplace.Momcounteredthatsinceshewastwiceaslargeasmeand
thereforerequiredmorephysicalfabrictopreservehermodesty,shedeserved
atleasttwo-thirdsofthesuitcase.
Intheend,webothlost.Soitgoes.
Our flightdidn’t leaveuntilnoon,butMomwokemeupat five thirty,
turning on the light and shouting, “AMSTERDAM!” She ran around all
morning making sure we had international plug adapters and quadruple-
checkingthatwehadtherightnumberofoxygentankstogetthereandthat
theywere all full, etc.,while I just rolled out of bed, put onmyTravel to
AmsterdamOutfit (jeans, a pink tank top, and a black cardigan in case the
planewascold).
Thecarwaspackedbysixfifteen,whereuponMominsistedthatweeat
breakfastwithDad,althoughIhadamoraloppositiontoeatingbeforedawn
onthegroundsthatIwasnotanineteenth-centuryRussianpeasantfortifying
myselfforadayinthefields.Butanyway,Itriedtostomachdownsomeeggs
whileMom andDad enjoyed these homemade versions of EggMcMuffins
theyliked.
“Why are breakfast foods breakfast foods?” I asked them. “Like,why
don’twehavecurryforbreakfast?”
“Hazel,eat.”
“Butwhy?” I asked. “I mean, seriously: How did scrambled eggs get
stuckwithbreakfast exclusivity?Youcanputbaconona sandwichwithout
anyonefreakingout.Butthemomentyoursandwichhasanegg,
,boom,it’sa
breakfastsandwich.”
Dad answeredwith hismouth full. “When you comeback,we’ll have
breakfastfordinner.Deal?”
“Idon’twanttohave‘breakfastfordinner,’”Ianswered,crossingknife
andforkovermymostlyfullplate.“Iwanttohavescrambledeggsfordinner
without this ridiculous construction that a scrambled egg–inclusivemeal is
breakfastevenwhenitoccursatdinnertime.”
“You’ve gotta pick your battles in this world, Hazel,” my mom said.
“Butifthisistheissueyouwanttochampion,wewillstandbehindyou.”
“Quiteabitbehindyou,”mydadadded,andMomlaughed.
Anyway,Iknewitwasstupid,butIfeltkindofbadforscrambledeggs.
Aftertheyfinishedeating,Daddidthedishesandwalkedustothecar.
Of course, he started crying, and he kissedmy cheekwith hiswet stubbly
face.Hepressedhisnoseagainstmycheekboneandwhispered,“Iloveyou.
I’msoproudofyou.”(Forwhat,Iwondered.)
“Thanks,Dad.”
“I’llseeyouinafewdays,okay,sweetie?Iloveyousomuch.”
“Iloveyou,too,Dad.”Ismiled.“Andit’sonlythreedays.”
Aswebackedoutofthedriveway,Ikeptwavingathim.Hewaswaving
back,andcrying. Itoccurred tome thathewasprobably thinkinghemight
neverseemeagain,whichheprobably thoughteverysinglemorningofhis
entireweekdaylifeasheleftforwork,whichprobablysucked.
MomandIdroveovertoAugustus’shouse,andwhenwegotthere,she
wantedmetostayinthecartorest,butIwenttothedoorwithheranyway.
Aswe approached the house, I could hear someone crying inside. I didn’t
thinkitwasGusatfirst,becauseitdidn’tsoundanythinglikethelowrumble
ofhisspeaking,butthenIheardavoicethatwasdefinitelyatwistedversion
ofhissay,“BECAUSEITISMYLIFE,MOM.ITBELONGSTOME.”And
quicklymymomputherarmaroundmyshouldersandspunmebacktoward
thecar,walkingquickly,andIwaslike,“Mom,what’swrong?”
Andshesaid,“Wecan’teavesdrop,Hazel.”
We got back into the car and I texted Augustus that wewere outside
wheneverhewasready.
Westaredatthehouseforawhile.Theweirdthingabouthousesisthat
they almost always look like nothing is happening inside of them, even
thoughtheycontainmostofourlives.Iwonderedifthatwassortofthepoint
ofarchitecture.
“Well,”Momsaidafterawhile,“weareprettyearly,Iguess.”
“AlmostasifIdidn’thavetogetupatfivethirty,”Isaid.Momreached
downtotheconsolebetweenus,grabbedhercoffeemug,andtookasip.My
phonebuzzed.AtextfromAugustus.
JustCAN’Tdecidewhattowear.Doyoulikemebetterinapoloor
abutton-down?
Ireplied:
Button-down.
Thirtysecondslater,thefrontdooropened,andasmilingAugustusappeared,
arollerbagbehindhim.Heworeapressedsky-bluebutton-downtuckedinto
hisjeans.ACamelLightdangledfromhislips.Mymomgotouttosayhito
him.Hetookthecigaretteoutmomentarilyandspokeintheconfidentvoice
towhichIwasaccustomed.“Alwaysapleasuretoseeyou,ma’am.”
IwatchedthemthroughtherearviewmirroruntilMomopenedthetrunk.
Moments later, Augustus opened a door behind me and engaged in the
complicatedbusinessofenteringthebackseatofacarwithoneleg.
“Doyouwantshotgun?”Iasked.
“Absolutelynot,”hesaid.“Andhello,HazelGrace.”
“Hi,”Isaid.“Okay?”Iasked.
“Okay,”hesaid.
“Okay,”Isaid.
Mymomgot inandclosed thecardoor. “Next stop,Amsterdam,” she
announced.
Whichwasnotquitetrue.Thenextstopwastheairportparkinglot,andthen
abustookustotheterminal,andthenanopen-airelectriccartookustothe
securityline.TheTSAguyatthefrontofthelinewasshoutingabouthowour
bags had better not contain explosives or firearms or anything liquid over
threeounces,andIsaidtoAugustus,“Observation:Standinginlineisaform
ofoppression,”andhesaid,“Seriously.”
Rather than be searched by hand, I chose to walk through the metal
detectorwithoutmycartormytankoreventheplasticnubbinsinmynose.
Walking through the X-raymachinemarked the first time I’d taken a step
without oxygen in some months, and it felt pretty amazing to walk
unencumbered like that, stepping across theRubicon, themachine’s silence
acknowledgingthatIwas,howeverbriefly,anonmetallicizedcreature.
IfeltabodilysovereigntythatIcan’treallydescribeexcepttosaythat
when I was a kid I used to have a really heavy backpack that I carried
everywherewithallmybooksinit,andifIwalkedaroundwiththebackpack
forlongenough,whenItookitoffIfeltlikeIwasfloating.
After about ten seconds,my lungs felt like theywere folding in upon
themselves like flowers at dusk. I sat down on a gray bench just past the
machineandtriedtocatchmybreath,mycougharattlingdrizzle,andIfelt
prettymiserableuntilIgotthecannulabackintoplace.
Even then, it hurt. The pain was always there, pulling me inside of
myself, demanding to be felt. It always felt like Iwaswaking up from the
pain when something in the world outside of me suddenly required my
comment or attention.Momwas looking atme, concerned. She’d just said
something.What had she just said?Then I remembered. She’d askedwhat
waswrong.
“Nothing,”Isaid.
“Amsterdam!”shehalfshouted.
Ismiled.“Amsterdam,”Ianswered.Shereachedherhanddowntome
andpulledmeup.
We got to the gate an hour before our scheduled boarding time. “Mrs.
Lancaster,youareanimpressivelypunctualperson,”Augustussaidashesat
downnexttomeinthemostlyemptygatearea.
“Well,ithelpsthatIamnottechnicallyverybusy,”shesaid.
“You’replentybusy,”Itoldher,althoughitoccurredtomethatMom’s
businesswasmostlyme.Therewasalsothebusinessofbeingmarriedtomy
dad—hewas kindof clueless about, like, banking andhiringplumbers and
cookinganddoingthingsotherthanworkingforMorrisProperty,Inc.—butit
was mostly me. Her primary reason for living and my primary reason for
livingwereawfullyentangled.
Astheseatsaroundthegatestartedtofill,Augustussaid,“I’mgonnaget
ahamburgerbeforeweleave.CanIgetyouanything?”
“No,”Isaid,“butIreallyappreciateyourrefusaltogiveintobreakfasty
socialconventions.”
Hetiltedhisheadatme,confused.“Hazelhasdevelopedanissuewith
theghettoizationofscrambledeggs,”Momsaid.
“It’s embarrassing that we all just walk through life blindly accepting
thatscrambledeggsarefundamentallyassociatedwithmornings.”
“Iwanttotalkaboutthismore,”Augustussaid.“ButIamstarving.I’ll
berightback.”
WhenAugustushadn’tshowedupaftertwentyminutes,IaskedMomifshe
thoughtsomethingwaswrong,andshe lookedup fromherawfulmagazine
only long enough to say, “He probably just went to the bathroom or
something.”
Agateagentcameoverandswitchedmyoxygencontaineroutwithone
providedbytheairline.Iwasembarrassedtohavethisladykneelinginfront
ofmewhileeveryonewatched,soItextedAugustuswhileshedidit.
He didn’t reply. Mom seemed unconcerned, but I was imagining all
kindsofAmsterdamtrip–ruiningfates(arrest,injury,mentalbreakdown)and
I felt like there was something noncancery wrong with my chest as the
minutestickedaway.
And justwhen the ladybehind the ticketcounterannounced theywere
going to start preboarding people who might need a bit of extra time and
every singleperson in thegate area turned squarely tome, I sawAugustus
fast-limping toward us with a McDonald’s bag in one hand, his backpack
slungoverhisshoulder.
,“Wherewereyou?”Iasked.
“Linegotsuperlong,sorry,”hesaid,offeringmeahandup.Itookit,and
wewalkedsidebysidetothegatetopreboard.
Icouldfeeleverybodywatchingus,wonderingwhatwaswrongwithus,
and whether it would kill us, and how heroic my mom must be, and
everythingelse.Thatwastheworstpartabouthavingcancer,sometimes:The
physical evidence of disease separates you from other people. We were
irreconcilablyother,andneverwasitmoreobviousthanwhenthethreeofus
walkedthroughtheemptyplane,thestewardessnoddingsympatheticallyand
gesturing us toward our row in the distant back. I sat in themiddle of our
three-personrowwithAugustusinthewindowseatandMomintheaisle.I
feltalittlehemmedinbyMom,soofcourseIscootedovertowardAugustus.
Wewererightbehindtheplane’swing.Heopeneduphisbagandunwrapped
hisburger.
“The thingabouteggs, though,”he said,“is thatbreakfastizationgives
thescrambledeggacertainsacrality,right?Youcangetyourselfsomebacon
orCheddarcheeseanywhereanytime,fromtacostobreakfastsandwichesto
grilledcheese,butscrambledeggs—they’reimportant.”
“Ludicrous,”Isaid.Thepeoplewerestartingtofileintotheplanenow.I
didn’twanttolookatthem,soIlookedaway,andtolookawaywastolookat
Augustus.
“I’mjustsaying:Maybescrambledeggsareghettoized,butthey’realso
special.Theyhaveaplaceandatime,likechurchdoes.”
“Youcouldn’tbemorewrong,” I said.“Youarebuying into thecross-
stitched sentiments of your parents’ throw pillows. You’re arguing that the
fragile,rarethingisbeautifulsimplybecauseitisfragileandrare.Butthat’sa
lie,andyouknowit.”
“You’reahardpersontocomfort,”Augustussaid.
“Easy comfort isn’t comforting,” I said. “You were a rare and fragile
floweronce.Youremember.”
Foramoment,hesaidnothing.“Youdoknowhowtoshutmeup,Hazel
Grace.”
“It’smyprivilegeandmyresponsibility,”Ianswered.
BeforeIbrokeeyecontactwithhim,hesaid,“Listen,sorryIavoidedthe
gatearea.TheMcDonald’slinewasn’treallythatlong;Ijust...Ijustdidn’t
wanttosittherewithallthosepeoplelookingatusorwhatever.”
“Atme,mostly,”Isaid.YoucouldglanceatGusandneverknowhe’d
beensick,but Icarriedmydiseasewithmeon theoutside,which ispartof
why I’d become a homebody in the first place. “Augustus Waters, noted
charismatist,isembarrassedtositnexttoagirlwithanoxygentank.”
“Not embarrassed,” he said. “They just pissme off sometimes. And I
don’twanttobepissedofftoday.”Afteraminute,hedugintohispocketand
flippedopenhispackofsmokes.
Aboutninesecondslater,ablondstewardessrushedovertoourrowand
said,“Sir,youcan’tsmokeonthisplane.Oranyplane.”
“Idon’tsmoke,”heexplained,thecigarettedancinginhismouthashe
spoke.
“But—”
“It’sametaphor,”Iexplained.“Heputsthekillingthinginhismouthbut
doesn’tgiveitthepowertokillhim.”
Thestewardesswasflummoxedforonlyamoment.“Well,thatmetaphor
is prohibited on today’s flight,” she said. Gus nodded and rejoined the
cigarettetoitspack.
We finally taxied out to the runway and the pilot said, Flight attendants,
preparefordeparture,andthentwotremendousjetenginesroaredtolifeand
webegantoaccelerate.“Thisiswhatitfeelsliketodriveinacarwithyou,”I
said,andhesmiled,butkepthisjawclenchedtightandIsaid,“Okay?”
WewerepickingupspeedandsuddenlyGus’shandgrabbedthearmrest,
hiseyeswide,andIputmyhandontopofhisandsaid,“Okay?”Hedidn’t
say anything, just stared at me wide-eyed, and I said, “Are you scared of
flying?”
“I’lltellyouinaminute,”hesaid.Thenoseoftheplaneroseupandwe
werealoft.Gusstaredoutthewindow,watchingtheplanetshrinkbeneathus,
andthenIfelthishandrelaxbeneathmine.Heglancedatmeandthenback
outthewindow.“Weareflying,”heannounced.
“You’veneverbeenonaplanebefore?”
Heshookhishead.“LOOK!”hehalfshouted,pointingatthewindow.
“Yeah,”Isaid.“Yeah,Iseeit.Itlookslikewe’reinanairplane.”
“NOTHING HAS EVER LOOKED LIKE THAT EVER IN ALL OF
HUMANHISTORY,”hesaid.Hisenthusiasmwasadorable.Icouldn’tresist
leaningovertokisshimonthecheek.
“Justsoyouknow,I’mrighthere,”Momsaid.“Sittingnexttoyou.Your
mother.Whoheldyourhandasyoutookyourfirstinfantilesteps.”
“It’sfriendly,”Iremindedher,turningtokissheronthecheek.
“Didn’tfeeltoofriendly,”Gusmumbledjustloudenoughformetohear.
WhensurprisedandexcitedandinnocentGusemergedfromGrandGesture
MetaphoricallyInclinedAugustus,Iliterallycouldnotresist.
It was a quick flight to Detroit, where the little electric car met us as we
disembarkedanddroveustothegateforAmsterdam.ThatplanehadTVsin
the backof each seat, and oncewewere above the clouds,Augustus and I
timed it so thatwestartedwatching thesame romanticcomedyat thesame
time on our respective screens. But even though we were perfectly
synchronized in our pressing of the play button, hismovie started a couple
secondsbeforemine,soateveryfunnymoment,he’dlaughjustasIstartedto
hearwhateverthejokewas.
***
Momhad thisbigplan thatwewouldsleepfor the lastseveralhoursof the
flight, sowhenwe landed at eightA.M.,we’dhit the city ready to suck the
marrow out of life or whatever. So after the movie was over, Mom and
AugustusandIall tooksleepingpills.Momconkedoutwithinseconds,but
AugustusandIstayeduptolookoutthewindowforawhile.Itwasaclear
day, and although we couldn’t see the sun setting, we could see the sky’s
response.
“God,thatisbeautiful,”Isaidmostlytomyself.
“‘Therisensun toobright inher losingeyes,’”hesaid,a linefromAn
ImperialAffliction.
“Butit’snotrising,”Isaid.
“It’s rising somewhere,” he answered, and then after a moment said,
“Observation: Itwouldbeawesome to fly ina superfastairplane thatcould
chasethesunrisearoundtheworldforawhile.”
“AlsoI’d live longer.”Helookedatmeaskew.“Youknow,becauseof
relativity orwhatever.”He still looked confused. “We age slowerwhenwe
movequicklyversusstandingstill.Sorightnowtimeispassingslowerforus
thanforpeopleontheground.”
“Collegechicks,”hesaid.“They’resosmart.”
Irolledmyeyes.Hehithis(real)kneewithmykneeandIhithisknee
backwithmine.“Areyousleepy?”Iaskedhim.
“Notatall,”heanswered.
“Yeah,”Isaid.“Meneither.”Sleepingmedsandnarcoticsdidn’tdofor
mewhattheydidfornormalpeople.
“Want to watch another movie?” he asked. “They’ve got a Portman
moviefromherHazelEra.”
“Iwanttowatchsomethingyouhaven’tseen.”
Intheendwewatched300,awarmovieabout300Spartanswhoprotect
Sparta from an invading army of like a billion Persians. Augustus’smovie
startedbeforemineagain,andafterafewminutesofhearinghimgo,“Dang!”
or “Fatality!” every time someonewaskilled in somebadassway, I leaned
over thearmrestandputmyheadonhis shoulder so Icould seehis screen
andwecouldactuallywatchthemovietogether.
300 featured a sizable collection of shirtless and well-oiled strapping
younglads,soitwasnotparticularlydifficultontheeyes,butitwasmostlya
lot of swordwielding to no real effect. The bodies of the Persians and the
Spartanspiledup, and I couldn’tquite figureoutwhy thePersianswere so
evil or the Spartans so awesome. “Contemporaneity,” to quote AIA,
“specializesinthekindofbattles
,whereinnoonelosesanythingofanyvalue,
exceptarguablytheirlives.”Andsoitwaswiththesetitansclashing.
Towardtheendofthemovie,almosteveryoneisdead,andthereisthis
insanemomentwhentheSpartansstartstackingthebodiesofthedeadupto
form a wall of corpses. The dead become this massive roadblock standing
betweenthePersiansandtheroadtoSparta.Ifoundthegoreabitgratuitous,
soIlookedawayforasecond,askingAugustus,“Howmanydeadpeopledo
youthinkthereare?”
Hedismissedmewithawave.“Shh.Shh.Thisisgettingawesome.”
WhenthePersiansattacked,theyhadtoclimbupthewallofdeath,and
theSpartanswereabletooccupythehighgroundatopthecorpsemountain,
and as the bodies piled up, the wall of martyrs only became higher and
thereforehardertoclimb,andeverybodyswungswords/shotarrows,andthe
riversofbloodpoureddownMountDeath,etc.
I tookmyheadoff his shoulder for amoment toget a break from the
goreandwatchedAugustuswatchthemovie.Hecouldn’tcontainhisgoofy
grin. Iwatchedmyownscreen throughsquintedeyesas themountaingrew
with thebodiesofPersiansandSpartans.WhenthePersiansfinallyoverran
theSpartans,IlookedoveratAugustusagain.Eventhoughthegoodguyshad
just lost,Augustus seemeddownright joyful. Inuzzledup tohimagain,but
keptmyeyescloseduntilthebattlewasfinished.
Asthecreditsrolled,hetookoffhisheadphonesandsaid,“Sorry,Iwas
awashinthenobilityofsacrifice.Whatwereyousaying?”
“Howmanydeadpeopledoyouthinkthereare?”
“Like, how many fictional people died in that fictional movie? Not
enough,”hejoked.
“No,Imean,like,ever.Like,howmanypeopledoyouthinkhaveever
died?”
“I happen to know the answer to that question,” he said. “There are
sevenbillionlivingpeople,andaboutninety-eightbilliondeadpeople.”
“Oh,”Isaid.I’dthoughtthatmaybesincepopulationgrowthhadbeenso
fast,thereweremorepeoplealivethanallthedeadcombined.
“Thereareaboutfourteendeadpeopleforeverylivingperson,”hesaid.
Thecreditscontinuedrolling.Ittookalongtimetoidentifyallthosecorpses,
I guess.My headwas still on his shoulder. “I did some research on this a
coupleyearsago,”Augustuscontinued.“Iwaswonderingifeverybodycould
beremembered.Like,ifwegotorganized,andassignedacertainnumberof
corpses to each living person, would there be enough living people to
rememberallthedeadpeople?”
“Andarethere?”
“Sure, anyone canname fourteendeadpeople.Butwe’re disorganized
mourners, so a lot of people endup rememberingShakespeare, andnoone
endsuprememberingthepersonhewroteSonnetFifty-fiveabout.”
“Yeah,”Isaid.
It was quiet for a minute, and then he asked, “You want to read or
something?”Isaidsure.IwasreadingthislongpoemcalledHowlbyAllen
Ginsbergformypoetryclass,andGuswasrereadingAnImperialAffliction.
Afterawhilehesaid,“Isitanygood?”
“Thepoem?”Iasked.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,it’sgreat.TheguysinthispoemtakeevenmoredrugsthanIdo.
How’sAIA?”
“Stillperfect,”hesaid.“Readtome.”
“Thisisn’treallyapoemtoreadaloudwhenyouaresittingnexttoyour
sleepingmother.Ithas,like,sodomyandangeldustinit,”Isaid.
“Youjustnamedtwoofmyfavoritepastimes,”hesaid.“Okay,readme
somethingelsethen?”
“Um,”Isaid.“Idon’thaveanythingelse?”
“That’stoobad.Iamsointhemoodforpoetry.Doyouhaveanything
memorized?”
“‘Letusgothen,youandI,’”Istartednervously,“‘Whentheeveningis
spreadoutagainstthesky/Likeapatientetherizeduponatable.’”
“Slower,”hesaid.
Ifeltbashful,likeIhadwhenI’dfirsttoldhimofAnImperialAffliction.
“Um, okay. Okay. ‘Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, / The
mutteringretreats/Ofrestlessnightsinone-nightcheaphotels/Andsawdust
restaurantswithoyster-shells: /Streets that follow likea tediousargument /
Ofinsidiousintent/Toleadyoutoanoverwhelmingquestion.../Oh,donot
ask,“Whatisit?”/Letusgoandmakeourvisit.’”
“I’minlovewithyou,”hesaidquietly.
“Augustus,”Isaid.
“Iam,”hesaid.Hewasstaringatme,andIcouldseethecornersofhis
eyescrinkling.“I’minlovewithyou,andI’mnotinthebusinessofdenying
myselfthesimplepleasureofsayingtruethings.I’minlovewithyou,andI
knowthatloveisjustashoutintothevoid,andthatoblivionisinevitable,and
thatwe’realldoomedandthattherewillcomeadaywhenallourlaborhas
beenreturned todust,andIknowthesunwillswallowtheonlyearthwe’ll
everhave,andIaminlovewithyou.”
“Augustus,” I said again, not knowing what else to say. It felt like
everythingwas risingup inme, like Iwasdrowning in thisweirdlypainful
joy,butIcouldn’tsayitback.Icouldn’tsayanythingback.I just lookedat
him and let him look atme until he nodded, lips pursed, and turned away,
placingthesideofhisheadagainstthewindow.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Ithinkhemusthavefallenasleep.Idid,eventually,andwoketothelanding
gearcomingdown.Mymouthtastedhorrible,andI triedtokeepitshutfor
fearofpoisoningtheairplane.
I lookedoveratAugustus,whowasstaringout thewindow,andaswe
dipped below the low-hung clouds, I straightened my back to see the
Netherlands.The landseemedsunkinto theocean, littlerectanglesofgreen
surroundedonallsidesbycanals.Welanded,infact,paralleltoacanal,like
thereweretworunways:oneforusandoneforwaterfowl.
After getting our bags and clearing customs, we all piled into a taxi
driven by this doughy bald guy who spoke perfect English—like better
EnglishthanIdo.“TheHotelFilosoof?”Isaid.
Andhesaid,“YouareAmericans?”
“Yes,”Momsaid.“We’refromIndiana.”
“Indiana,”hesaid.“Theysteal the land fromthe Indiansand leave the
name,yes?”
“Somethinglikethat,”Momsaid.Thecabbiepulledoutintotrafficand
weheadedtowardahighwaywithlotsofbluesignsfeaturingdoublevowels:
Oosthuizen,Haarlem.Besidethehighway,flatemptylandstretchedformiles,
interruptedbytheoccasionalhugecorporateheadquarters. Inshort,Holland
looked like Indianapolis, only with smaller cars. “This is Amsterdam?” I
askedthecabdriver.
“Yesandno,”heanswered.“Amsterdamisliketheringsofatree:Itgets
olderasyougetclosertothecenter.”
Ithappenedallatonce:Weexitedthehighwayandthereweretherow
houses of my imagination leaning precariously toward canals, ubiquitous
bicycles,andcoffeeshopsadvertisingLARGESMOKINGROOM.Wedrove
over a canal and from atop the bridge I could see dozens of houseboats
mooredalongthewater.ItlookednothinglikeAmerica.Itlookedlikeanold
painting, but real—everything achingly idyllic in themorning light—and I
thoughtabouthowwonderfullystrange itwouldbe to live inaplacewhere
almosteverythinghadbeenbuiltbythedead.
“Arethesehousesveryold?”askedmymom.
“Manyof the canalhousesdate from theGoldenAge, the seventeenth
century,”hesaid.“Ourcityhasarichhistory,eventhoughmanytouristsare
onlywantingtoseetheRedLightDistrict.”Hepaused.“Sometouriststhink
Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in
freedom,mostpeoplefindsin.”
AlltheroomsintheHotelFilosoofwerenamedafterfilosoofers:MomandI
were staying on the ground floor in theKierkegaard;Augustuswas on the
flooraboveus,intheHeidegger.Ourroomwassmall:adoublebedpressed
againstawallwithmyBiPAPmachine,anoxygenconcentrator,andadozen
refillableoxygentanks
,atthefootofthebed.Pasttheequipment,therewasa
dustyoldpaisleychairwithasaggingseat,adesk,andabookshelfabovethe
bed containing the collected works of Søren Kierkegaard. On the desk we
found a wicker basket full of presents from the Genies: wooden shoes, an
orangeHollandT-shirt,chocolates,andvariousothergoodies.
The Filosoof was right next to the Vondelpark, Amsterdam’s most
famouspark.Momwantedtogoonawalk,butIwassupertired,soshegot
theBiPAPworkingandplaceditssnoutonme.Ihatedtalkingwiththatthing
on,butIsaid,“JustgototheparkandI’llcallyouwhenIwakeup.”
“Okay,”shesaid.“Sleeptight,honey.”
ButwhenIwokeupsomehourslater,shewassittingintheancientlittlechair
inthecorner,readingaguidebook.
“Morning,”Isaid.
“Actuallylateafternoon,”sheanswered,pushingherselfoutofthechair
withasigh.Shecametothebed,placedatankinthecart,andconnecteditto
the tubewhile I took off theBiPAP snout and placed the nubbins intomy
nose.Shesetitfor2.5litersaminute—sixhoursbeforeI’dneedachange—
andthenIgotup.“Howareyoufeeling?”sheasked.
“Good,”Isaid.“Great.HowwastheVondelpark?”
“Iskippedit,”shesaid.“Readallaboutitintheguidebook,though.”
“Mom,”Isaid,“youdidn’thavetostayhere.”
Sheshrugged.“Iknow.Iwantedto.Ilikewatchingyousleep.”
“Saidthecreeper.”Shelaughed,butIstill feltbad.“I justwantyouto
havefunorwhatever,youknow?”
“Okay.I’llhavefuntonight,okay?I’llgodocrazymomstuffwhileyou
andAugustusgotodinner.”
“Withoutyou?”Iasked.
“Yes without me. In fact, you have reservations at a place called
Oranjee,” she said. “Mr. Van Houten’s assistant set it up. It’s in this
neighborhood called the Jordaan. Very fancy, according to the guidebook.
There’sa tramstationrightaround thecorner.Augustushasdirections.You
caneatoutside,watchtheboatsgoby.It’llbelovely.Veryromantic.”
“Mom.”
“I’m just saying,” she said. “You should get dressed. The sundress,
maybe?”
Onemightmarvel at the insanity of the situation:Amother sends her
sixteen-year-old daughter alone with a seventeen-year-old boy out into a
foreigncityfamousforitspermissiveness.Butthis,too,wasasideeffectof
dying:Icouldnotrunordanceoreatfoodsrichinnitrogen,butinthecityof
freedom,Iwasamongthemostliberatedofitsresidents.
I did indeed wear the sundress—this blue print, flowey knee-length
Forever21 thing—with tightsandMaryJanesbecause I likedbeingquitea
lotshorterthanhim.Iwentintothehilariouslytinybathroomandbattledmy
bedhead for a while until everything looked suitably mid-2000s Natalie
Portman.AtsixP.M.onthedot(noonbackhome),therewasaknock.
“Hello?” I said through the door. Therewas no peephole at theHotel
Filosoof.
“Okay,”Augustus answered. I could hear the cigarette in hismouth. I
lookeddownatmyself.Thesundressofferedthemost in thewayofmyrib
cageandcollarbone thatAugustushad seen. Itwasn’tobsceneor anything,
but itwas as close as I ever got to showing some skin. (Mymother had a
mottoonthisfrontthatIagreedwith:“Lancastersdon’tbaremidriffs.”)
I pulled the door open. Augustus wore a black suit, narrow lapels,
perfectlytailored,overalightbluedressshirtandathinblacktie.Acigarette
dangledfromtheunsmilingcornerofhismouth.“HazelGrace,”hesaid,“you
lookgorgeous.”
“I,” I said. Ikept thinking the restofmysentencewouldemerge from
theairpassingthroughmyvocalcords,butnothinghappened.Thenfinally,I
said,“Ifeelunderdressed.”
“Ah,thisoldthing?”hesaid,smilingdownatme.
“Augustus,”mymomsaidbehindme,“youlookextremelyhandsome.”
“Thankyou,ma’am,”hesaid.Heofferedmehisarm.Itookit,glancing
backtoMom.
“Seeyoubyeleven,”shesaid.
Waitingforthenumberonetramonawidestreetbusywithtraffic,Isaidto
Augustus,“Thesuityouweartofunerals,Iassume?”
“Actually,no,”hesaid.“Thatsuitisn’tnearlythisnice.”
Theblue-and-whitetramarrived,andAugustushandedourcardstothe
driver,whoexplainedthatweneededtowavethematthiscircularsensor.As
wewalked through thecrowded tram,anoldmanstoodup togiveus seats
together, and I tried to tell him to sit, but he gestured toward the seat
insistently.Werodethetramforthreestops,meleaningoverGussowecould
lookoutthewindowtogether.
Augustuspointedupatthetreesandasked,“Doyouseethat?”
Idid.Therewereelmtreeseverywherealongthecanals,andtheseseeds
wereblowingoutofthem.Buttheydidn’tlooklikeseeds.Theylookedforall
the world like miniaturized rose petals drained of their color. These pale
petalsweregatheringinthewindlikeflockingbirds—thousandsofthem,like
aspringsnowstorm.
The old man who’d given up his seat saw us noticing and said, in
English, “Amsterdam’s spring snow. The iepen throw confetti to greet the
spring.”
Weswitchedtrams,andafterfourmorestopswearrivedatastreetsplit
by a beautiful canal, the reflections of the ancient bridge and picturesque
canalhousesripplinginwater.
Oranjeewasjuststepsfromthetram.Therestaurantwasononesideof
thestreet;theoutdoorseatingontheother,onaconcreteoutcroppingrightat
the edge of the canal. The hostess’s eyes lit up as Augustus and I walked
towardher.“Mr.andMrs.Waters?”
“Iguess?”Isaid.
“Your table,” she said, gesturing across the street to a narrow table
inchesfromthecanal.“Thechampagneisourgift.”
GusandIglancedateachother,smiling.Oncewe’dcrossedthestreet,
hepulledoutaseatformeandhelpedmescootitbackin.Therewereindeed
twoflutesofchampagneatourwhite-tableclothedtable.Theslightchillinthe
airwas balancedmagnificently by the sunshine; on one side of us, cyclists
pedaledpast—well-dressedmenandwomenon theirwayhomefromwork,
improbablyattractiveblondgirls ridingsidesaddleon thebackofa friend’s
bike, tiny helmetless kids bouncing around in plastic seats behind their
parents.Andonourotherside,thecanalwaterwaschokedwithmillionsof
the confetti seeds.Little boatsweremoored at the brick banks, half full of
rainwater, someof themnear sinking.Abit fartherdown thecanal, I could
seehouseboatsfloatingonpontoons,andinthemiddleofthecanal,anopen-
air,flat-bottomedboatdeckedoutwithlawnchairsandaportablestereoidled
towardus.Augustus tookhisfluteofchampagneandraised it. I tookmine,
eventhoughI’dneverhadadrinkasidefromsipsofmydad’sbeer.
“Okay,”hesaid.
“Okay,” I said, andwe clinked glasses. I took a sip. The tiny bubbles
melted inmymouth and journeyed northward intomybrain. Sweet.Crisp.
Delicious.“Thatisreallygood,”Isaid.“I’veneverdrunkchampagne.”
A sturdyyoungwaiterwithwavyblondhair appeared.Hewasmaybe
even taller thanAugustus. “Do you know,” he asked in a delicious accent,
“whatDomPérignonsaidafterinventingchampagne?”
“No?”Isaid.
“He called out to his fellow monks, ‘Come quickly: I am tasting the
stars.’Welcome toAmsterdam.Would you like to see amenu, orwill you
havethechef’schoice?”
IlookedatAugustusandheatme.“Thechef’schoicesoundslovely,but
Hazelisavegetarian.”I’dmentionedthistoAugustuspreciselyonce,onthe
firstdaywemet.
“Thisisnotaproblem,”thewaitersaid.
“Awesome.Andcanwegetmoreofthis?”Gusasked,ofthechampagne.
“Ofcourse,”saidourwaiter.“Wehavebottledallthestarsthis
,evening,
myyoungfriends.Gah,theconfetti!”hesaid,andlightlybrushedaseedfrom
mybareshoulder.“Ithasn’tbeensobadinmanyyears.It’severywhere.Very
annoying.”
Thewaiterdisappeared.Wewatchedtheconfettifallfromthesky,skip
acrossthegroundinthebreeze,andtumbleintothecanal.“Kindofhardto
believeanyonecouldeverfindthatannoying,”Augustussaidafterawhile.
“Peoplealwaysgetusedtobeauty,though.”
“I haven’t gotten used to you just yet,” he answered, smiling. I felt
myselfblushing.“ThankyouforcomingtoAmsterdam,”hesaid.
“Thankyouforlettingmehijackyourwish,”Isaid.
“Thankyouforwearingthatdresswhichislikewhoa,”hesaid.Ishook
myhead,tryingnottosmileathim.Ididn’twanttobeagrenade.Butthen
again,heknewwhathewasdoing,didn’the? Itwashischoice, too.“Hey,
how’sthatpoemend?”heasked.
“Huh?”
“Theoneyourecitedtomeontheplane.”
“Oh,‘Prufrock’?Itends,‘Wehavelingeredinthechambersofthesea/
Bysea-girlswreathedwithseaweedredandbrown/Tillhumanvoiceswake
us,andwedrown.’”
Augustus pulled out a cigarette and tapped the filter against the table.
“Stupidhumanvoicesalwaysruiningeverything.”
The waiter arrived with twomore glasses of champagne and what he
called“Belgianwhiteasparaguswithalavenderinfusion.”
“I’veneverhadchampagneeither,”Gussaidafterheleft.“Incaseyou
werewonderingorwhatever.Also,I’veneverhadwhiteasparagus.”
Iwaschewingmyfirstbite.“It’samazing,”Ipromised.
He took a bite, swallowed. “God. If asparagus tasted like that all the
time, I’d be a vegetarian, too.” Some people in a lacquered wooden boat
approacheduson thecanalbelow.Oneof them,awomanwithcurlyblond
hair, maybe thirty, drank from a beer then raised her glass toward us and
shoutedsomething.
“Wedon’tspeakDutch,”Gusshoutedback.
One of the others shouted a translation: “The beautiful couple is
beautiful.”
The food was so good that with each passing course, our conversation
devolved further into fragmented celebrations of its deliciousness: “I want
thisdragoncarrotrisottotobecomeapersonsoIcantakeittoLasVegasand
marry it.” “Sweet-pea sorbet, you are sounexpectedlymagnificent.” Iwish
I’dbeenhungrier.
After green garlic gnocchi with red mustard leaves, the waiter said,
“Dessertnext.Morestars first?” Ishookmyhead.Twoglasseswasenough
forme.Champagnewas no exception tomyhigh tolerance for depressants
andpain relievers; I feltwarmbutnot intoxicated.But Ididn’twant toget
drunk. Nights like this one didn’t come along often, and I wanted to
rememberit.
“Mmmm,”Isaidafterthewaiterleft,andAugustussmiledcrookedlyas
hestareddownthecanalwhileIstaredupit.Wehadplentytolookat,sothe
silencedidn’t feel awkward really, but Iwanted everything tobeperfect. It
wasperfect,Iguess,butitfeltlikesomeonehadtriedtostagetheAmsterdam
ofmyimagination,whichmadeithardtoforgetthatthisdinner,likethetrip
itself, was a cancer perk. I just wanted us to be talking and joking
comfortably,likewewereonthecouchtogetherbackhome,butsometension
underlayeverything.
“It’snotmyfuneralsuit,”hesaidafterawhile.“WhenIfirstfoundoutI
was sick—Imean, they toldme Ihad likeaneighty-fivepercent chanceof
cure. I know those are great odds, but I kept thinking it was a game of
Russian roulette. I mean, I was going to have to go through hell for six
monthsorayearandlosemylegandthenattheend,itstillmightnotwork,
youknow?”
“Iknow,”Isaid,althoughIdidn’t,notreally.I’dneverbeenanythingbut
terminal;allmytreatmenthadbeeninpursuitofextendingmylife,notcuring
mycancer.Phalanxiforhadintroducedameasureofambiguitytomycancer
story,butIwasdifferentfromAugustus:Myfinalchapterwaswrittenupon
diagnosis.Gus,likemostcancersurvivors,livedwithuncertainty.
“Right,”hesaid.“SoIwent throughthiswhole thingaboutwantingto
beready.WeboughtaplotinCrownHill,andIwalkedaroundwithmydad
onedayandpickedoutaspot.AndIhadmywholefuneralplannedoutand
everything, and then right before the surgery, I askedmyparents if I could
buyasuit,likeareallynicesuit,justincaseIbitit.Anyway,I’veneverhad
occasiontowearit.Untiltonight.”
“Soit’syourdeathsuit.”
“Correct.Don’tyouhaveadeathoutfit?”
“Yeah,”Isaid.“It’sadressIboughtformyfifteenthbirthdayparty.ButI
don’twearitondates.”
Hiseyeslitup.“We’reonadate?”heasked.
Ilookeddown,feelingbashful.“Don’tpush*t.”
Wewerebothreallyfull,butdessert—asucculentlyrichcrémeuxsurrounded
by passion fruit—was too good not to at least nibble, sowe lingered for a
while over dessert, trying to get hungry again. The sun was a toddler
insistentlyrefusingtogotobed:Itwaspasteightthirtyandstilllight.
Outofnowhere,Augustusasked,“Doyoubelieveinanafterlife?”
“Ithinkforeverisanincorrectconcept,”Ianswered.
Hesmirked.“You’reanincorrectconcept.”
“Iknow.That’swhyI’mbeingtakenoutoftherotation.”
“That’snotfunny,”hesaid,lookingatthestreet.Twogirlspassedona
bike,oneridingsidesaddleoverthebackwheel.
“Comeon,”Isaid.“Thatwasajoke.”
“The thought of you being removed from the rotation is not funny to
me,”hesaid.“Seriously,though:afterlife?”
“No,”Isaid,andthenrevised.“Well,maybeIwouldn’tgosofarasno.
You?”
“Yes,”hesaid,hisvoicefullofconfidence.“Yes,absolutely.Notlikea
heavenwhereyourideunicorns,playharps,and live inamansionmadeof
clouds.Butyes.IbelieveinSomethingwithacapitalS.Alwayshave.”
“Really?”Iasked.Iwassurprised.I’dalwaysassociatedbeliefinheaven
with,frankly,akindofintellectualdisengagement.ButGuswasn’tdumb.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I believe in that line from An Imperial
Affliction. ‘The risensun toobright inher losingeyes.’That’sGod, I think,
the rising sun, and the light is too bright and her eyes are losing but they
aren’t lost. I don’t believe we return to haunt or comfort the living or
anything,butIthinksomethingbecomesofus.”
“Butyoufearoblivion.”
“Sure,Ifearearthlyoblivion.But,Imean,nottosoundlikemyparents,
but Ibelievehumanshavesouls,and Ibelieve in theconservationofsouls.
Theoblivionfearissomethingelse,fearthatIwon’tbeabletogiveanything
inexchangeformylife.Ifyoudon’tlivealifeinserviceofa*greatergood,
you’vegottaatleastdieadeathinserviceofa*greatergood,youknow?AndI
fearthatIwon’tgeteitheralifeoradeaththatmeansanything.”
Ijustshookmyhead.
“What?”heasked.
“Yourobsessionwith,like,dyingforsomethingorleavingbehindsome
greatsignofyourheroismorwhatever.It’sjustweird.”
“Everyonewantstoleadanextraordinarylife.”
“Noteveryone,”Isaid,unabletodisguisemyannoyance.
“Areyoumad?”
“It’s just,” I said, and then couldn’t finishmy sentence. “Just,” I said
again.Betweenusflickeredthecandle.“It’sreallymeanofyoutosaythatthe
only lives that matter are the ones that are lived for something or die for
something.That’sareallymeanthingtosaytome.”
Ifeltlikealittlekidforsomereason,andItookabiteofdesserttomake
itappear like itwasnot thatbigofadeal tome.“Sorry,”hesaid.“Ididn’t
meanitlikethat.Iwasjustthinkingaboutmyself.”
“Yeah,youwere,”Isaid.Iwastoofulltofinish.IworriedImightpuke,
actually,
,because I often puked after eating. (Not bulimia, just cancer.) I
pushedmydessertplatetowardGus,butheshookhishead.
“I’msorry,”he saidagain, reachingacross the table formyhand. I let
himtakeit.“Icouldbeworse,youknow.”
“How?”Iasked,teasing.
“Imean,Ihaveaworkofcalligraphyovermytoilet thatreads,‘Bathe
Yourself Daily in the Comfort of God’s Words,’ Hazel. I could be way
worse.”
“Soundsunsanitary,”Isaid.
“Icouldbeworse.”
“Youcouldbeworse.” I smiled.Hereallydid likeme.MaybeIwasa
narcissist or something, but when I realized it there in that moment at
Oranjee,itmademelikehimevenmore.
Whenourwaiterappearedtotakedessertaway,hesaid,“Yourmealhas
beenpaidforbyMr.PeterVanHouten.”
Augustussmiled.“ThisPeterVanHoutenfellowain’thalfbad.”
We walked along the canal as it got dark. A block up from Oranjee, we
stoppedataparkbenchsurroundedbyoldrustybicycleslockedtobikeracks
andtoeachother.Wesatdownhiptohipfacingthecanal,andheputhisarm
aroundme.
Icouldsee thehaloof lightcoming from theRedLightDistrict.Even
thoughitwastheRedLightDistrict,theglowcomingfromuptherewasan
eeriesortofgreen.Iimaginedthousandsoftouristsgettingdrunkandstoned
andpinballingaroundthenarrowstreets.
“I can’t believe he’s going to tell us tomorrow,” I said. “Peter Van
Houtenisgoingtotellusthefamouslyunwrittenendofthebestbookever.”
“Plushepaidforourdinner,”Augustussaid.
“I keep imagining that he is going to search us for recording devices
beforehetellsus.Andthenhewillsitdownbetweenusonthecouchinhis
livingroomandwhisperwhetherAnna’smommarriedtheDutchTulipMan.”
“Don’tforgetSisyphustheHamster,”Augustusadded.
“Right, and also of coursewhat fate awaitedSisyphus theHamster.” I
leanedforward,toseeintothecanal.Thereweresomanyofthosepaleelm
petalsinthecanals,itwasridiculous.“Asequelthatwillexistjustforus,”I
said.
“Sowhat’syourguess?”heasked.
“I really don’t know. I’ve gone back and forth like a thousand times
aboutitall.EachtimeIrereadit,Ithinksomethingdifferent,youknow?”He
nodded.“Youhaveatheory?”
“Yeah.Idon’tthinktheDutchTulipManisaconman,buthe’salsonot
richlikeheleadsthemtobelieve.AndIthinkafterAnnadies,Anna’smom
goestoHollandwithhimandthinkstheywilllivethereforever,butitdoesn’t
workout,becauseshewantstobenearwhereherdaughterwas.”
Ihadn’trealizedhe’dthoughtaboutthebooksomuch,thatAnImperial
AfflictionmatteredtoGusindependentlyofmematteringtohim.
Thewaterlappedquietlyatthestonecanalwallsbeneathus;agroupof
friendsbikedpastinaclump,shoutingovereachotherinrapid-fire,guttural
Dutch;thetinyboats,notmuchlongerthanme,halfdrownedinthecanal;the
smellofwaterthathadstoodtoostillfortoolong;hisarmpullingmein;his
real leg againstmy real leg all theway fromhip to foot. I leaned in tohis
bodyalittle.Hewinced.“Sorry,youokay?”
Hebreathedoutayeahinobviouspain.
“Sorry,”Isaid.“Bonyshoulder.”
“It’sokay,”hesaid.“Nice,actually.”
Wesatthereforalongtime.Eventuallyhishandabandonedmyshoulder
andrestedagainstthebackoftheparkbench.Mostlywejuststaredintothe
canal.Iwasthinkingalotabouthowthey’dmadethisplaceexisteventhough
it should’ve been underwater, and how I was for Dr. Maria a kind of
Amsterdam, a half-drowned anomaly, and thatmademe think about dying.
“CanIaskyouaboutCarolineMathers?”
“Andyousay there’snoafterlife,”heansweredwithout lookingatme.
“Butyeah,ofcourse.Whatdoyouwanttoknow?”
IwantedtoknowthathewouldbeokayifIdied.Iwantedtonotbea
grenade,tonotbeamalevolentforceinthelivesofpeopleIloved.“Just,like,
whathappened.”
Hesighed,exhalingforsolongthattomycraplungsitseemedlikehe
wasbragging.Hepoppeda fresh cigarette intohismouth. “Youknowhow
there is famously no place less played in than a hospital playground?” I
nodded.“Well,IwasatMemorialforacoupleweekswhentheytookoffthe
leg and everything. I was up on the fifth floor and I had a view of the
playground,whichwasalwaysofcourseutterlydesolate.Iwasallawashin
themetaphoricalresonanceoftheemptyplaygroundinthehospitalcourtyard.
But then this girl started showing up alone at the playground, every day,
swinging on a swing completely alone, like you’d see in a movie or
something.So Iaskedoneofmynicernurses toget the skinnyon thegirl,
and the nurse brought her up to visit, and it was Caroline, and I usedmy
immense charisma to win her over.” He paused, so I decided to say
something.
“You’renot thatcharismatic,” I said.Hescoffed,disbelieving.“You’re
mostlyjusthot,”Iexplained.
He laughed it off. “The thing about dead people,” he said, and then
stopped himself. “The thing is you sound like a bastard if you don’t
romanticize them, but the truth is . . . complicated, I guess. Like, you are
familiar with the trope of the stoic and determined cancer victim who
heroically fights her cancerwith inhuman strength and never complains or
stopssmilingevenattheveryend,etcetera?”
“Indeed,”Isaid.“Theyarekindheartedandgeneroussoulswhoseevery
breathisanInspirationtoUsAll.They’resostrong!Weadmirethemso!”
“Right,but really, Imeanaside fromusobviously, cancerkids arenot
statisticallymore likely to be awesome or compassionate or perseverant or
whatever.Carolinewas alwaysmoody andmiserable, but I liked it. I liked
feelingas ifshehadchosenmeas theonlyperson in theworldnot tohate,
andsowespentall this time together just raggingoneveryone,youknow?
Raggingonthenursesandtheotherkidsandourfamiliesandwhateverelse.
ButIdon’tknowifthatwasherorthetumor.Imean,oneofhernursestold
meoncethatthekindoftumorCarolinehadisknownamongmedicaltypes
astheAssholeTumor,becauseitjustturnsyouintoamonster.Sohere’sthis
girlmissing a fifth of her brainwho’s just had a recurrence of theAsshole
Tumor, and so she was not, you know, the paragon of stoic cancer-kid
heroism.Shewas...Imean,tobehonest,shewasabitch.Butyoucan’tsay
that,becauseshehadthistumor,andalsoshe’s,Imean,she’sdead.Andshe
hadplentyofreasontobeunpleasant,youknow?”
Iknew.
“You know that part in An Imperial Affliction when Anna’s walking
acrossthefootballfieldtogotoPEorwhateverandshefallsandgoesface-
first intothegrassandthat’swhensheknowsthatthecancerisbackandin
hernervoussystemandshecan’tgetupandherfaceislikeaninchfromthe
football-fieldgrass and she’s just stuck there looking at this grassup close,
noticing theway the lighthits it and . . . Idon’t remember the linebut it’s
somethinglikeAnnahavingtheWhitmanesquerevelationthatthedefinition
of humanness is the opportunity to marvel at the majesty of creation or
whatever.Youknowthatpart?”
“Iknowthatpart,”Isaid.
“So afterward, while I was getting eviscerated by chemo, for some
reasonIdecidedtofeelreallyhopeful.Notaboutsurvivalspecifically,butI
feltlikeAnnadoesinthebook,thatfeelingofexcitementandgratitudeabout
justbeingabletomarvelatitall.
“ButmeanwhileCaroline gotworse every day.Shewent home after a
whileandthereweremomentswhereIthoughtwecouldhave,like,aregular
relationship, butwe
,couldn’t, really, because she had no filter between her
thoughts and her speech, which was sad and unpleasant and frequently
hurtful. But, I mean, you can’t dump a girl with a brain tumor. And her
parents likedme, and she has this little brotherwho is a really cool kid. I
mean,howcanyoudumpher?She’sdying.
“Ittookforever.It tookalmostayear,anditwasayearofmehanging
outwiththisgirlwhowould,like,juststartlaughingoutofnowhereandpoint
atmyprostheticandcallmeStumpy.”
“No,”Isaid.
“Yeah.Imean,itwasthetumor.Itateherbrain,youknow?Oritwasn’t
thetumor.Ihavenowayofknowing,becausetheywereinseparable,sheand
thetumor.Butasshegotsicker,Imean,she’djustrepeatthesamestoriesand
laugh at her own comments even if she’d already said the same thing a
hundredtimesthatday.Like,shemadethesamejokeoverandoveragainfor
weeks:‘Gushasgreatlegs.Imeanleg.’Andthenshewouldjustlaughlikea
maniac.”
“Oh,Gus,” I said. “That’s . . .” I didn’t knowwhat to say.Hewasn’t
looking at me, and it felt invasive of me to look at him. I felt him scoot
forward. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it, rolling it
betweenhisthumbandforefinger,thenputitback.
“Well,”hesaid,“tobefair,Idohavegreatleg.”
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“I’mreallysorry.”
“It’s all good,HazelGrace.But just tobe clear,when I thought I saw
CarolineMathers’sghost inSupportGroup, Iwasnotentirelyhappy. Iwas
staring,butIwasn’tyearning,ifyouknowwhatImean.”Hepulledthepack
outofhispocketandplacedthecigarettebackinit.
“I’msorry,”Isaidagain.
“Metoo,”hesaid.
“Idon’teverwanttodothattoyou,”Itoldhim.
“Oh,Iwouldn’tmind,HazelGrace.Itwouldbeaprivilegetohavemy
heartbrokenbyyou.”
CHAPTERTWELVE
IwokeupatfourintheDutchmorningreadyfortheday.Allattemptstogo
back to sleep failed, so I lay therewith theBiPAP pumping the air in and
urging it out, enjoying the dragon sounds but wishing I could choose my
breaths.
I reread An Imperial Affliction until Mom woke up and rolled over
towardmearoundsix.Shenuzzledherheadagainstmyshoulder,whichfelt
uncomfortableandvaguelyAugustinian.
The hotel brought a breakfast to our room that, much to my delight,
featured deli meat among many other denials of American breakfast
constructions.Thedress I’dplanned towear tomeetPeterVanHoutenhad
beenmovedupintherotationfortheOranjeedinner,soafterIshoweredand
gotmyhairtoliehalfwayflat,IspentlikethirtyminutesdebatingwithMom
thevariousbenefitsanddrawbacksoftheavailableoutfitsbeforedecidingto
dress asmuch likeAnna inAIA as possible:ChuckTaylors anddark jeans
likeshealwayswore,andalightblueT-shirt.
The shirt was a screen print of a famous Surrealist artwork by René
Magritte inwhichhedrewapipeand thenbeneath itwrote incursiveCeci
n’estpasunepipe.(“Thisisnotapipe.”)
“Ijustdon’tgetthatshirt,”Momsaid.
“PeterVanHoutenwill get it, trustme.There are like seven thousand
MagrittereferencesinAnImperialAffliction.”
“Butitisapipe.”
“No,it’snot,”Isaid.“It’sadrawingofapipe.Getit?Allrepresentations
ofathingareinherentlyabstract.It’sveryclever.”
“Howdidyougetsogrownupthatyouunderstandthingsthatconfuse
your ancientmother?”Momasked. “It seems like just yesterday that Iwas
telling seven-year-old Hazel why the sky was blue. You thought I was a
geniusbackthen.”
“Whyistheskyblue?”Iasked.
“Cuz,”sheanswered.Ilaughed.
As it got closer to ten, I grewmore andmorenervous: nervous to see
Augustus;nervoustomeetPeterVanHouten;nervousthatmyoutfitwasnot
a good outfit; nervous that we wouldn’t find the right house since all the
houses inAmsterdam lookedpretty similar; nervous thatwewouldget lost
andnevermakeitbacktotheFilosoof;nervousnervousnervous.Momkept
tryingtotalktome,butIcouldn’treallylisten.Iwasabouttoaskhertogo
upstairsandmakesureAugustuswasupwhenheknocked.
Iopenedthedoor.Helookeddownattheshirtandsmiled.“Funny,”he
said.
“Don’tcallmyboobsfunny,”Ianswered.
“Righthere,”Momsaidbehindus.ButI’dmadeAugustusblushandput
himenoughoffhisgamethatIcouldfinallybeartolookupathim.
“Yousureyoudon’twanttocome?”IaskedMom.
“I’m going to the Rijksmuseum and the Vondelpark today,” she said.
“Plus, I justdon’tgethisbook.Nooffense.ThankhimandLidewij forus,
okay?”
“Okay,” I said. IhuggedMom,andshekissedmyhead justabovemy
ear.
Peter Van Houten’s white row house was just around the corner from the
hotel,ontheVondelstraat,facingthepark.Number158.Augustustookmeby
onearmandgrabbed theoxygencartwith theother,andwewalkedup the
three steps to the lacquered blue-black front door.My heart pounded. One
closeddoorawayfromtheanswersI’ddreamedofeversinceIfirstreadthat
lastunfinishedpage.
Inside, I could hear a bass beat thumping loud enough to rattle the
windowsills.IwonderedwhetherPeterVanHoutenhadakidwholikedrap
music.
Igrabbedthelion’s-headdoorknockerandknockedtentatively.Thebeat
continued. “Maybe he can’t hear over the music?” Augustus asked. He
grabbedthelion’sheadandknockedmuchlouder.
Themusicdisappeared,replacedbyshuffledfootsteps.Adeadboltslid.
Another. The door creaked open. A potbelliedman with thin hair, sagging
jowls, and aweek-old beard squinted into the sunlight.Hewore baby-blue
manpajamaslikeguysinoldmovies.Hisfaceandbellyweresoround,and
hisarmssoskinny,thathelookedlikeadoughballwithfoursticksstuckinto
it.“Mr.VanHouten?”Augustusasked,hisvoicesqueakingabit.
The door slammed shut. Behind it, I heard a stammering, reedy voice
shout,“LEEE-DUH-VIGH!”(Untilthen,I’dpronouncedhisassistant’sname
likelid-uh-widge.)
We could hear everything through the door. “Are they here, Peter?” a
womanasked.
“There are—Lidewij, there are two adolescent apparitions outside the
door.”
“Apparitions?”sheaskedwithapleasantDutchlilt.
Van Houten answered in a rush. “Phantasms specters ghouls visitants
post-terrestrials apparitions, Lidewij. How can someone pursuing a
postgraduatedegreeinAmericanliteraturedisplaysuchabominableEnglish-
languageskills?”
“Peter,thosearenotpost-terrestrials.TheyareAugustusandHazel,the
youngfanswithwhomyouhavebeencorresponding.”
“Theyare—what?They—IthoughttheywereinAmerica!”
“Yes,butyouinvitedthemhere,youwillremember.”
“DoyouknowwhyIleftAmerica,Lidewij?SothatIwouldneveragain
havetoencounterAmericans.”
“ButyouareanAmerican.”
“Incurablyso,itseems.ButastotheseAmericans,youmusttellthemto
leave at once, that there has been a terrible mistake, that the blessed Van
Houtenwasmaking a rhetorical offer tomeet, not an actual one, that such
offersmustbereadsymbolically.”
IthoughtImightthrowup.IlookedoveratAugustus,whowasstaring
intentlyatthedoor,andsawhisshouldersslacken.
“Iwillnotdothis,Peter,”answeredLidewij.“Youmustmeetthem.You
must.Youneedtoseethem.Youneedtoseehowyourworkmatters.”
“Lidewij,didyouknowinglydeceivemetoarrangethis?”
Alongsilenceensued,andthenfinallythedooropenedagain.Heturned
hisheadmetronomicallyfromAugustustome,stillsquinting.“Whichofyou
is Augustus Waters?” he asked. Augustus raised his hand tentatively.
,Van
Houtennoddedandsaid,“Didyouclosethedealwiththatchickyet?”
WhereuponIencountered for the firstandonly timea trulyspeechless
AugustusWaters.“I,”hestarted,“um,I,Hazel,um.Well.”
“Thisboyappearstohavesomekindofdevelopmentaldelay,”PeterVan
HoutensaidtoLidewij.
“Peter,”shescolded.
“Well,”PeterVanHouten said, extendinghishand tome. “It is at any
rateapleasuretomeetsuchontologicallyimprobablecreatures.”Ishookhis
swollenhand,andthenheshookhandswithAugustus.Iwaswonderingwhat
ontologicallymeant.Regardless, I liked it.Augustus and Iwere together in
theImprobableCreaturesClub:usandduck-billedplatypuses.
Of course, I had hoped that PeterVanHoutenwould be sane, but the
world is not awish-granting factory.The important thingwas that thedoor
wasopenandIwascrossingthethresholdtolearnwhathappensaftertheend
ofAn Imperial Affliction. That was enough.We followed him and Lidewij
inside,pastahugeoakdiningroomtablewithonlytwochairs,intoacreepily
sterile livingroom.It looked likeamuseum,except therewasnoarton the
emptywhitewalls.Asidefromonecouchandoneloungechair,bothamixof
steel and black leather, the room seemed empty. Then I noticed two large
blackgarbagebags,fullandtwist-tied,behindthecouch.
“Trash?”ImumbledtoAugustussoftenoughthatIthoughtnooneelse
wouldhear.
“Fanmail,”VanHouten answered as he sat down in the lounge chair.
“Eighteen years’ worth of it. Can’t open it. Terrifying. Yours are the first
missivestowhichIhavereplied,andlookwherethatgotme.Ifranklyfind
therealityofreaderswhollyunappetizing.”
That explainedwhy he’d never replied tomy letters:He’d never read
them. Iwonderedwhyhekept themat all, let alone in anotherwise empty
formal living room. Van Houten kicked his feet up onto the ottoman and
crossedhisslippers.Hemotionedtowardthecouch.AugustusandIsatdown
nexttoeachother,butnottoonext.
“Wouldyoucareforsomebreakfast?”askedLidewij.
Istartedtosaythatwe’dalreadyeatenwhenPeterinterrupted.“Itisfar
tooearlyforbreakfast,Lidewij.”
“Well,theyarefromAmerica,Peter,soitispastnoonintheirbodies.”
“Thenit’stoolateforbreakfast,”hesaid.“However,itbeingafternoon
inthebodyandwhatnot,weshouldenjoyaco*cktail.DoyoudrinkScotch?”
heaskedme.
“DoI—um,no,I’mfine,”Isaid.
“AugustusWaters?”VanHoutenasked,noddingtowardGus.
“Uh,I’mgood.”
“Just me, then, Lidewij. Scotch and water, please.” Peter turned his
attentiontoGus,asking,“YouknowhowwemakeaScotchandwaterinthis
home?”
“No,sir,”Gussaid.
“WepourScotch into a glass and then call tomind thoughts ofwater,
andthenwemixtheactualScotchwiththeabstractedideaofwater.”
Lidewijsaid,“Perhapsabitofbreakfastfirst,Peter.”
Helookedtowardusandstage-whispered,“ShethinksIhaveadrinking
problem.”
“AndIthinkthatthesunhasrisen,”Lidewijresponded.Nonetheless,she
turned to thebar in the living room, reachedup for abottleofScotch, and
pouredaglasshalf full.Shecarried it tohim.PeterVanHouten tookasip,
then sat up straight in his chair. “A drink this good deserves one’s best
posture,”hesaid.
Ibecameconsciousofmyownpostureandsatupalittleonthecouch.I
rearrangedmycannula.Dadalwaystoldmethatyoucanjudgepeoplebythe
waytheytreatwaitersandassistants.Bythismeasure,PeterVanHoutenwas
possibly the world’s douchiest douche. “So you likemy book,” he said to
Augustusafteranothersip.
“Yeah,”Isaid,speakinguponAugustus’sbehalf.“Andyes,we—well,
Augustus,hemademeetingyouhisWishsothatwecouldcomehere,sothat
youcouldtelluswhathappensaftertheendofAnImperialAffliction.”
VanHoutensaidnothing,justtookalongpullonhisdrink.
After a minute, Augustus said, “Your book is sort of the thing that
broughtustogether.”
“Butyouaren’ttogether,”heobservedwithoutlookingatme.
“Thethingthatbroughtusnearlytogether,”Isaid.
Nowheturnedtome.“Didyoudresslikeheronpurpose?”
“Anna?”Iasked.
Hejustkeptstaringatme.
“Kindof,”Isaid.
Hetookalongdrink,thengrimaced.“Idonothaveadrinkingproblem,”
heannounced,hisvoiceneedlessly loud.“IhaveaChurchillianrelationship
withalcohol:IcancrackjokesandgovernEnglandanddoanythingIwantto
do. Except not drink.” He glanced over at Lidewij and nodded toward his
glass. She took it, then walked back to the bar. “Just the idea of water,
Lidewij,”heinstructed.
“Yah,gotit,”shesaid,theaccentalmostAmerican.
The second drink arrived. Van Houten’s spine stiffened again out of
respect. He kicked off his slippers. He had really ugly feet. Hewas rather
ruiningthewholebusinessofauthorialgeniusforme.Buthehadtheanswers.
“Well, um,” I said, “first,wedowant to say thankyou for dinner last
nightand—”
“Weboughtthemdinnerlastnight?”VanHoutenaskedLidewij.
“Yes,atOranjee.”
“Ah,yes.Well,believemewhenIsaythatyoudonothavemetothank
butratherLidewij,whoisexceptionallytalentedinthefieldofspendingmy
money.”
“Itwasourpleasure,”Lidewijsaid.
“Well,thanks,atanyrate,”Augustussaid.Icouldhearannoyanceinhis
voice.
“So here I am,” Van Houten said after a moment. “What are your
questions?”
“Um,”Augustussaid.
“He seemed so intelligent in print,” Van Houten said to Lidewij
regardingAugustus. “Perhaps thecancerhasestablishedabeachhead inhis
brain.”
“Peter,”Lidewijsaid,dulyhorrified.
I was horrified, too, but therewas something pleasant about a guy so
despicable that he wouldn’t treat us deferentially. “We do have some
questions,actually,”Isaid.“Italkedabouttheminmyemail.Idon’tknowif
youremember.”
“Idonot.”
“Hismemoryiscompromised,”Lidewijsaid.
“Ifonlymymemorywouldcompromise,”VanHoutenresponded.
“So,ourquestions,”Irepeated.
“Sheusestheroyalwe,”Petersaidtonooneinparticular.Anothersip.I
didn’tknowwhatScotchtastedlike,butifittastedanythinglikechampagne,
I couldn’t imaginehowhecoulddrink somuch, soquickly, so early in the
morning.“AreyoufamiliarwithZeno’stortoiseparadox?”heaskedme.
“Wehavequestionsaboutwhathappenstothecharactersaftertheendof
thebook,specificallyAnna’s—”
“You wrongly assume that I need to hear your question in order to
answer it. You are familiar with the philosopher Zeno?” I shook my head
vaguely. “Alas. Zeno was a pre-Socratic philosopher who is said to have
discoveredfortyparadoxeswithintheworldviewputforthbyParmenides—
surelyyouknowParmenides,”hesaid,andInoddedthatIknewParmenides,
althoughIdidnot.“ThankGod,”hesaid.“Zenoprofessionallyspecializedin
revealing the inaccuracies and oversimplifications of Parmenides, which
wasn’t difficult, sinceParmenideswas spectacularlywrong everywhere and
always.Parmenidesisvaluableinpreciselythewaythatitisvaluabletohave
anacquaintancewhor*liablypicksthewronghorseeachandeverytimeyou
takehimtotheracetrack.ButZeno’smostimportant—wait,givemeasense
ofyourfamiliaritywithSwedishhip-hop.”
I could not tell if Peter Van Houten was kidding. After a moment,
Augustusansweredforme.“Limited,”hesaid.
“Okay, but presumably you know Afasi och Filthy’s seminal album
Fläcken.”
“Wedonot,”Isaidforthebothofus.
“Lidewij,play‘Bomfalleralla’immediately.”Lidewijwalkedovertoan
MP3player,spunthewheelabit,thenhitabutton.
,thehand-raisingtype.
And yet, just this once, I decided to speak. I half raisedmy hand and
Patrick, his delight evident, immediately said, “Hazel!” I was, I’m sure he
assumed,openingup.BecomingPartOfTheGroup.
I looked over atAugustusWaters,who looked back atme.You could
almost see throughhiseyes theywere soblue.“Therewill comea time,” I
said,“whenallofusaredead.Allofus.Therewillcomeatimewhenthere
arenohumanbeingsremainingtorememberthatanyoneeverexistedorthat
ourspecieseverdidanything.TherewillbenoonelefttorememberAristotle
orCleopatra, letaloneyou.Everything thatwedidandbuiltandwroteand
thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this”—I gestured
encompassingly—“will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming
soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the
collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before
organismsexperiencedconsciousness,andtherewillbetimeafter.Andifthe
inevitabilityofhumanoblivionworriesyou,Iencourageyoutoignoreit.God
knowsthat’swhateveryoneelsedoes.”
I’d learned this from my aforementioned third best friend, Peter Van
Houten, thereclusiveauthorofAnImperialAffliction, thebook thatwas as
closea thingas Ihad toaBible.PeterVanHoutenwas theonlypersonI’d
evercomeacrosswhoseemedto(a)understandwhatit’sliketobedying,and
(b)nothavedied.
AfterIfinished,therewasquitealongperiodofsilenceasIwatcheda
smilespreadallthewayacrossAugustus’sface—notthelittlecrookedsmile
oftheboytryingtobesexywhilehestaredatme,buthisrealsmile,toobig
forhisface.“Goddamn,”Augustussaidquietly.“Aren’tyousomethingelse.”
NeitherofussaidanythingfortherestofSupportGroup.Attheend,we
allhadtoholdhands,andPatrickledusinaprayer.“LordJesusChrist,we
aregatheredhere inYourheart, literally inYourheart, as cancer survivors.
YouandYoualoneknowusasweknowourselves.Guideustolifeandthe
Lightthroughourtimesoftrial.WeprayforIsaac’seyes,forMichael’sand
Jamie’sblood,forAugustus’sbones,forHazel’slungs,forJames’sthroat.We
praythatYoumighthealusandthatwemightfeelYourlove,andYourpeace,
whichpassesallunderstanding.Andwerememberinourheartsthosewhom
weknewandlovedwhohavegonehometoyou:MariaandKadeandJoseph
andHaleyandAbigailandAngelinaandTaylorandGabrieland...”
Itwas a long list.Theworld contains a lot ofdeadpeople.Andwhile
Patrickdronedon, reading the list fromasheetofpaperbecause itwas too
long to memorize, I kept my eyes closed, trying to think prayerfully but
mostlyimaginingthedaywhenmynamewouldfinditswayontothatlist,all
thewayattheendwheneveryonehadstoppedlistening.
When Patrick was finished, we said this stupid mantra together—
LIVING OUR BEST LIFE TODAY—and it was over. Augustus Waters
pushedhimselfoutofhischairandwalkedovertome.Hisgaitwascrooked
like his smile.He towered overme, but he kept his distance so Iwouldn’t
havetocranemynecktolookhimintheeye.“What’syourname?”heasked.
“Hazel.”
“No,yourfullname.”
“Um,HazelGraceLancaster.”Hewasjustabouttosaysomethingelse
whenIsaacwalkedup.“Holdon,”Augustussaid,raisingafinger,andturned
toIsaac.“Thatwasactuallyworsethanyoumadeitouttobe.”
“Itoldyouitwasbleak.”
“Whydoyoubotherwithit?”
“Idon’tknow.Itkindofhelps?”
Augustus leaned in so he thought I couldn’t hear. “She’s a regular?” I
couldn’t hear Isaac’s comment, but Augustus responded, “I’ll say.” He
clasped Isaac by both shoulders and then took a half step away from him.
“TellHazelaboutclinic.”
Isaacleanedahandagainstthesnacktableandfocusedhishugeeyeon
me.“Okay,soIwentintoclinicthismorning,andIwastellingmysurgeon
thatI’dratherbedeafthanblind.Andhesaid,‘Itdoesn’tworkthatway,’and
Iwas,like,‘Yeah,Irealizeitdoesn’tworkthatway;I’mjustsayingI’drather
bedeaf thanblind if Ihad thechoice,which I realize Idon’thave,’andhe
said,‘Well,thegoodnewsisthatyouwon’tbedeaf,’andIwaslike,‘Thank
youforexplainingthatmyeyecancerisn’tgoingtomakemedeaf.Ifeelso
fortunate that an intellectual giant like yourself would deign to operate on
me.’”
“He sounds like awinner,” I said. “I’mgonna try togetme someeye
cancerjustsoIcanmakethisguy’sacquaintance.”
“Goodluckwiththat.Allright,Ishouldgo.Monica’swaitingforme.I
gottalookatheralotwhileIcan.”
“Counterinsurgencetomorrow?”Augustusasked.
“Definitely.” Isaac turned and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a
time.
AugustusWatersturnedtome.“Literally,”hesaid.
“Literally?”Iasked.
“WeareliterallyintheheartofJesus,”hesaid.“Ithoughtwewereina
churchbasem*nt,butweareliterallyintheheartofJesus.”
“Someone should tell Jesus,” I said. “Imean, it’s gotta be dangerous,
storingchildrenwithcancerinyourheart.”
“I would tell Him myself,” Augustus said, “but unfortunately I am
literallystuckinsideofHisheart,soHewon’tbeabletohearme.”Ilaughed.
Heshookhishead,justlookingatme.
“What?”Iasked.
“Nothing,”hesaid.
“Whyareyoulookingatmelikethat?”
Augustus half smiled. “Because you’re beautiful. I enjoy looking at
beautiful people, and I decided awhile ago not to denymyself the simpler
pleasures of existence.”A brief awkward silence ensued.Augustus plowed
through:“Imean,particularlygiventhat,asyousodeliciouslypointedout,all
ofthiswillendinoblivionandeverything.”
Ikindofscoffedorsighedorexhaledinawaythatwasvaguelycoughy
andthensaid,“I’mnotbeau—”
“You’re like amillennialNataliePortman.LikeV forVendettaNatalie
Portman.”
“Neverseenit,”Isaid.
“Really?” he asked. “Pixie-haired gorgeous girl dislikes authority and
can’thelpbutfallforaboysheknowsistrouble.It’syourautobiography,so
farasIcantell.”
His every syllable flirted. Honestly, he kind of turnedme on. I didn’t
evenknowthatguyscouldturnmeon—not,like,inreallife.
Ayoungergirlwalkedpastus.“How’s itgoing,Alisa?”heasked.She
smiled and mumbled, “Hi, Augustus.” “Memorial people,” he explained.
Memorialwasthebigresearchhospital.“Wheredoyougo?”
“Children’s,” I said, my voice smaller than I expected it to be. He
nodded. The conversation seemed over. “Well,” I said, nodding vaguely
towardthestepsthatledusoutoftheLiteralHeartofJesus.Itiltedmycart
ontoitswheelsandstartedwalking.Helimpedbesideme.“So,seeyounext
time,maybe?”Iasked.
“Youshouldseeit,”hesaid.“VforVendetta,Imean.”
“Okay,”Isaid.“I’lllookitup.”
“No.Withme.Atmyhouse,”hesaid.“Now.”
Istoppedwalking.“Ihardlyknowyou,AugustusWaters.Youcouldbe
anaxmurderer.”
He nodded. “True enough, Hazel Grace.” He walked past me, his
shoulders filling out his green knit polo shirt, his back straight, his steps
lilting justslightly to therightashewalkedsteadyandconfidentonwhat I
haddeterminedwasaprostheticleg.Osteosarcomasometimestakesalimbto
checkyouout.Then,ifitlikesyou,ittakestherest.
I followed him upstairs, losing ground as I made my way up slowly,
stairsnotbeingafieldofexpertiseformylungs.
AndthenwewereoutofJesus’sheartandintheparkinglot,thespring
air just on the cold side of perfect, the late-afternoon light heavenly in its
hurtfulness.
Mom
,Arapsongboomedfrom
every direction. It sounded like a fairly regular rap song, except thewords
wereinSwedish.
After itwasover,PeterVanHouten lookedat us expectantly, his little
eyesaswideastheycouldget.“Yeah?”heasked.“Yeah?”
Isaid,“I’msorry,sir,butwedon’tspeakSwedish.”
“Well,ofcourseyoudon’t.NeitherdoI.WhothehellspeaksSwedish?
Theimportantthingisnotwhatevernonsensethevoicesaresaying,butwhat
thevoicesarefeeling.Surelyyouknowthatthereareonlytwoemotions,love
and fear, and thatAfasi ochFilthynavigatebetween themwith thekindof
facility that one simply does not find in hip-hopmusic outside of Sweden.
ShallIplayitforyouagain?”
“Areyoujoking?”Gussaid.
“Pardon?”
“Isthissomekindofperformance?”HelookedupatLidewijandasked,
“Isit?”
“I’mafraidnot,”Lidewijanswered.“He’snotalways—thisisunusually
—”
“Oh,shutup,Lidewij.RudolfOttosaidthatifyouhadnotencountered
thenuminous, ifyouhavenotexperiencedanonrationalencounterwith the
mysterium tremendum, then his work was not for you. And I say to you,
youngfriends,thatifyoucannothearAfasiochFilthy’sbravadicresponseto
fear,thenmyworkisnotforyou.”
I cannot emphasize this enough: Itwas a completely normal rap song,
except in Swedish. “Um,” I said. “So aboutAn Imperial Affliction. Anna’s
mom,whenthebookends,isaboutto—”
VanHouteninterruptedme,tappinghisglassashetalkeduntilLidewij
refilled it again. “So Zeno ismost famous for his tortoise paradox. Let us
imaginethatyouareinaracewithatortoise.Thetortoisehasaten-yardhead
start. In the time it takes you to run that ten yards, the tortoise hasmaybe
movedoneyard.Andtheninthetimeittakesyoutomakeupthatdistance,
the tortoise goes a bit farther, and so on forever. You are faster than the
tortoisebutyoucannevercatchhim;youcanonlydecreasehislead.
“Of course, you just run past the tortoise without contemplating the
mechanicsinvolved,butthequestionofhowyouareabletodothisturnsout
tobeincrediblycomplicated,andnoonereallysolvedituntilCantorshowed
usthatsomeinfinitiesarebiggerthanotherinfinities.”
“Um,”Isaid.
“Iassumethatanswersyourquestion,”hesaidconfidently,thensipped
generouslyfromhisglass.
“Not really,” Isaid.“Wewerewondering,after theendofAnImperial
Affliction—”
“Idisavoweverythinginthatputridnovel,”VanHoutensaid,cuttingme
off.
“No,”Isaid.
“Excuseme?”
“No, that is not acceptable,” I said. “I understand that the story ends
midnarrativebecauseAnnadiesorbecomestoosicktocontinue,butyousaid
youwouldtelluswhathappenstoeverybody,andthat’swhywe’rehere,and
we,Ineedyoutotellme.”
Van Houten sighed. After another drink, he said, “Very well. Whose
storydoyouseek?”
“Anna’smom,theDutchTulipMan,SisyphustheHamster,Imean,just
—whathappenstoeveryone.”
VanHouten closed his eyes andpuffed his cheeks as he exhaled, then
looked up at the exposed wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling. “The
hamster,” he said after awhile. “Thehamster gets adoptedbyChristine”—
whowasoneofAnna’spresicknessfriends.Thatmadesense.Christineand
AnnaplayedwithSisyphusinafewscenes.“HeisadoptedbyChristineand
livesforacoupleyearsafter theendof thenovelanddiespeacefullyinhis
hamstersleep.”
Nowweweregettingsomewhere.“Great,” I said.“Great.Okay,so the
DutchTulipMan.Isheaconman?DoheandAnna’smomgetmarried?”
VanHoutenwasstillstaringattheceilingbeams.Hetookadrink.The
glasswas almost empty again. “Lidewij, I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t.”He
leveledhisgazetome.“NothinghappenstotheDutchTulipMan.Heisn’ta
con man or not a con man; he’sGod. He’s an obvious and unambiguous
metaphorical representationofGod,andaskingwhatbecomesofhimis the
intellectualequivalentofaskingwhatbecomesofthedisembodiedeyesofDr.
T. J. Eckleburg in Gatsby. Do he and Anna’s mom get married? We are
speakingofanovel,dearchild,notsomehistoricalenterprise.”
“Right,butsurelyyoumusthavethoughtaboutwhathappenstothem,I
mean as characters, I mean independent of theirmetaphoricalmeanings or
whatever.”
“They’refictions,”hesaid,tappinghisglassagain.“Nothinghappensto
them.”
“Yousaidyou’dtellme,”Iinsisted.Iremindedmyselftobeassertive.I
neededtokeephisaddledattentiononmyquestions.
“Perhaps, but I was under the misguided impression that you were
incapable of transatlantic travel. I was trying . . . to provide you some
comfort, I suppose, which I should know better than to attempt. But to be
perfectlyfrank,thischildishideathattheauthorofanovelhassomespecial
insight into the characters in the novel . . . it’s ridiculous. That novel was
composedofscratchesonapage,dear.Thecharacters inhabiting ithaveno
life outsideof those scratches.Whathappened to them?They all ceased to
existthemomentthenovelended.”
“No,”Isaid. Ipushedmyselfupoff thecouch.“No,Iunderstand that,
but it’s impossible not to imagine a future for them. You are the most
qualified person to imagine that future. Something happened to Anna’s
mother.Sheeithergotmarriedordidn’t.Sheeithermoved toHollandwith
theDutchTulipManordidn’t.Sheeitherhadmorekidsordidn’t.Ineedto
knowwhathappenstoher.”
VanHoutenpursedhislips.“IregretthatIcannotindulgeyourchildish
whims, but I refuse to pity you in the manner to which you are well
accustomed.”
“Idon’twantyourpity,”Isaid.
“Likeallsickchildren,”heanswereddispassionately,“yousayyoudon’t
wantpity,butyourveryexistencedependsuponit.”
“Peter,”Lidewij said, but he continued as he reclined there, hiswords
getting rounder in his drunken mouth. “Sick children inevitably become
arrested: You are fated to live out your days as the child you were when
diagnosed,thechildwhobelievesthereislifeafteranovelends.Andwe,as
adults,wepitythis,sowepayforyourtreatments,foryouroxygenmachines.
Wegiveyoufoodandwaterthoughyouareunlikelytolivelongenough—”
“PETER!”Lidewijshouted.
“You are a side effect,” Van Houten continued, “of an evolutionary
process that cares little for individual lives.You are a failed experiment in
mutation.”
“IRESIGN!”Lidewijshouted.Thereweretearsinhereyes.ButIwasn’t
angry.Hewaslookingforthemosthurtfulwaytotellthetruth,butofcourse
Ialreadyknewthetruth.I’dhadyearsofstaringatceilingsfrommybedroom
totheICU,andsoI’dlongagofoundthemosthurtfulwaystoimaginemy
ownillness.Isteppedtowardhim.“Listen,douchepants,”Isaid,“you’renot
goingtotellmeanythingaboutdiseaseIdon’talreadyknow.Ineedoneand
only one thing from you before I walk out of your life forever: WHAT
HAPPENSTOANNA’SMOTHER?”
He raised his flabby chins vaguely toward me and shrugged his
shoulders. “I can nomore tell youwhat happens to her than I can tell you
what becomes of Proust’s Narrator or Holden Caulfield’s sister or
HuckleberryFinnafterhelightsoutfortheterritories.”
“BULLsh*t!That’sbullsh*t.Justtellme!Makesomethingup!”
“No,andI’llthankyounottocurseinmyhouse.Itisn’tbecomingofa
lady.”
Istillwasn’tangry,exactly,butIwasveryfocusedongettingthething
I’dbeenpromised.SomethinginsidemewelledupandI reacheddownand
smackedtheswollenhandthatheldtheglassofScotch.Whatremained
,ofthe
Scotchsplashedacrossthevastexpanseofhisface,theglassbouncingoffhis
noseandthenspinningballeticallythroughtheair, landingwithashattering
crashontheancienthardwoodfloors.
“Lidewij,”VanHouten said calmly, “I’ll have amartini, if youplease.
Justawhisperofvermouth.”
“Ihaveresigned,”Lidewijsaidafteramoment.
“Don’tberidiculous.”
Ididn’tknowwhattodo.Beingnicehadn’tworked.Beingmeanhadn’t
worked.Ineededananswer.I’dcomeallthisway,hijackedAugustus’sWish.
Ineededtoknow.
“Have you ever stopped to wonder,” he said, his words slurring now,
“whyyoucaresomuchaboutyoursillyquestions?”
“YOU PROMISED!” I shouted, hearing Isaac’s impotent wailing
echoingfromthenightofthebrokentrophies.VanHoutendidn’treply.
Iwas still standing over him,waiting for him to say something tome
whenIfeltAugustus’shandonmyarm.Hepulledmeawaytowardthedoor,
andIfollowedhimwhileVanHoutenrantedtoLidewijabouttheingratitude
of contemporary teenagers and the death of polite society, and Lidewij,
somewhathysterical,shoutedbackathiminrapid-fireDutch.
“You’llhave to forgivemyformerassistant,”hesaid.“Dutch isnot so
muchalanguageasanailmentofthethroat.”
Augustus pulledme out of the room and through the door to the late
springmorningandthefallingconfettioftheelms.
***
Forme therewas no such thing as a quickgetaway, butwemadeourway
down the stairs, Augustus holding my cart, and then started to walk back
toward theFilosoofon abumpy sidewalkof interwoven rectangularbricks.
Forthefirsttimesincetheswingset,Istartedcrying.
“Hey,”hesaid,touchingmywaist.“Hey.It’sokay.”Inoddedandwiped
myfacewiththebackofmyhand.“Hesucks.”Inoddedagain.“I’llwriteyou
anepilogue,”Gus said.Thatmademecryharder. “Iwill,”he said. “Iwill.
Better than any sh*t that drunk could write. His brain is Swiss cheese. He
doesn’tevenrememberwritingthebook.Icanwritetentimesthestorythat
guy can.Therewill be blood and guts and sacrifice.An ImperialAffliction
meetsThePriceofDawn.You’llloveit.”Ikeptnodding,fakingasmile,and
thenhehuggedme,hisstrongarmspullingmeintohismuscularchest,andI
soggeduphispoloshirtalittlebutthenrecoveredenoughtospeak.
“IspentyourWishonthatdoucheface,”Isaidintohischest.
“HazelGrace.No.Iwillgrantyouthatyoudidspendmyoneandonly
Wish,butyoudidnotspenditonhim.Youspentitonus.”
Behind us, I heard the plonk plonk of high heels running. I turned
around.ItwasLidewij,hereyelinerrunningdownhercheeks,dulyhorrified,
chasingusupthesidewalk.“PerhapsweshouldgototheAnneFrankHuis,”
Lidewijsaid.
“I’mnotgoinganywherewiththatmonster,”Augustussaid.
“Heisnotinvited,”Lidewijsaid.
Augustuskeptholdingme,protective,hishandonthesideofmyface.“I
don’tthink—”hestarted,butIcuthimoff.
“Weshouldgo.”IstillwantedanswersfromVanHouten.Butitwasn’t
allIwanted.IonlyhadtwodaysleftinAmsterdamwithAugustusWaters.I
wouldn’tletasadoldmanruinthem.
LidewijdroveaclunkygrayFiatwithanenginethatsoundedlikeanexcited
four-year-old girl. As we drove through the streets of Amsterdam, she
repeatedlyandprofuselyapologized.“Iamverysorry.Thereisnoexcuse.He
isverysick,”shesaid.“I thoughtmeetingyouwouldhelphim,ifhewould
seethathisworkhasshapedreallives,but...I’mverysorry.Itisvery,very
embarrassing.”NeitherAugustus nor I said anything. Iwas in the backseat
behindhim.Isnuckmyhandbetweenthesideofthecarandhisseat,feeling
forhishand,butIcouldn’tfindit.Lidewijcontinued,“Ihavecontinuedthis
workbecauseIbelieveheisageniusandbecausethepayisverygood,buthe
hasbecomeamonster.”
“Iguesshegotprettyrichonthatbook,”Isaidafterawhile.
“Oh, no no, he is of the Van Houtens,” she said. “In the seventeenth
century, his ancestor discovered how to mix cocoa into water. Some Van
Houtensmoved to theUnitedStates longago, andPeter isof those,buthe
movedtoHollandafterhisnovel.Heisanembarrassmenttoagreatfamily.”
Theenginescreamed.Lidewijshiftedandweshotupacanalbridge.“It
iscirc*mstance,”shesaid.“Circ*mstancehasmadehimsocruel.Heisnotan
evilman.Butthisday,Ididnotthink—whenhesaidtheseterriblethings,I
couldnotbelieveit.Iamverysorry.Veryverysorry.”
We had to park a block away from theAnneFrankHouse, and thenwhile
Lidewijstoodinlinetogetticketsforus,Isatwithmybackagainstalittle
tree, looking at all the moored houseboats in the Prinsengracht canal.
Augustuswasstandingaboveme,rollingmyoxygencartinlazycircles,just
watchingthewheelsspin.Iwantedhimtositnexttome,butIknewitwas
hard for him to sit, and harder still to stand back up. “Okay?” he asked,
lookingdownatme. I shruggedand reachedahand forhis calf. Itwashis
fakecalf,butIheldontoit.Helookeddownatme.
“Iwanted...”Isaid.
“Iknow,”hesaid.“Iknow.Apparentlytheworldisnotawish-granting
factory.”Thatmademesmilealittle.
Lidewijreturnedwithtickets,buther thinlipswerepursedwithworry.
“Thereisnoelevator,”shesaid.“Iamveryverysorry.”
“It’sokay,”Isaid.
“No,therearemanystairs,”shesaid.“Steepstairs.”
“It’s okay,” I said again. Augustus started to say something, but I
interrupted.“It’sokay.Icandoit.”
Webegan in a roomwith avideoabout Jews inHollandand theNazi
invasionandtheFrankfamily.Thenwewalkedupstairsintothecanalhouse
where Otto Frank’s business had been. The stairs were slow, for me and
Augustusboth,but I felt strong.SoonIwasstaringat thefamousbookcase
thathadhidAnneFrank,herfamily,andfourothers.Thebookcasewashalf
open,andbehind itwasanevensteeper setof stairs,onlywideenough for
oneperson.Therewerefellowvisitorsallaroundus,andIdidn’twanttohold
up the procession, butLidewij said, “If everyone could be patient, please,”
andIbeganthewalkup,Lidewijcarryingthecartbehindme,Gusbehindher.
Itwasfourteensteps.Ikeptthinkingaboutthepeoplebehindme—they
weremostlyadultsspeakingavarietyoflanguages—andfeelingembarrassed
orwhatever,feelinglikeaghost thatbothcomfortsandhaunts,butfinallyI
madeitup,andthenIwasinaneerilyemptyroom,leaningagainstthewall,
mybraintellingmylungsit’sokayit’sokaycalmdownit’sokayandmylungs
tellingmybrainoh,God,we’redyinghere.Ididn’tevenseeAugustuscome
upstairs,buthecameoverandwipedhisbrowwiththebackofhishandlike
whewandsaid,“You’reachampion.”
Afterafewminutesofwall-leaning,Imadeit to thenextroom,which
Anne had shared with the dentist Fritz Pfeffer. It was tiny, empty of all
furniture. You’d never know anyone had ever lived there except that the
picturesAnnehadpastedontothewallfrommagazinesandnewspaperswere
stillthere.
Another staircase led up to the room where the van Pels family had
lived,thisonesteeperthanthelastandeighteensteps,essentiallyaglorified
ladder.IgottothethresholdandlookedupandfiguredIcouldnotdoit,but
alsoknewtheonlywaythroughwasup.
“Let’sgoback,”Gussaidbehindme.
“I’mokay,”Iansweredquietly.It’sstupid,butIkeptthinkingIowedit
toher—toAnneFrank,Imean—becauseshewasdeadandIwasn’t,because
shehadstayedquietandkepttheblindsdrawnanddoneeverythingrightand
stilldied,andsoIshouldgoupthestepsandsee
,therestoftheworldshe’d
livedinthoseyearsbeforetheGestapocame.
Ibegantoclimbthestairs,crawlingupthemlikealittlekidwould,slow
at firstsoIcouldbreathe,but thenfasterbecauseIknewIcouldn’tbreathe
and wanted to get to the top before everything gave out. The blackness
encroachedaroundmy fieldofvisionas Ipulledmyselfup, eighteen steps,
steep as hell. I finally crested the staircasemostly blind and nauseated, the
musclesinmyarmsandlegsscreamingforoxygen.Islumpedseatedagainst
awall,heavingwatered-downcoughs.Therewasanemptyglasscasebolted
tothewallabovemeandIstaredupthroughittotheceilingandtriednotto
passout.
Lidewijcroucheddownnext tome,saying,“Youareat the top, that is
it,”andInodded.Ihadavagueawarenessof theadultsallaroundglancing
downatmeworriedly;ofLidewijspeakingquietlyinonelanguageandthen
anotherandthenanothertovariousvisitors;ofAugustusstandingaboveme,
hishandonthetopofmyhead,strokingmyhairalongthepart.
Afteralongtime,LidewijandAugustuspulledmetomyfeetandIsaw
what was protected by the glass case: pencil marks on the wallpaper
measuringthegrowthofallthechildrenintheannexduringtheperiodthey
livedthere,inchafterinchuntiltheywouldgrownomore.
From there, we left the Franks’ living area, but we were still in the
museum:Alongnarrowhallwayshowedpicturesofeachoftheannex’seight
residentsanddescribedhowandwhereandwhentheydied.
“Theonlymemberofhiswholefamilywhosurvivedthewar,”Lidewij
toldus,referringtoAnne’sfather,Otto.Hervoicewashushedlikewewerein
church.
“Buthedidn’tsurviveawar,notreally,”Augustussaid.“Hesurviveda
genocide.”
“True,” Lidewij said. “I do not know how you go on, without your
family.Idonotknow.”AsIreadabouteachofthesevenwhodied,Ithought
ofOttoFranknotbeingafatheranymore,leftwithadiaryinsteadofawife
and two daughters. At the end of the hallway, a huge book, bigger than a
dictionary,containedthenamesofthe103,000deadfromtheNetherlandsin
the Holocaust. (Only 5,000 of the deported Dutch Jews, a wall label
explained,hadsurvived.5,000OttoFranks.)Thebookwasturnedtothepage
with Anne Frank’s name, but what got me about it was the fact that right
beneath her name there were four Aron Franks. Four. Four Aron Franks
withoutmuseums,withouthistoricalmarkers,withoutanyonetomournthem.
IsilentlyresolvedtorememberandprayforthefourAronFranksaslongasI
wasaround.(Maybesomepeopleneedtobelieveinaproperandomnipotent
Godtopray,butIdon’t.)
Aswegottotheendoftheroom,Gusstoppedandsaid,“Youokay?”I
nodded.
He gestured back toward Anne’s picture. “The worst part is that she
almostlived,youknow?Shediedweeksawayfromliberation.”
Lidewij took a few steps away to watch a video, and I grabbed
Augustus’shandaswewalked into thenext room. ItwasanA-frameroom
with some lettersOtto Frank hadwritten to people during hismonths-long
search forhisdaughters.On thewall in themiddleof the room,avideoof
OttoFrankplayed.HewasspeakinginEnglish.
“ArethereanyNazis left thatIcouldhuntdownandbringto justice?”
Augustusaskedwhilewe leanedover thevitrines readingOtto’s lettersand
theguttingrepliesthatno,noonehadseenhischildrenaftertheliberation.
“Ithinkthey’realldead.Butit’snotliketheNazishadamonopolyon
evil.”
“True,” he said. “That’s what we should do, Hazel Grace:We should
teamupandbethisdisabledvigilanteduoroaringthroughtheworld,righting
wrongs,defendingtheweak,protectingtheendangered.”
Although itwas his dream and notmine, I indulged it.He’d indulged
mine,afterall.“Ourfearlessnessshallbeoursecretweapon,”Isaid.
“Thetalesofourexploitswillsurviveaslongasthehumanvoiceitself,”
hesaid.
“And even after that, when the robots recall the human absurdities of
sacrificeandcompassion,theywillrememberus.”
“Theywillrobot-laughatourcourageousfolly,”hesaid.“Butsomething
intheirironrobotheartswillyearntohavelivedanddiedaswedid:onthe
hero’serrand.”
“AugustusWaters,” I said, lookingupathim, thinking thatyoucannot
kiss anyone in theAnne FrankHouse, and then thinking that Anne Frank,
after all, kissed someone in the Anne Frank House, and that she would
probablylikenothingmorethanforherhometohavebecomeaplacewhere
theyoungandirreparablybrokensinkintolove.
“Imust say,”OttoFrank said on the video in his accentedEnglish, “I
wasverymuchsurprisedbythedeepthoughtsAnnehad.”
And then we were kissing. My hand let go of the oxygen cart and I
reachedupforhisneck,andhepulledmeupbymywaistontomytiptoes.As
hispartedlipsmetmine,Istartedtofeelbreathlessinanewandfascinating
way.Thespacearoundusevaporated,andforaweirdmomentIreallyliked
mybody; thiscancer-ruinedthingI’dspentyearsdraggingaroundsuddenly
seemedworththestruggle,worththechesttubesandthePICClinesandthe
ceaselessbodilybetrayalofthetumors.
“ItwasquiteadifferentAnne Ihadknownasmydaughter.Shenever
reallyshowedthiskindofinnerfeeling,”OttoFrankcontinued.
ThekisslastedforeverasOttoFrankkepttalkingfrombehindme.“And
myconclusionis,”hesaid,“sinceIhadbeeninverygoodtermswithAnne,
thatmostparentsdon’tknowreallytheirchildren.”
I realized that my eyes were closed and opened them. Augustus was
staringatme,hisblueeyescloser tome than they’deverbeen,andbehind
him,acrowdofpeople threedeephadsortofcircledaroundus.Theywere
angry,Ithought.Horrified.Theseteenagers,withtheirhormones,makingout
beneathavideobroadcastingtheshatteredvoiceofaformerfather.
IpulledawayfromAugustus,andhesnuckapeckontomyforeheadasI
stared down atmyChuck Taylors. And then they started clapping.All the
people,all theseadults, juststartedclapping,andoneshouted“Bravo!”ina
European accent. Augustus, smiling, bowed. Laughing, I curtsied ever so
slightly,whichwasmetwithanotherroundofapplause.
Wemade ourway downstairs, letting all the adults go down first, and
right before we got to the café (where blessedly an elevator took us back
down toground leveland thegift shop)wesawpagesofAnne’sdiary,and
also her unpublished book of quotations. The quote book happened to be
turnedtoapageofShakespearequotations.Forwhoso firmthatcannotbe
seduced?she’dwritten.
LidewijdroveusbacktotheFilosoof.Outsidethehotel,itwasdrizzlingand
AugustusandIstoodonthebricksidewalkslowlygettingwet.
Augustus:“Youprobablyneedsomerest.”
Me:“I’mokay.”
Augustus:“Okay.”(Pause.)“Whatareyouthinkingabout?”
Me:“You.”
Augustus:“Whataboutme?”
Me:“‘Idonotknowwhichtoprefer,/Thebeautyofinflections/Orthe
beautyofinnuendos,/Theblackbirdwhistling/Orjustafter.’”
Augustus:“God,youaresexy.”
Me:“Wecouldgotoyourroom.”
Augustus:“I’veheardworseideas.”
We squeezed into the tiny elevator together. Every surface, including the
floor,wasmirrored.Wehadtopullthedoortoshutourselvesinandthenthe
old thingcreakedslowlyup to thesecondfloor. Iwas tiredandsweatyand
worriedthatIgenerallylookedandsmelledgross,butevensoIkissedhimin
that elevator, and then he pulled away and pointed at the mirror and said,
“Look,infiniteHazels.”
“Some infinities are larger thanother infinities,” I
,drawled,mimicking
VanHouten.
“Whatanassclown,”Augustussaid,and it tookall that timeandmore
justtogetustothesecondfloor.Finallytheelevatorlurchedtoahalt,andhe
pushedthemirroreddooropen.Whenitwashalfopen,hewincedinpainand
losthisgriponthedoorforasecond.
“Youokay?”Iasked.
After a second, he said, “Yeah, yeah, door’s just heavy, I guess.” He
pushedagainandgotitopen.Heletmewalkoutfirst,ofcourse,butthenI
didn’t knowwhich direction towalk down the hallway, and so I just stood
thereoutsidetheelevatorandhestoodthere,too,hisfacestillcontorted,andI
saidagain,“Okay?”
“Justoutofshape,HazelGrace.Alliswell.”
Wewere just standing there in the hallway, and hewasn’t leading the
waytohisroomoranything,andIdidn’tknowwherehisroomwas,andas
the stalemate continued, I became convinced hewas trying to figure out a
waynot tohookupwithme, thatInevershouldhavesuggestedthe ideain
the first place, that itwas unladylike and therefore had disgustedAugustus
Waters,whowasstandingtherelookingatmeunblinking,tryingtothinkofa
waytoextricatehimselffromthesituationpolitely.Andthen,afterforever,he
said, “It’s above my knee and it just tapers a little and then it’s just skin.
There’sanastyscar,butitjustlookslike—”
“What?”Iasked.
“Myleg,”hesaid.“Justsoyou’repreparedincase,Imean,incaseyou
seeitorwhat—”
“Oh,getoveryourself,”Isaid,andtookthetwostepsIneededtogetto
him.Ikissedhim,hard,pressinghimagainstthewall,andIkeptkissinghim
ashefumbledfortheroomkey.
Wecrawledintothebed,myfreedomcirc*mscribedsomebytheoxygen,but
evensoIcouldgetontopofhimandtakehisshirtoffandtastethesweaton
the skin below his collarbone as I whispered into his skin, “I love you,
AugustusWaters,”hisbodyrelaxingbeneathmineasheheardmesayit.He
reacheddownand tried topullmyshirtoff,but itgot tangled in the tube. I
laughed.
***
“Howdoyoudothiseveryday?”heaskedasIdisentangledmyshirtfromthe
tubes.Idiotically,itoccurredtomethatmypinkunderweardidn’tmatchmy
purplebra,asifboysevennoticesuchthings.Icrawledunderthecoversand
kickedoutofmy jeansand socksand thenwatched thecomforterdanceas
beneathit,Augustusremovedfirsthisjeansandthenhisleg.
***
We were lying on our backs next to each other, everything hidden by the
covers,andafterasecondIreachedoverforhis thighandletmyhandtrail
downwardtothestump,thethickscarredskin.Iheldthestumpforasecond.
Heflinched.“Ithurts?”Iasked.
“No,”hesaid.
Heflippedhimselfontohissideandkissedme.“You’resohot,”Isaid,
myhandstillonhisleg.
“I’m starting to think you have an amputee fetish,” he answered, still
kissingme.Ilaughed.
“IhaveanAugustusWatersfetish,”Iexplained.
ThewholeaffairwasthepreciseoppositeofwhatIfigureditwouldbe:slow
andpatientandquietandneitherparticularlypainfulnorparticularlyecstatic.
TherewerealotofcondomyproblemsthatIdidnotgetaparticularlygood
lookat.Noheadboardswerebroken.Noscreaming.Honestly,itwasprobably
thelongesttimewe’deverspenttogetherwithouttalking.
Only one thing followed type:Afterward,when I hadmy face resting
againstAugustus’schest,listeningtohisheartpound,Augustussaid,“Hazel
Grace,Iliterallycannotkeepmyeyesopen.”
“Misuseofliterality,”Isaid.
“No,”hesaid.“So.Tired.”
Hisfaceturnedawayfromme,myearpressedtohischest,listeningto
his lungs settle into the rhythm of sleep. After a while, I got up, dressed,
foundtheHotelFilosoofstationery,andwrotehimaloveletter:
DearestAugustus,
yrs,
HazelGrace
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Thenextmorning,ourlastfulldayinAmsterdam,MomandAugustusandI
walked the half block from the hotel to theVondelpark,wherewe found a
café in theshadowof theDutchnationalfilmmuseum.Over lattes—which,
thewaiter explained to us, theDutch called “wrong coffee” because it had
moremilkthancoffee—wesatinthelacyshadeofahugechestnuttreeand
recountedforMomourencounterwiththegreatPeterVanHouten.Wemade
thestoryfunny.Youhaveachoiceinthisworld,Ibelieve,abouthowtotell
sad stories, andwemade the funny choice: Augustus, slumped in the café
chair,pretended tobe the tongue-tied,word-slurringVanHoutenwhocould
notsomuchaspushhimselfoutofhischair;Istooduptoplayameallfullof
blusterandmachismo,shouting,“Getup,youfatuglyoldman!”
“Didyoucallhimugly?”Augustusasked.
“Justgowithit,”Itoldhim.
“I’mnahtuggy.You’retheuggyone,nosetubegirl.”
“You’reacoward!”Irumbled,andAugustusbrokecharactertolaugh.I
satdown.WetoldMomabouttheAnneFrankHouse,leavingoutthekissing.
“DidyougobacktochezVanHoutenafterward?”Momasked.
Augustusdidn’tevengivemetimetoblush.“Nah,wejusthungoutata
café.HazelamusedmewithsomeVenndiagramhumor.”Heglancedatme.
God,hewassexy.
“Soundslovely,”shesaid.“Listen,I’mgoingtogoforawalk.Givethe
twoofyoutimetotalk,”shesaidatGus,anedgeinit.“Thenmaybelaterwe
cangoforatouronacanalboat.”
“Um,okay?”Isaid.Momleftafive-euronoteunderhersaucerandthen
kissedmeonthetopofthehead,whispering,“Iloveloveloveyou,”which
wastwomorelovesthanusual.
Gus motioned down to the shadows of the branches intersecting and
comingapartontheconcrete.“Beautiful,huh?”
“Yeah,”Isaid.
“Suchagoodmetaphor,”hemumbled.
“Isitnow?”Iasked.
“Thenegativeimageofthingsblowntogetherandthenblownapart,”he
said. Before us, hundreds of people passed, jogging and biking and
Rollerblading.Amsterdamwasacitydesignedformovementandactivity,a
citythatwouldrathernottravelbycar,andsoinevitablyIfeltexcludedfrom
it.ButGod,wasitbeautiful,thecreekcarvingapatharoundthehugetree,a
heron standing still at thewater’s edge, searching for a breakfast amid the
millionsofelmpetalsfloatinginthewater.
But Augustus didn’t notice. He was too busy watching the shadows
move.Finally,hesaid,“Icouldlookatthisallday,butweshouldgotothe
hotel.”
“Dowehavetime?”Iasked.
Hesmiledsadly.“Ifonly,”hesaid.
“What’swrong?”Iasked.
Henoddedbackinthedirectionofthehotel.
Wewalkedinsilence,Augustusahalfstepinfrontofme.Iwastooscaredto
askifIhadreasontobescared.
SothereisthisthingcalledMaslow’sHierarchyofNeeds.Basically,this
guyAbrahamMaslowbecamefamousforhistheorythatcertainneedsmust
bemetbeforeyoucanevenhaveotherkindsofneeds.Itlookslikethis:
Once your needs for food andwater are fulfilled, youmove up to the
nextsetofneeds,security,andthenthenextandthenext,buttheimportant
thing is that, according to Maslow, until your physiological needs are
satisfied,youcan’tevenworryaboutsecurityorsocialneeds,letalone“self-
actualization,” which is when you start to, like, make art and think about
moralityandquantumphysicsandstuff.
According toMaslow, Iwas stuckon the second levelof thepyramid,
unabletofeelsecureinmyhealthandthereforeunabletoreachforloveand
respect and art andwhatever else,which is, of course, utter horsesh*t: The
urgetomakeartorcontemplatephilosophydoesnotgoawaywhenyouare
sick.Thoseurgesjustbecometransfiguredbyillness.
Maslow’s pyramid seemed to imply that I was less human than other
people, and most people seemed to agree with
,him. But not Augustus. I
alwaysthoughthecouldlovemebecausehe’doncebeensick.Onlynowdid
itoccurtomethatmaybehestillwas.
Wearrivedinmyroom,theKierkegaard.Isatdownonthebedexpectinghim
tojoinme,buthehunkereddowninthedustypaisleychair.Thatchair.How
oldwasit?Fiftyyears?
IfelttheballinthebaseofmythroathardeningasIwatchedhimpulla
cigarette from his pack and stick it between his lips. He leaned back and
sighed.“Justbeforeyouwent intotheICU,Istartedtofeel thisacheinmy
hip.”
“No,”Isaid.Panicrolledin,pulledmeunder.
Henodded.“SoIwent inforaPETscan.”Hestopped.Heyankedthe
cigaretteoutofhismouthandclenchedhisteeth.
Muchofmylifehadbeendevotedtotryingnottocryinfrontofpeople
wholovedme,soIknewwhatAugustuswasdoing.Youclenchyour teeth.
Youlookup.Youtellyourselfthatiftheyseeyoucry,itwillhurtthem,and
youwillbenothingbutASadnessintheirlives,andyoumustnotbecomea
mere sadness, soyouwillnot cry, andyou sayallof this toyourselfwhile
lookingupattheceiling,andthenyouswalloweventhoughyourthroatdoes
notwanttocloseandyoulookatthepersonwholovesyouandsmile.
Heflashedhiscrookedsmile, thensaid,“I litup likeaChristmas tree,
HazelGrace.Theliningofmychest,mylefthip,myliver,everywhere.”
Everywhere. Thatword hung in the air awhile.We both knewwhat it
meant.Igotup,draggingmybodyandthecartacrosscarpet thatwasolder
thanAugustuswouldeverbe,andIkneltatthebaseofthechairandputmy
headinhislapandhuggedhimbythewaist.
Hewasstrokingmyhair.“I’msosorry,”Isaid.
“I’msorryIdidn’t tellyou,”hesaid,hisvoicecalm.“Yourmommust
know. The way she looked at me. My mom must’ve just told her or
something.Ishould’vetoldyou.Itwasstupid.Selfish.”
Iknewwhyhehadn’tsaidanything,ofcourse:thesamereasonIhadn’t
wanted him to see me in the ICU. I couldn’t be mad at him for even a
moment,andonlynowthatIlovedagrenadedidIunderstandthefoolishness
of trying to save others frommy own impending fragmentation: I couldn’t
unloveAugustusWaters.AndIdidn’twantto.
“It’snotfair,”Isaid.“It’sjustsogoddamnedunfair.”
“Theworld,”hesaid,“isnotawish-grantingfactory,”andthenhebroke
down, just foronemoment, his sob roaring impotent like a clapof thunder
unaccompaniedbylightning,theterribleferocitythatamateursinthefieldof
sufferingmightmistakeforweakness.Thenhepulledmetohimand,hisface
inchesfrommine,resolved,“I’llfightit.I’llfightitforyou.Don’tyouworry
aboutme,HazelGrace.I’mokay.I’llfindawaytohangaroundandannoy
youforalongtime.”
Iwas crying.But even then hewas strong, holdingme tight so that I
couldseethesinewymusclesofhisarmswrappedaroundmeashesaid,“I’m
sorry.You’llbeokay.It’llbeokay.Ipromise,”andsmiledhiscrookedsmile.
Hekissedmyforehead,andthenIfelthispowerfulchestdeflatejusta
little.“IguessIhadahamartiaafterall.”
Afterawhile,Ipulledhimovertothebedandwelaytheretogetherashetold
me they’d started palliative chemo, but he gave it up to go toAmsterdam,
eventhoughhisparentswerefurious.They’dtriedtostophimrightupuntil
thatmorning, when I heard him screaming that his body belonged to him.
“Wecouldhaverescheduled,”Isaid.
“No, we couldn’t have,” he answered. “Anyway, it wasn’t working. I
couldtellitwasn’tworking,youknow?”
Inodded.“It’sjustbullsh*t,thewholething,”Isaid.
“They’lltrysomethingelsewhenIgethome.They’vealwaysgotanew
idea.”
“Yeah,”Isaid,havingbeentheexperimentalpincushionmyself.
“I kind of conned you into believing you were falling in love with a
healthyperson,”hesaid.
Ishrugged.“I’dhavedonethesametoyou.”
“No, you wouldn’t’ve, but we can’t all be as awesome as you.” He
kissedme,thengrimaced.
“Doesithurt?”Iasked.
“No.Just.”Hestaredattheceilingforalongtimebeforesaying,“Ilike
thisworld.Ilikedrinkingchampagne.Ilikenotsmoking.Ilikethesoundof
DutchpeoplespeakingDutch.Andnow...Idon’tevengetabattle.Idon’t
getafight.”
“Yougettobattlecancer,”Isaid.“Thatisyourbattle.Andyou’llkeep
fighting,”Itoldhim.Ihateditwhenpeopletriedtobuildmeuptopreparefor
battle,butIdidit tohim,anyway.“You’ll . . .you’ll . . . liveyourbest life
today.Thisisyourwarnow.”Idespisedmyselfforthecheesysentiment,but
whatelsedidIhave?
“Somewar,”hesaiddismissively.“WhatamIatwarwith?Mycancer.
And what is my cancer? My cancer is me. The tumors are made of me.
They’remadeofmeassurelyasmybrainandmyheartaremadeofme.Itis
acivilwar,HazelGrace,withapredeterminedwinner.”
“Gus,” I said. I couldn’t say anything else. He was too smart for the
kindsofsolaceIcouldoffer.
“Okay,”hesaid.Butitwasn’t.Afteramoment,hesaid,“Ifyougotothe
Rijksmuseum,whichIreallywantedtodo—butwhoarewekidding,neither
of us can walk through amuseum. But anyway, I looked at the collection
onlinebeforeweleft.Ifyouweretogo,andhopefullysomedayyouwill,you
wouldseealotofpaintingsofdeadpeople.You’dseeJesusonthecross,and
you’dseeadudegettingstabbedintheneck,andyou’dseepeopledyingat
seaandinbattleandaparadeofmartyrs.ButNot.One.Single.Cancer.Kid.
Nobody biting it from the plague or smallpox or yellow fever orwhatever,
because there is no glory in illness. There is nomeaning to it. There is no
honorindyingof.”
AbrahamMaslow, Ipresent toyouAugustusWaters,whoseexistential
curiositydwarfedthatofhiswell-fed,well-loved,healthybrethren.Whilethe
mass of men went on leading thoroughly unexamined lives of monstrous
consumption,AugustusWatersexamined thecollectionof theRijksmuseum
fromafar.
“What?”Augustusaskedafterawhile.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence, didn’t
knowhowto.“I’mjustvery,veryfondofyou.”
Hesmiledwithhalfhismouth,hisnoseinchesfrommine.“Thefeeling
ismutual. Idon’t supposeyoucanforgetabout itand treatme like I’mnot
dying.”
“Idon’t thinkyou’redying,”Isaid.“I thinkyou’vejustgota touchof
cancer.”
Hesmiled.Gallowshumor.“I’monarollercoasterthatonlygoesup,”
hesaid.
“Anditismyprivilegeandmyresponsibilitytorideallthewayupwith
you,”Isaid.
“Woulditbeabsolutelyludicroustotrytomakeout?”
“Thereisnotry,”Isaid.“Thereisonlydo.”
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
On the flight home, twenty thousand feet above clouds that were ten
thousandfeetabovetheground,Gussaid,“Iusedtothinkitwouldbefunto
liveonacloud.”
“Yeah,”Isaid.“Likeitwouldbelikeoneofthoseinflatablemoonwalk
machines,exceptforalways.”
“But theninmiddleschoolscience,Mr.Martinezaskedwhoamongus
hadeverfantasizedaboutlivingintheclouds,andeveryoneraisedtheirhand.
ThenMr.Martineztoldus thatupin thecloudsthewindblewonehundred
andfiftymilesanhourandthe temperaturewasthirtybelowzeroandthere
wasnooxygenandwe’dalldiewithinseconds.”
“Soundslikeaniceguy.”
“Hespecialized in themurderofdreams,HazelGrace, letme tellyou.
You think volcanoes are awesome?Tell that to the ten thousand screaming
corpsesatPompeii.Youstillsecretlybelievethatthereisanelementofmagic
to this world? It’s all just soulless molecules bouncing against each other
randomly.Doyouworryaboutwhowilltakecareofyouifyourparentsdie?
,Aswellyoushould,becausetheywillbewormfoodinthefullnessoftime.”
“Ignoranceisbliss,”Isaid.
A flight attendant walked through the aisle with a beverage cart, half
whispering,“Drinks?Drinks?Drinks?Drinks?”Gusleanedoverme,raising
hishand.“Couldwehavesomechampagne,please?”
“You’re twenty-one?” she asked dubiously. I conspicuously rearranged
the nubbins inmy nose. The stewardess smiled, then glanced down at my
sleepingmother.“Shewon’tmind?”sheaskedofMom.
“Nah,”Isaid.
Soshepouredchampagneintotwoplasticcups.CancerPerks.
GusandItoasted.“Toyou,”hesaid.
“Toyou,”Isaid,touchingmycuptohis.
Wesipped.Dimmerstarsthanwe’dhadatOranjee,butstillgoodenough
todrink.
“Youknow,”Gussaidtome,“everythingVanHoutensaidwastrue.”
“Maybe,buthedidn’thavetobesuchadoucheaboutit.Ican’tbelieve
heimaginedafutureforSisyphustheHamsterbutnotforAnna’smom.”
Augustus shrugged.Heseemed tozoneoutallof a sudden.“Okay?” I
asked.
Heshookhisheadmicroscopically.“Hurts,”hesaid.
“Chest?”
Henodded.Fistsclenched.Later,hewoulddescribe itasaone-legged
fatmanwearingastilettoheelstandingonthemiddleofhischest.Ireturned
myseat-backtraytoitsuprightandlockedpositionandbentforwardtodig
pills out of his backpack. He swallowed one with champagne. “Okay?” I
askedagain.
Gus sat there, pumping his fist,waiting for themedicine towork, the
medicinethatdidnotkillthepainsomuchasdistancehimfromit(andfrom
me).
“Itwaslikeitwaspersonal,”Gussaidquietly.“Likehewasmadatus
forsomereason.VanHouten,Imean.”Hedranktherestofhischampagnein
aquickseriesofgulpsandsoonfellasleep.
My dad was waiting for us in baggage claim, standing amid all the limo
driversinsuitsholdingsignsprintedwiththelastnamesoftheirpassengers:
JOHNSON,BARRINGTON,CARMICHAEL.Dadhadasignofhisown.MYBEAUTIFUL
FAMILY,itread,andthenunderneaththat(ANDGUS).
Ihuggedhim,andhestartedcrying(ofcourse).Aswedrovehome,Gus
and I told Dad stories of Amsterdam, but it wasn’t until I was home and
hooked up to Philip watching good ol’ American television with Dad and
eatingAmericanpizzaoffnapkinsonourlapsthatItoldhimaboutGus.
“Gushadarecurrence,”Isaid.
“I know,” he said. He scooted over towardme, and then added, “His
momtoldusbeforethetrip.I’msorryhekeptitfromyou.I’m...I’msorry,
Hazel.” I didn’t say anything for a long time.The showwewerewatching
wasaboutpeoplewhoaretryingtopickwhichhousetheyaregoingtobuy.
“SoIreadAnImperialAfflictionwhileyouguysweregone,”Dadsaid.
Iturnedmyheaduptohim.“Oh,cool.What’dyouthink?”
“It was good. A little over my head. I was a biochemistry major,
remember,notaliteratureguy.Idowish*thadended.”
“Yeah,”Isaid.“Commoncomplaint.”
“Also,itwasabithopeless,”hesaid.“Abitdefeatist.”
“Ifbydefeatistyoumeanhonest,thenIagree.”
“I don’t think defeatism is honest,”Dad answered. “I refuse to accept
that.”
“Soeverythinghappensforareasonandwe’llallgolive in theclouds
andplayharpsandliveinmansions?”
Dadsmiled.Heputabigarmaroundmeandpulledmetohim,kissing
thesideofmyhead.“Idon’tknowwhatIbelieve,Hazel.Ithoughtbeingan
adultmeantknowingwhatyoubelieve,butthathasnotbeenmyexperience.”
“Yeah,”Isaid.“Okay.”
HetoldmeagainthathewassorryaboutGus,andthenwewentbackto
watchingtheshow,andthepeoplepickedahouse,andDadstillhadhisarm
aroundme,andIwaskindastartingtofallasleep,butIdidn’twanttogoto
bed,andthenDadsaid,“YouknowwhatIbelieve?IrememberincollegeI
wastakingthismathclass,thisreallygreatmathclasstaughtbythistinyold
woman. She was talking about fast Fourier transforms and she stopped
midsentenceandsaid,‘Sometimesitseemstheuniversewantstobenoticed.’
“That’swhatIbelieve.Ibelievetheuniversewantstobenoticed.Ithink
the universe is improbably biased toward consciousness, that it rewards
intelligence inpartbecause theuniverseenjoys itselegancebeingobserved.
AndwhoamI,livinginthemiddleofhistory,totelltheuniversethatit—or
myobservationofit—istemporary?”
“Youarefairlysmart,”Isaidafterawhile.
“Youarefairlygoodatcompliments,”heanswered.
Thenext afternoon, I droveover toGus’s house and ate peanut-butter-and-
jelly sandwiches with his parents and told them stories about Amsterdam
while Gus napped on the living room couch, where we’d watched V for
Vendetta. I could just see him from the kitchen: He lay on his back, head
turnedawayfromme,aPICClinealreadyin.Theywereattackingthecancer
withanewco*cktail:twochemodrugsandaproteinreceptorthattheyhoped
wouldturnofftheoncogeneinGus’scancer.Hewasluckytogetenrolledin
thetrial,theytoldme.Lucky.Iknewoneofthedrugs.Hearingthesoundof
itsnamemademewanttobarf.
Afterawhile,Isaac’smombroughthimover.
“Isaac, hi, it’sHazel fromSupportGroup, not your evil ex-girlfriend.”
Hismomwalkedhimtome,andIpulledmyselfoutofthediningroomchair
andhuggedhim,hisbodytakingamomenttofindmebeforehehuggedme
back,hard.
“HowwasAmsterdam?”heasked.
“Awesome,”Isaid.
“Waters,”hesaid.“Whereareya,bro?”
“He’s napping,” I said, and my voice caught. Isaac shook his head,
everyonequiet.
“Sucks,”Isaacsaidafterasecond.Hismomwalkedhimtoachairshe’d
pulledout.Hesat.
“IcanstilldominateyourblindassatCounterinsurgence,”Augustussaid
withoutturningtowardus.Themedicineslowedhisspeechabit,butonlyto
thespeedofregularpeople.
“I’mprettysureallassesareblind,”Isaacanswered,reachinghishands
into theairvaguely, looking forhismom.Shegrabbedhim,pulledhimup,
andtheywalkedovertothecouch,whereGusandIsaachuggedawkwardly.
“Howareyoufeeling?”Isaacasked.
“Everythingtasteslikepennies.Asidefromthat,I’monarollercoaster
thatonlygoesup,kid,”Gusanswered.Isaaclaughed.“Howaretheeyes?”
“Oh, excellent,” he said. “I mean, they’re not in my head is the only
problem.”
“Awesome, yeah,” Gus said. “Not to one-up you or anything, but my
bodyismadeoutofcancer.”
“So I heard,” Isaac said, trying not to let it get to him. He fumbled
towardGus’shandandfoundonlyhisthigh.
“I’mtaken,”Gussaid.
Isaac’smombroughtovertwodiningroomchairs,andIsaacandIsatdown
nexttoGus.ItookGus’shand,strokingcirclesaroundthespacebetweenhis
thumbandforefinger.
The adults headed down to the basem*nt to commiserate orwhatever,
leaving the three of us alone in the living room. After a while, Augustus
turnedhisheadtous,thewakingupslow.“How’sMonica?”heasked.
“Haven’theardfromheronce,” Isaacsaid.“Nocards;noemails. Igot
thismachinethatreadsmemyemails.It’sawesome.Icanchangethevoice’s
genderoraccentorwhatever.”
“So Ican likesendyouap*rnstoryandyoucanhaveanoldGerman
manreadittoyou?”
“Exactly,” Isaac said. “AlthoughMom still has to helpmewith it, so
maybeholdoffontheGermanp*rnoforaweekortwo.”
“She hasn’t even, like, texted you to ask howyou’re doing?” I asked.
Thisstruckmeasanunfathomableinjustice.
“Totalradiosilence,”Isaacsaid.
“Ridiculous,”Isaid.
“I’vestoppedthinkingaboutit.Idon’thavetimetohaveagirlfriend.I
havelikeafull-timejobLearningHowtoBeBlind.”
Gus turnedhisheadbackaway fromus, staringout thewindowat the
patioinhisbackyard.
,Hiseyesclosed.
IsaacaskedhowIwasdoing,andIsaidIwasgood,andhetoldmethere
wasanewgirlinSupportGroupwithareallyhotvoiceandheneededmeto
go to tell him if shewas actually hot.Thenout of nowhereAugustus said,
“Youcan’tjustnotcontactyourformerboyfriendafterhiseyesgetcutoutof
hisfreakinghead.”
“Justoneof—”Isaacstarted.
“HazelGrace,doyouhavefourdollars?”askedGus.
“Um,”Isaid.“Yes?”
“Excellent. You’ll find my leg under the coffee table,” he said. Gus
pushedhimselfuprightandscooteddowntotheedgeofthecouch.Ihanded
himtheprosthetic;hefasteneditinslowmotion.
IhelpedhimtostandandthenofferedmyarmtoIsaac,guidinghimpast
furniture that suddenly seemed intrusive, realizing that, for the first time in
years,Iwasthehealthiestpersonintheroom.
Idrove.Augustus rodeshotgun. Isaacsat in theback.Westoppedata
grocerystore,where,perAugustus’sinstruction,Iboughtadozeneggswhile
heand Isaacwaited in thecar.And then Isaacguidedusbyhismemory to
Monica’s house, an aggressively sterile, two-story house near the JCC.
Monica’sbrightgreen1990sPontiacFirebirdsatfat-wheeledinthedriveway.
“Isitthere?”Isaacaskedwhenhefeltmecomingtoastop.
“Oh,it’s there,”Augustussaid.“Youknowwhatit lookslike,Isaac?It
lookslikeallthehopeswewerefoolishtohope.”
“Soshe’sinside?”
Gus turnedhisheadaroundslowly to lookat Isaac.“Whocareswhere
sheis?Thisisnotabouther.Thisisaboutyou.”Gusgrippedtheeggcartonin
his lap, then opened the door and pulled his legs out onto the street. He
opened thedoor for Isaac, and Iwatched through themirror asGushelped
Isaacoutofthecar,thetwoofthemleaningoneachotherattheshoulderthen
taperingaway,likeprayinghandsthatdon’tquitemeetatthepalms.
Irolleddownthewindowsandwatchedfromthecar,becausevandalism
mademe nervous. They took a few steps toward the car, thenGus flipped
opentheeggcartonandhandedIsaacanegg.Isaactossedit,missingthecar
byasolidfortyfeet.
“Alittletotheleft,”Gussaid.
“MythrowwasalittletotheleftorIneedtoaimalittletotheleft?”
“Aim left.” Isaac swiveled his shoulders. “Lefter,” Gus said. Isaac
swiveledagain.“Yes.Excellent.And throwhard.”Gushandedhimanother
egg,andIsaachurledit,theeggarcingoverthecarandsmashingagainstthe
slow-slopingroofofthehouse.“Bull’s-eye!”Gussaid.
“Really?”Isaacaskedexcitedly.
“No,youthrewitliketwentyfeetoverthecar.Just,throwhard,butkeep
itlow.Andalittlerightofwhereyouwerelasttime.”Isaacreachedoverand
found an egg himself from the carton Gus cradled. He tossed it, hitting a
taillight.“Yes!”Gussaid.“Yes!TAILLIGHT!”
Isaacreachedforanotheregg,missedwideright, thenanother,missing
low,thenanother,hittingthebackwindshield.Hethennailedthreeinarow
againstthetrunk.“HazelGrace,”Gusshoutedbacktome.“Takeapictureof
thissoIsaaccanseeitwhentheyinventroboteyes.”IpulledmyselfupsoI
wassittingintherolled-downwindow,myelbowsontheroofofthecar,and
snappedapicturewithmyphone:Augustus,anunlitcigaretteinhismouth,
hissmiledeliciouslycrooked,holdsthemostlyemptypinkeggcartonabove
hishead.HisotherhandisdrapedaroundIsaac’sshoulder,whosesunglasses
areturnednotquitetowardthecamera.Behindthem,eggyolksdripdownthe
windshield and bumper of the green Firebird. And behind that, a door is
opening.
“What,”askedthemiddle-agedwomanamomentafterI’dsnappedthe
picture,“inGod’sname—”andthenshestoppedtalking.
“Ma’am,”Augustussaid,noddingtowardher,“yourdaughter’scarhas
justbeendeservedlyeggedbyablindman.Pleaseclosethedoorandgoback
inside orwe’ll be forced to call the police.”Afterwavering for amoment,
Monica’smom closed the door and disappeared. Isaac threw the last three
eggsinquicksuccessionandGusthenguidedhimbacktowardthecar.“See,
Isaac, if you just take—we’re coming to the curb now—the feeling of
legitimacy away from them, if you turn it around so they feel like theyare
committing a crime bywatching—a fewmore steps—their cars get egged,
they’llbeconfusedandscaredandworriedandthey’ll justreturnto their—
you’llfindthedoorhandledirectlyinfrontofyou—quietlydesperatelives.”
Gushurriedaround the frontof thecarand installedhimself in theshotgun
seat. The doors closed, and I roared off, driving for several hundred feet
beforeIrealizedIwasheadeddownadead-endstreet.Icircledthecul-de-sac
andracedbackpastMonica’shouse.
Inevertookanotherpictureofhim.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
A fewdays later,atGus’shouse,hisparentsandmyparentsandGusand
me all squeezed around the dining room table, eating stuffed peppers on a
tablecloth that had, according to Gus’s dad, last seen use in the previous
century.
Mydad:“Emily,thisrisotto...”
Mymom:“It’sjustdelicious.”
Gus’smom:“Oh,thanks.I’dbehappytogiveyoutherecipe.”
Gus,swallowingabite:“Youknow,theprimarytasteI’mgettingisnot-
Oranjee.”
Me:“Goodobservation,Gus.Thisfood,whiledelicious,doesnot taste
likeOranjee.”
Mymom:“Hazel.”
Gus:“Ittasteslike...”
Me:“Food.”
Gus:“Yes,precisely.Ittasteslikefood,excellentlyprepared.Butitdoes
nottaste,howdoIputthisdelicately...?”
Me:“Itdoesnot taste likeGodHimselfcookedheavenintoaseriesof
fivedisheswhichwerethenservedtoyouaccompaniedbyseveralluminous
balls of fermented, bubbly plasma while actual and literal flower petals
floateddownallaroundyourcanal-sidedinnertable.”
Gus:“Nicelyphrased.”
Gus’sfather:“Ourchildrenareweird.”
Mydad:“Nicelyphrased.”
Aweekafterourdinner,Gusendedup in theERwithchestpain,and they
admittedhimovernight, so I droveover toMemorial thenextmorning and
visitedhimonthefourthfloor.Ihadn’tbeentoMemorialsincevisitingIsaac.
Itdidn’thaveanyofthecloyinglybrightprimarycolor–paintedwallsorthe
framed paintings of dogs driving cars that one found atChildren’s, but the
absolutesterilityoftheplacemademenostalgicforthehappy-kidbullsh*tat
Children’s. Memorial was so functional. It was a storage facility. A
prematorium.
When theelevatordoorsopenedon the fourth floor, I sawGus’smom
pacinginthewaitingroom,talkingonacellphone.Shehungupquickly,then
huggedmeandofferedtotakemycart.
“I’mokay,”Isaid.“How’sGus?”
“Hehadatoughnight,Hazel,”shesaid.“Hisheartisworkingtoohard.
He needs to scale back on activity.Wheelchairs from here on out. They’re
putting him on some newmedicine that should be better for the pain. His
sistersjustdrovein.”
“Okay,”Isaid.“CanIseehim?”
She put her arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. It felt weird.
“Youknowwe loveyou,Hazel, but rightnowwe justneed tobea family.
Gusagreeswiththat.Okay?”
“Okay,”Isaid.
“I’lltellhimyouvisited.”
“Okay,”Isaid.“I’mjustgonnareadhereforawhile,Ithink.”
Shewentdownthehall,backtowherehewas.Iunderstood,butIstillmissed
him, still thought maybe I was missing my last chance to see him, to say
good-bye or whatever. The waiting roomwas all brown carpet and brown
overstuffedclothchairs.Isatinaloveseatforawhile,myoxygencarttucked
bymyfeet.I’dwornmyChuckTaylorsandmyCecin’estpasunepipeshirt,
theexactoutfitI’dbeenwearingtwoweeksbeforeontheLateAfternoonof
the Venn Diagram, and he wouldn’t see it.
,I started scrolling through the
picturesonmyphone,abackwardflip-bookofthelastfewmonths,beginning
with him and Isaac outside of Monica’s house and ending with the first
pictureI’dtakenofhim,onthedrivetoFunkyBones.Itseemedlikeforever
ago, like we’d had this brief but still infinite forever. Some infinities are
biggerthanotherinfinities.
***
Twoweekslater,IwheeledGusacrosstheartparktowardFunkyBoneswith
oneentirebottleofveryexpensivechampagneandmyoxygentankinhislap.
The champagnehadbeendonatedbyoneofGus’s doctors—Gusbeing the
kindofpersonwhoinspiresdoctorstogivetheirbestbottlesofchampagneto
children.Wesat,Gusinhischairandmeonthedampgrass,asneartoFunky
Bones aswe could get him in the chair. I pointed at the little kids goading
each other to jump from rib cage to shoulder and Gus answered just loud
enoughformetohearoverthedin,“Lasttime,Iimaginedmyselfasthekid.
Thistime,theskeleton.”
WedrankfrompaperWinnie-the-Poohcups.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Atypicaldaywithlate-stageGus:
Iwent over to his house about noon, after he had eaten andpukedup
breakfast.Hemetmeat thedoor inhiswheelchair,no longer themuscular,
gorgeousboywhostaredatmeatSupportGroup,butstillhalfsmiling,still
smokinghisunlitcigarette,hisblueeyesbrightandalive.
We ate lunchwith his parents at the dining room table. Peanut-butter-
and-jellysandwichesandlastnight’sasparagus.Gusdidn’teat.Iaskedhow
hewasfeeling.
“Grand,”hesaid.“Andyou?”
“Good.What’dyoudolastnight?”
“I sleptquitea lot. Iwant towriteyouasequel,HazelGrace,but I’m
justsodamnedtiredallthetime.”
“Youcanjusttellittome,”Isaid.
“Well,Istandbymypre–VanHoutenanalysisoftheDutchTulipMan.
Notaconman,butnotasrichashewaslettingon.”
“AndwhataboutAnna’smom?”
“Haven’tsettledonanopinionthere.Patience,Grasshopper.”Augustus
smiled.Hisparentswerequiet,watchinghim,neverlookingaway,likethey
just wanted to enjoy The Gus Waters Show while it was still in town.
“SometimesIdreamthatI’mwritingamemoir.Amemoirwouldbejustthe
thingtokeepmeintheheartsandmemoriesofmyadoringpublic.”
“Whydoyouneedanadoringpublicwhenyou’vegotme?”Iasked.
“Hazel Grace, when you’re as charming and physically attractive as
myself,it’seasyenoughtowinoverpeopleyoumeet.Butgettingstrangersto
loveyou...now,that’sthetrick.”
Irolledmyeyes.
After lunch,wewent outside to the backyard.Hewas still well enough to
pushhisownwheelchair,pullingminiaturewheelies toget thefrontwheels
over the bump in the doorway. Still athletic, in spite of it all, blessedwith
balance and quick reflexes that even the abundant narcotics could not fully
mask.
Hisparentsstayedinside,butwhenIglancedbackintothediningroom,
theywerealwayswatchingus.
Wesatout there insilenceforaminuteand thenGussaid,“Iwishwe
hadthatswingsetsometimes.”
“Theonefrommybackyard?”
“Yeah.MynostalgiaissoextremethatIamcapableofmissingaswing
mybuttneveractuallytouched.”
“Nostalgiaisasideeffectofcancer,”Itoldhim.
“Nah, nostalgia is a side effect of dying,” he answered.Above us, the
wind blew and the branching shadows rearranged themselves on our skin.
Gussqueezedmyhand.“Itisagoodlife,HazelGrace.”
Wewent insidewhen he neededmeds,whichwere pressed into him along
withliquidnutritionthroughhisG-tube,abitofplasticthatdisappearedinto
hisbelly.Hewasquietforawhile,zonedout.Hismomwantedhimtotakea
nap,buthekeptshakinghisheadnowhenshesuggestedit,sowejustlethim
sittherehalfasleepinthechairforawhile.
His parents watched an old video of Gus with his sisters—they were
probablymyageandGuswasaboutfive.Theywereplayingbasketballinthe
drivewayofadifferenthouse,andeventhoughGuswastiny,hecoulddribble
like he’d been born doing it, running circles around his sisters as they
laughed. It was the first time I’d even seen him play basketball. “He was
good,”Isaid.
“Should’veseenhiminhighschool,”hisdadsaid.“Startedvarsityasa
freshman.”
Gusmumbled,“CanIgodownstairs?”
His mom and dad wheeled the chair downstairs with Gus still in it,
bouncing down crazily in away thatwould have beendangerous if danger
retaineditsrelevance,andthentheyleftusalone.Hegotintobedandwelay
theretogetherunderthecovers,meonmysideandGusonhisback,myhead
on his bony shoulder, his heat radiating through his polo shirt and intomy
skin,myfeettangledwithhisrealfoot,myhandonhischeek.
When I got his facenose-touchingly close so that I couldonly seehis
eyes,Icouldn’ttellhewassick.Wekissedforawhileandthenlaytogether
listening to The Hectic Glow’s eponymous album, and eventually we fell
asleeplikethat,aquantumentanglementoftubesandbodies.
Wewoke up later and arranged an armada of pillows so that we could sit
comfortablyagainsttheedgeofthebedandplayedCounterinsurgence2:The
PriceofDawn.Isuckedatit,ofcourse,butmysuckingwasusefultohim:It
madeiteasierforhimtodiebeautifully,tojumpinfrontofasniper’sbullet
and sacrifice himself forme, or else to kill a sentrywhowas just about to
shootme.Howhe reveled insavingme.Heshouted,“Youwillnotkillmy
girlfriendtoday,InternationalTerroristofAmbiguousNationality!”
Itcrossedmymind to fakeachoking incidentor somethingso thathe
mightgivemetheHeimlich.Maybethenhecouldridhimselfofthisfearthat
hislifehadbeenlivedandlostfornogreatergood.ButthenIimaginedhim
beingphysicallyunabletoHeimlich,andmehavingtorevealthatitwasalla
ruse,andtheensuingmutualhumiliation.
It’s hard as hell to hold on to your dignity when the risen sun is too
brightinyourlosingeyes,andthat’swhatIwasthinkingaboutaswehunted
forbadguysthroughtheruinsofacitythatdidn’texist.
Finally,hisdadcamedownanddraggedGusbackupstairs, and in the
entryway,beneathanEncouragement tellingme thatFriendsAreForever, I
knelt to kiss himgoodnight. Iwent home and ate dinnerwithmyparents,
leavingGustoeat(andpukeup)hisowndinner.
AftersomeTV,Iwenttosleep.
Iwokeup.
Aroundnoon,Iwentoverthereagain.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Onemorning,amonthafterreturninghomefromAmsterdam,Idroveover
to his house. His parents told me he was still sleeping downstairs, so I
knockedloudlyonthebasem*ntdoorbeforeentering,thenasked,“Gus?”
Ifoundhimmumblinginalanguageofhisowncreation.He’dpissedthe
bed.Itwasawful. Icouldn’tevenlook,really.I justshoutedforhisparents
andtheycamedown,andIwentupstairswhiletheycleanedhimup.
WhenIcamebackdown,hewasslowlywakingupoutofthenarcotics
to the excruciating day. I arranged his pillows so we could play
Counterinsurgenceonthebaresheetlessmattress,buthewassotiredandout
of it thathesuckedalmostasbadasIdid,andwecouldn’tgofiveminutes
withoutbothgettingdead.Notfancyheroicdeathseither,justcarelessones.
Ididn’treallysayanythingtohim.IalmostwantedhimtoforgetIwas
there,Iguess,andIwashopinghedidn’trememberthatI’dfoundtheboyI
lovederangedinawidepoolofhisownpiss.Ikeptkindofhopingthathe’d
lookoveratmeandsay,“Oh,HazelGrace.How’dyougethere?”
But unfortunately, he remembered. “With each passing minute, I’m
developingadeeper
,appreciationofthewordmortified,”hesaidfinally.
“I’vepissedthebed,Gus,believeme.It’snobigdeal.”
“Youused,”hesaid,andthentookasharpbreath,“tocallmeAugustus.”
“Youknow,”hesaidafterawhile,“it’skids’stuff,butIalwaysthoughtmy
obituarywouldbeinallthenewspapers,thatI’dhaveastoryworthtelling.I
alwayshadthissecretsuspicionthatIwasspecial.”
“Youare,”Isaid.
“YouknowwhatImean,though,”hesaid.
Ididknowwhathemeant. I justdidn’tagree.“Idon’tcare if theNew
YorkTimeswrites an obituary forme. I justwant you towrite one,” I told
him.“Yousayyou’renotspecialbecausetheworlddoesn’tknowaboutyou,
butthat’saninsulttome.Iknowaboutyou.”
“Idon’tthinkI’mgonnamakeittowriteyourobituary,”hesaid,instead
ofapologizing.
Iwas so frustratedwith him. “I justwant to be enough for you, but I
nevercanbe.Thiscanneverbeenoughforyou.Butthisisallyouget.You
getme,andyourfamily,andthisworld.Thisisyourlife.I’msorryifitsucks.
Butyou’renotgoingtobethefirstmanonMars,andyou’renotgoingtobe
anNBAstar, andyou’renotgoing tohuntNazis. Imean, look at yourself,
Gus.”Hedidn’trespond.“Idon’tmean—”Istarted.
“Oh, youmeant it,” he interrupted. I started to apologize and he said,
“No,I’msorry.You’reright.Let’sjustplay.”
Sowejustplayed.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
IwokeuptomyphonesingingasongbyTheHecticGlow.Gus’sfavorite.
That meant he was calling—or someone was calling from his phone. I
glancedatthealarmclock:2:35A.M.He’sgone,Ithoughtaseverythinginside
ofmecollapsedintoasingularity.
Icouldbarelycreakouta“Hello?”
Iwaitedforthesoundofaparent’sannihilatedvoice.
“HazelGrace,”Augustussaidweakly.
“Oh,thankGodit’syou.Hi.Hi,Iloveyou.”
“HazelGrace,I’matthegasstation.Something’swrong.Yougottahelp
me.”
“What?Whereareyou?”
“TheSpeedwayatEighty-sixthandDitch. Ididsomethingwrongwith
theG-tubeandIcan’tfigureitoutand—”
“I’mcallingnine-one-one,”Isaid.
“Nonononono,they’ll takemetoahospital.Hazel, listentome.Do
notcallnine-one-oneormyparentsIwillneverforgiveyoudon’tpleasejust
comepleasejustcomeandfixmygoddamnedG-tube.I’mjust,God,thisis
thestupidestthing.Idon’twantmyparentstoknowI’mgone.Please.Ihave
themedicinewithme;Ijustcan’tgetitin.Please.”Hewascrying.I’dnever
heardhimsoblikethisexceptfromoutsidehishousebeforeAmsterdam.
“Okay,”Isaid.“I’mleavingnow.”
ItooktheBiPAPoffandconnectedmyselftoanoxygentank,liftedthe
tankintomycart,andputonsneakerstogowithmypinkcottonpajamapants
andaButlerbasketballT-shirt,whichhadoriginallybeenGus’s.Igrabbedthe
keysfromthekitchendrawerwhereMomkeptthemandwroteanoteincase
theywokeupwhileIwasgone.
WenttocheckonGus.It’simportant.Sorry.
Love,H
AsIdrovethecouplemilestothegasstation,Iwokeupenoughtowonder
why Gus had left the house in the middle of the night. Maybe he’d been
hallucinating,orhismartyrdomfantasieshadgottenthebetterofhim.
IspedupDitchRoadpastflashingyellowlights,goingtoofastpartlyto
reachhimandpartlyinthehopesacopwouldpullmeoverandgivemean
excuse to tell someone thatmydyingboyfriendwas stuckoutside of a gas
station with a malfunctioning G-tube. But no cop showed up to make my
decisionforme.
Therewereonlytwocarsinthelot.Ipulledupnexttohis.Iopenedthedoor.
Theinteriorlightscameon.Augustussatinthedriver’sseat,coveredinhis
ownvomit,hishandspressedtohisbellywheretheG-tubewentin.“Hi,”he
mumbled.
“Oh,God,Augustus,wehavetogetyoutoahospital.”
“Please just look at it.” I gagged from the smell but bent forward to
inspecttheplaceabovehisbellybuttonwherethey’dsurgicallyinstalledthe
tube.Theskinofhisabdomenwaswarmandbrightred.
“Gus, I think something’s infected. I can’t fix this.Whyareyouhere?
Why aren’t you at home?” He puked, without even the energy to turn his
mouthawayfromhislap.“Oh,sweetie,”Isaid.
“Iwantedtobuyapackofcigarettes,”hemumbled.“Ilostmypack.Or
they took it away fromme. I don’t know.They said they’dgetme another
one,butIwanted...todoitmyself.Doonelittlethingmyself.”
He was staring straight ahead. Quietly, I pulled out my phone and
glanceddowntodial911.
“I’msorry,”Itoldhim.Nine-one-one,whatisyouremergency?“Hi,I’m
at the Speedway at Eighty-sixth and Ditch, and I need an ambulance. The
greatloveofmylifehasamalfunctioningG-tube.”
Helookedupatme.Itwashorrible.Icouldhardlylookathim.TheAugustus
Watersofthecrookedsmilesandunsmokedcigaretteswasgone,replacedby
thisdesperatehumiliatedcreaturesittingtherebeneathme.
“Thisisit.Ican’tevennotsmokeanymore.”
“Gus,Iloveyou.”
“Whereismychancetobesomebody’sPeterVanHouten?”Hehit the
steeringwheelweakly,thecarhonkingashecried.Heleanedhisheadback,
lookingup.“IhatemyselfIhatemyselfIhatethisIhatethisIdisgustmyself
IhateitIhateitIhateitjustletmef*ckingdie.”
According to the conventions of the genre, AugustusWaters kept his
senseofhumortilltheend,didnotforamomentwaiverinhiscourage,and
his spirit soared like an indomitable eagle until the world itself could not
containhisjoyoussoul.
But thiswas the truth, a pitiful boywho desperatelywanted not to be
pitiful, screamingandcrying,poisonedbyan infectedG-tube thatkepthim
alive,butnotaliveenough.
Iwipedhischinandgrabbedhisfaceinmyhandsandkneltdownclose
tohimsothatIcouldseehiseyes,whichstilllived.“I’msorry.Iwish*twas
likethatmovie,withthePersiansandtheSpartans.”
“Metoo,”hesaid.
“Butitisn’t,”Isaid.
“Iknow,”hesaid.
“Therearenobadguys.”
“Yeah.”
“Evencancerisn’tabadguyreally:Cancerjustwantstobealive.”
“Yeah.”
“You’reokay,”Itoldhim.Icouldhearthesirens.
“Okay,”hesaid.Hewaslosingconsciousness.
“Gus,youhave topromisenot to try thisagain. I’llgetyoucigarettes,
okay?” He looked at me. His eyes swam in their sockets. “You have to
promise.”
Henodded a little and thenhis eyes closed, his head swivelingonhis
neck.
“Gus,”Isaid.“Staywithme.”
“Readmesomething,”hesaidasthegoddamnedambulanceroaredright
pastus.SowhileIwaitedfor themto turnaroundandfindus, I recited the
onlypoemIcouldbringtomind,“TheRedWheelbarrow”byWilliamCarlos
Williams.
somuchdepends
upon
aredwheel
barrow
glazedwithrain
water
besidethewhite
chickens.
Williamswasadoctor.Itseemedtomelikeadoctor’spoem.Thepoem
wasover,buttheambulancewasstilldrivingawayfromus,soIkeptwriting
it.
***
And so much depends, I told Augustus, upon a blue sky cut open by the
branches of the trees above. Somuch depends upon the transparentG-tube
erupting from the gut of the blue-lipped boy. So much depends upon this
observeroftheuniverse.
Halfconscious,heglancedoveratmeandmumbled,“Andyousayyou
don’twritepoetry.”
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Hecamehome from thehospital a fewdays later, finally and irrevocably
robbed of his ambitions. It tookmoremedication to remove him from the
pain.Hemovedupstairspermanently,intoahospitalbednearthelivingroom
window.
Theseweredaysofpajamasandbeardscruff,ofmumblingsandrequests
andhimendlessly thankingeveryone for all theyweredoingonhisbehalf.
Oneafternoon,hepointedvaguelytowardalaundrybasketin
,acornerofthe
roomandaskedme,“What’sthat?”
“Thatlaundrybasket?”
“No,nexttoit.”
“Idon’tseeanythingnexttoit.”
“It’smylastshredofdignity.It’sverysmall.”
***
Thenextday,Iletmyselfin.Theydidn’tlikemetoringthedoorbellanymore
because it might wake him up. His sisters were there with their banker
husbandsandthreekids,allboys,whoranuptomeandchantedwhoareyou
who are you who are you, running circles around the entryway like lung
capacitywasa renewable resource. I’dmet the sistersbefore,butnever the
kidsortheirdads.
“I’mHazel,”Isaid.
“Gushasagirlfriend,”oneofthekidssaid.
“IamawarethatGushasagirlfriend,”Isaid.
“She’sgotboobies,”anothersaid.
“Isthatso?”
“Whydoyouhavethat?”thefirstoneasked,pointingatmyoxygencart.
“Ithelpsmebreathe,”Isaid.“IsGusawake?”
“No,he’ssleeping.”
“He’sdying,”saidanother.
“He’sdying,”thethirdoneconfirmed,suddenlyserious.Itwasquietfor
amoment,andIwonderedwhatIwassupposedtosay,butthenoneofthem
kickedanotherandtheywereofftotheracesagain,fallingallovereachother
inascrumthatmigratedtowardthekitchen.
ImademywaytoGus’sparentsinthelivingroomandmethisbrothers-
in-law,ChrisandDave.
Ihadn’tgottentoknowhishalfsisters,really,buttheybothhuggedme
anyway.Juliewassittingontheedgeofthebed,talkingtoasleepingGusin
preciselythesamevoicethatonewouldusetotellaninfanthewasadorable,
saying, “Oh, Gussy Gussy, our little Gussy Gussy.” Our Gussy? Had they
acquiredhim?
“What’sup,Augustus?”Isaid,tryingtomodelappropriatebehavior.
“OurbeautifulGussy,”Martha said, leaning in towardhim. I began to
wonderifhewasactuallyasleeporifhe’djustlaidaheavyfingeronthepain
pumptoavoidtheAttackoftheWell-MeaningSisters.
Hewokeupafter awhile and the first thinghe saidwas, “Hazel,”which I
have toadmitmademekindofhappy, likemaybe Iwaspartofhis family,
too.“Outside,”hesaidquietly.“Canwego?”
Wewent, hismompushing thewheelchair, sisters and brothers-in-law
anddad and nephews andme trailing. Itwas a cloudyday, still and hot as
summersettledin.Heworealong-sleevenavyT-shirtandfleecesweatpants.
Hewascoldallthetimeforsomereason.Hewantedsomewater,sohisdad
wentandgotsomeforhim.
MarthatriedtoengageGusinconversation,kneelingdownnexttohim
andsaying,“You’vealwayshadsuchbeautifuleyes.”Henoddedalittle.
OneofthehusbandsputanarmonGus’sshoulderandsaid,“How’sthat
freshairfeel?”Gusshrugged.
“Doyouwantmeds?”hismomasked,joiningthecirclekneelingaround
him.Itookastepback,watchingasthenephewstorethroughaflowerbedon
their way to the little patch of grass in Gus’s backyard. They immediately
commencedtoplayagamethatinvolvedthrowingoneanothertotheground.
“Kids!”Julieshoutedvaguely.
“Icanonlyhope,”Juliesaid, turningback toGus,“theygrowinto the
kindofthoughtful,intelligentyoungmenyou’vebecome.”
Iresistedtheurgetoaudiblygag.“He’snotthatsmart,”IsaidtoJulie.
“She’sright.It’sjustthatmostreallygood-lookingpeoplearestupid,so
Iexceedexpectations.”
“Right,it’sprimarilyhishotness,”Isaid.
“Itcanbesortofblinding,”hesaid.
“ItactuallydidblindourfriendIsaac,”Isaid.
“Terribletragedy,that.ButcanIhelpmyowndeadlybeauty?”
“Youcannot.”
“Itismyburden,thisbeautifulface.”
“Nottomentionyourbody.”
“Seriously,don’tevengetmestartedonmyhotbod.Youdon’twantto
see me naked, Dave. Seeing me naked actually took Hazel Grace’s breath
away,”hesaid,noddingtowardtheoxygentank.
“Okay,enough,”Gus’sdadsaid,andthenoutofnowhere,hisdadputan
armaroundmeandkissedthesideofmyheadandwhispered,“IthankGod
foryoueveryday,kid.”
Anyway,thatwasthelastgooddayIhadwithGusuntiltheLastGood
Day.
CHAPTERTWENTY
One of the less bullsh*tty conventions of the cancer kid genre is theLast
GoodDayconvention,whereinthevictimofcancerfindsherselfwithsome
unexpected hours when it seems like the inexorable decline has suddenly
plateaued,whenthepainisforamomentbearable.Theproblem,ofcourse,is
that there’s noway of knowing that your last good day is your LastGood
Day.Atthetime,itisjustanothergoodday.
I’d taken a dayoff fromvisitingAugustus because Iwas feeling a bit
unwellmyself:nothingspecific, just tired.Ithadbeenalazyday,andwhen
AugustuscalledjustafterfiveP.M.,IwasalreadyattachedtotheBiPAP,which
we’ddraggedouttothelivingroomsoIcouldwatchTVwithMomandDad.
“Hi,Augustus,”Isaid.
HeansweredinthevoiceI’dfallenfor.“Goodevening,HazelGrace.Do
you suppose you could find yourway to the LiteralHeart of Jesus around
eightP.M.?”
“Um,yes?”
“Excellent.Also,ifit’snottoomuchtrouble,pleaseprepareaeulogy.”
“Um,”Isaid.
“Iloveyou,”hesaid.
“AndIyou,”Ianswered.Thenthephoneclickedoff.
“Um,” I said. “I have to go to Support Group at eight tonight.
Emergencysession.”
MymommutedtheTV.“Iseverythingokay?”
I looked at her for a second, my eyebrows raised. “I assume that’s a
rhetoricalquestion.”
“Butwhywouldthere—”
“BecauseGusneedsmeforsomereason.It’sfine.Icandrive.”Ifiddled
with theBiPAPsoMomwouldhelpmetake itoff,butshedidn’t.“Hazel,”
shesaid,“yourdadandIfeellikewehardlyevenseeyouanymore.”
“Particularlythoseofuswhoworkallweek,”Dadsaid.
“Heneedsme,”Isaid,finallyunfasteningtheBiPAPmyself.
“Weneedyou,too,kiddo,”mydadsaid.Hetookholdofmywrist,likeI
wasatwo-year-oldabouttodartoutintothestreet,andgrippedit.
“Well,getaterminaldisease,Dad,andthenI’llstayhomemore.”
“Hazel,”mymomsaid.
“Youweretheonewhodidn’twantmetobeahomebody,”Isaidtoher.
Dadwasstillclutchingmyarm.“Andnowyouwanthimtogoaheadanddie
so I’llbebackherechained to thisplace, lettingyou takecareofme like I
always used to.But I don’t need it,Mom. I don’t need you like I used to.
You’retheonewhoneedstogetalife.”
“Hazel!”Dadsaid,squeezingharder.“Apologizetoyourmother.”
Iwas tuggingatmyarmbuthewouldn’t letgo,andIcouldn’tgetmy
cannulaonwithonlyonehand.Itwasinfuriating.AllIwantedwasanold-
fashionedTeenagerWalkout,whereinIstompoutof theroomandslamthe
door to my bedroom and turn up The Hectic Glow and furiously write a
eulogy.But Icouldn’tbecauseIcouldn’t freakingbreathe.“Thecannula,” I
whined.“Ineedit.”
Mydad immediately letgoand rushed toconnectme to theoxygen. I
could see the guilt in his eyes, but hewas still angry. “Hazel, apologize to
yourmother.”
“Fine,I’msorry,justpleaseletmedothis.”
Theydidn’tsayanything.Momjustsat therewithherarmsfolded,not
even looking atme.After awhile, I got up andwent tomy room towrite
aboutAugustus.
BothMomandDadtriedafewtimestoknockonthedoororwhatever,
but I just told themIwasdoingsomething important. It tookme forever to
figureoutwhat Iwanted tosay,andeven then Iwasn’tveryhappywith it.
Before I’d technically finished, I noticed it was 7:40, which meant that I
wouldbelateevenifIdidn’tchange,so in theendIworebabybluecotton
pajamapants,flip-flops,andGus’sButlershirt.
Iwalkedoutoftheroomandtriedtogorightpastthem,butmydadsaid,
“Youcan’tleavethehousewithoutpermission.”
“Oh,myGod,Dad.Hewantedmetowritehimaeulogy,okay?I’llbe
homeevery.Freaking.Night.
,wasn’t there yet, which was unusual, becauseMomwas almost
alwayswaiting forme. Iglancedaroundandsaw thata tall, curvybrunette
girlhadIsaacpinnedagainstthestonewallofthechurch,kissinghimrather
aggressively.TheywerecloseenoughtomethatIcouldheartheweirdnoises
of their mouths together, and I could hear him saying, “Always,” and her
saying,“Always,”inreturn.
Suddenly standing next tome,Augustus halfwhispered, “They’re big
believersinPDA.”
“What’swiththe‘always’?”Theslurpingsoundsintensified.
“Always is their thing.They’llalways loveeachother andwhatever. I
wouldconservatively estimate theyhave texted eachother thewordalways
fourmilliontimesinthelastyear.”
Acouplemorecarsdroveup,takingMichaelandAlisaaway.Itwasjust
Augustusandmenow,watchingIsaacandMonica,whoproceededapaceas
iftheywerenotleaningagainstaplaceofworship.Hishandreachedforher
boob over her shirt and pawed at it, his palm stillwhile his fingersmoved
around.Iwonderedifthatfeltgood.Didn’tseemlikeitwould,butIdecided
toforgiveIsaaconthegroundsthathewasgoingblind.Thesensesmustfeast
whilethereisyethungerandwhatever.
“Imaginetakingthatlastdrivetothehospital,”Isaidquietly.“Thelast
timeyou’lleverdriveacar.”
Without looking over at me, Augustus said, “You’re killing my vibe
here,HazelGrace. I’mtrying toobserveyounglove in itsmany-splendored
awkwardness.”
“Ithinkhe’shurtingherboob,”Isaid.
“Yes, it’s difficult to ascertain whether he is trying to arouse her or
perform a breast exam.” Then AugustusWaters reached into a pocket and
pulled out, of all things, a pack of cigarettes.He flipped it open and put a
cigarettebetweenhislips.
“Areyou serious?” I asked. “You think that’s cool?Oh,myGod, you
justruinedthewholething.”
“Whichwhole thing?” he asked, turning tome. The cigarette dangled
unlitfromtheunsmilingcornerofhismouth.
“Thewholethingwhereaboywhoisnotunattractiveorunintelligentor
seeminglyinanywayunacceptablestaresatmeandpointsoutincorrectuses
ofliteralityandcomparesmetoactressesandasksmetowatchamovieathis
house.Butofcoursethereisalwaysahamartiaandyoursisthatoh,myGod,
eventhoughyouHADFREAKINGCANCERyougivemoneytoacompany
inexchangeforthechancetoacquireYETMORECANCER.Oh,myGod.
Let me just assure you that not being able to breathe? SUCKS. Totally
disappointing.Totally.”
“Ahamartia?”heasked,thecigarettestillinhismouth.Ittightenedhis
jaw.Hehadahellofajawline,unfortunately.
“Afatalflaw,”Iexplained,turningawayfromhim.Isteppedtowardthe
curb,leavingAugustusWatersbehindme,andthenIheardacarstartdown
thestreet. ItwasMom.She’dbeenwaiting forme to, like,makefriendsor
whatever.
I felt thisweirdmixof disappointment and angerwellingup insideof
me.Idon’tevenknowwhatthefeelingwas,really,justthattherewasalotof
it, and Iwanted to smackAugustusWaters and also replacemy lungswith
lungsthatdidn’tsuckatbeinglungs.IwasstandingwithmyChuckTaylors
ontheveryedgeofthecurb,theoxygentankball-and-chaininginthecartby
myside,andrightasmymompulledup,Ifeltahandgrabmine.
Iyankedmyhandfreebutturnedbacktohim.
“Theydon’tkillyouunlessyoulightthem,”hesaidasMomarrivedat
the curb. “And I’ve never lit one. It’s ametaphor, see:You put the killing
thing right between your teeth, but you don’t give it the power to do its
killing.”
“It’sametaphor,”Isaid,dubious.Momwasjustidling.
“It’sametaphor,”hesaid.
“Youchooseyourbehaviorsbasedontheirmetaphoricalresonances...”
Isaid.
“Oh,yes.”Hesmiled.Thebig,goofy,realsmile.“I’mabigbelieverin
metaphor,HazelGrace.”
Iturnedtothecar.Tappedthewindow.Itrolleddown.“I’mgoingtoa
moviewithAugustusWaters,”Isaid.“Pleaserecordthenextseveralepisodes
oftheANTMmarathonforme.”
CHAPTERTWO
AugustusWatersdrovehorrifically.Whetherstoppingorstarting,everything
happenedwithatremendousJOLT.IflewagainsttheseatbeltofhisToyota
SUVeachtimehebraked,andmynecksnappedbackwardeachtimehehit
thegas.Imighthavebeennervous—whatwithsittinginthecarofastrange
boy on theway to his house, keenly aware thatmy crap lungs complicate
efforts tofendoffunwantedadvances—buthisdrivingwassoastonishingly
poorthatIcouldthinkofnothingelse.
We’d gone perhaps a mile in jagged silence before Augustus said, “I
failedthedrivingtestthreetimes.”
“Youdon’tsay.”
He laughed, nodding. “Well, I can’t feel pressure in old Prosty, and I
can’tgetthehangofdrivingleft-footed.Mydoctorssaymostamputeescan
drivewithnoproblem,but...yeah.Notme.Anyway,Igoinformyfourth
drivingtest,anditgoesaboutlikethisisgoing.”Ahalfmileinfrontofus,a
light turned red. Augustus slammed on the brakes, tossing me into the
triangularembraceoftheseatbelt.“Sorry.IsweartoGodIamtryingtobe
gentle.Right, so anyway, at the end of the test, I totally thought I’d failed
again, but the instructor was like, ‘Your driving is unpleasant, but it isn’t
technicallyunsafe.’”
“I’mnotsureIagree,”Isaid.“IsuspectCancerPerk.”CancerPerksare
thelittlethingscancerkidsgetthatregularkidsdon’t:basketballssignedby
sportsheroes,freepassesonlatehomework,unearneddriver’slicenses,etc.
“Yeah,” he said. The light turned green. I braced myself. Augustus
slammedthegas.
“You know they’ve got hand controls for people who can’t use their
legs,”Ipointedout.
“Yeah,”he said. “Maybe someday.”He sighed in away thatmademe
wonder whether he was confident about the existence of someday. I knew
osteosarcomawashighlycurable,butstill.
Thereareanumberofwaystoestablishsomeone’sapproximatesurvival
expectations without actually asking. I used the classic: “So, are you in
school?”Generally,yourparentspullyououtofschoolatsomepointifthey
expectyoutobiteit.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m at North Central. A year behind, though: I’m a
sophom*ore.You?”
Iconsideredlying.Noonelikesacorpse,afterall.ButintheendItold
thetruth.“No,myparentswithdrewmethreeyearsago.”
“Threeyears?”heasked,astonished.
I toldAugustus thebroadoutlineofmymiracle:diagnosedwithStage
IV thyroid cancerwhen Iwas thirteen. (I didn’t tell him that the diagnosis
camethreemonthsafterIgotmyfirstperiod.Like:Congratulations!You’rea
woman.Nowdie.)Itwas,weweretold,incurable.
Ihadasurgerycalledradicalneckdissection,whichisaboutaspleasant
asitsounds.Thenradiation.Thentheytriedsomechemoformylungtumors.
The tumorsshrank, thengrew.By then, Iwasfourteen.Mylungsstarted to
fillupwithwater.Iwaslookingprettydead—myhandsandfeetballooned;
my skin cracked;my lipswereperpetually blue.They’vegot this drug that
makes you not feel so completely terrified about the fact that you can’t
breathe,andIhadalotofitflowingintomethroughaPICCline,andmore
thanadozenotherdrugsbesides.Butevenso,there’sacertainunpleasantness
todrowning,particularlywhenitoccursoverthecourseofseveralmonths.I
finallyendedupintheICUwithpneumonia,andmymomkneltbytheside
ofmybedandsaid,“Areyouready,sweetie?”andItoldherIwasready,and
mydadjustkepttellingmehelovedmeinthisvoicethatwasnotbreakingso
much as already broken, and I kept telling him that I loved him,
,Startinganydaynow,okay?”Thatfinallyshut
themup.
Ittooktheentiredrivetocalmdownaboutmyparents.Ipulleduparoundthe
back of the church and parked in the semicircular driveway behind
Augustus’scar.Thebackdoortothechurchwasheldopenbyafist-sizerock.
Inside, I contemplated taking the stairs but decided to wait for the ancient
creakingelevator.
When theelevatordoorsunscrolled, Iwas in theSupportGrouproom,
the chairs arranged in the same circle. But now I saw only Gus in a
wheelchair,ghoulishly thin.Hewasfacingmefromthecenterof thecircle.
He’dbeenwaitingfortheelevatordoorstoopen.
“HazelGrace,”hesaid,“youlookravishing.”
“Iknow,right?”
I heard a shuffling in a dark corner of the room. Isaac stood behind a
littlewoodenlectern,clingingtoit.“Youwanttosit?”Iaskedhim.
“No,I’mabouttoeulogize.You’relate.”
“You’re...I’m...what?”
Gusgesturedformetosit. Ipulledachair into thecenterof thecircle
withhimashespunthechairtofaceIsaac.“Iwanttoattendmyfuneral,”Gus
said.“Bytheway,willyouspeakatmyfuneral?”
“Um,ofcourse,yeah,” I said, lettingmyhead fallontohis shoulder. I
reachedacrosshisbackandhuggedbothhimandthewheelchair.Hewinced.
Iletgo.
“Awesome,”hesaid.“I’mhopefulI’llgettoattendasaghost,butjustto
make sure, I thought I’d—well, not to put you on the spot, but I just this
afternoon thought I could arrange a prefuneral, and I figured since I’m in
reasonablygoodspirits,there’snotimelikethepresent.”
“Howdidyouevengetinhere?”Iaskedhim.
“Wouldyoubelievetheyleavethedooropenallnight?”Gusasked.
“Um,no,”Isaid.
“Aswell you shouldn’t.”Gus smiled. “Anyway, I know it’s a bit self-
aggrandizing.”
“Hey,you’restealingmyeulogy,”Isaacsaid.“Myfirstbitisabouthow
youwereaself-aggrandizingbastard.”
Ilaughed.
“Okay,okay,”Gussaid.“Atyourleisure.”
Isaac cleared his throat. “Augustus Waters was a self-aggrandizing
bastard.Butwe forgivehim.We forgivehimnotbecausehehadaheart as
figurativelygood as his literal one sucked, or becauseheknewmore about
how to hold a cigarette than any nonsmoker in history, or because he got
eighteenyearswhenheshouldhavegottenmore.”
“Seventeen,”Guscorrected.
“I’massumingyou’vegotsometime,youinterruptingbastard.
“I’m telling you,” Isaac continued, “AugustusWaters talked so much
that he’d interrupt you at his own funeral. And he was pretentious: Sweet
Jesus Christ, that kid never took a piss without pondering the abundant
metaphoricalresonancesofhumanwasteproduction.Andhewasvain:Ido
notbelieveIhaveevermetamorephysicallyattractivepersonwhowasmore
acutelyawareofhisownphysicalattractiveness.
“But I will say this:When the scientists of the future show up atmy
housewithroboteyesandtheytellmetotrythemon,Iwilltellthescientists
toscrewoff,becauseIdonotwanttoseeaworldwithouthim.”
Iwaskindofcryingbythen.
“Andthen,havingmademyrhetoricalpoint,Iwillputmyroboteyeson,
becauseImean,withroboteyesyoucanprobablyseethroughgirls’shirtsand
stuff.Augustus,myfriend,Godspeed.”
Augustus nodded for a while, his lips pursed, and then gave Isaac a
thumbs-up.Afterhe’drecoveredhiscomposure,headded,“Iwouldcut the
bitaboutseeingthroughgirls’shirts.”
Isaacwasstillclinging to the lectern.Hestarted tocry.Hepressedhis
forehead down to the podium and Iwatched his shoulders shake, and then
finally,hesaid,“Goddamnit,Augustus,editingyourowneulogy.”
“Don’tswearintheLiteralHeartofJesus,”Gussaid.
“Goddamn it,” Isaac said again. He raised his head and swallowed.
“Hazel,canIgetahandhere?”
I’dforgottenhecouldn’tmakehisownwaybacktothecircle.Igotup,
placedhishandonmyarm,andwalkedhimslowlybacktothechairnextto
GuswhereI’dbeensitting.ThenIwalkeduptothepodiumandunfoldedthe
pieceofpaperonwhichI’dprintedmyeulogy.
“MynameisHazel.AugustusWaterswasthegreatstar-crossedloveof
mylife.Ourswasanepiclovestory,andIwon’tbeabletogetmorethana
sentence into itwithoutdisappearing intoapuddleof tears.Gusknew.Gus
knows.Iwillnottellyouourlovestory,because—likeallreallovestories—it
willdiewithus,asitshould.I’dhopedthathe’dbeeulogizingme,because
there’snoone I’d ratherhave . . .” I startedcrying. “Okay,hownot tocry.
HowamI—okay.Okay.”
I tookafewbreathsandwentbackto thepage.“Ican’t talkaboutour
love story, so Iwill talkaboutmath. I amnotamathematician,but Iknow
this:Thereareinfinitenumbersbetween0and1.There’s.1and.12and.112
andaninfinitecollectionofothers.Ofcourse,thereisabiggerinfinitesetof
numbers between 0 and 2, or between 0 and amillion. Some infinities are
biggerthanotherinfinities.Awriterweusedtoliketaughtusthat.Thereare
days,manyofthem,whenIresentthesizeofmyunboundedset.Iwantmore
numbersthanI’mlikelytoget,andGod,IwantmorenumbersforAugustus
Watersthanhegot.But,Gus,mylove,IcannottellyouhowthankfulIamfor
our little infinity. Iwouldn’t trade it for theworld.You gaveme a forever
withinthenumbereddays,andI’mgrateful.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
AugustusWaters died eight days after his prefuneral, atMemorial, in the
ICU, when the cancer, which was made of him, finally stopped his heart,
whichwasalsomadeofhim.
Hewaswithhismomanddadandsisters.Hismomcalledmeat three
thirty in themorning.I’dknown,ofcourse, thathewasgoing.I’d talkedto
hisdadbeforegoing tobed,andhe toldme,“Itcouldbe tonight,”butstill,
whenIgrabbedthephonefromthebedsidetableandsawGus’sMomonthe
callerID,everythinginsideofmecollapsed.Shewasjustcryingontheother
endoftheline,andshetoldmeshewassorry,andIsaidIwassorry,too,and
shetoldmethathewasunconsciousforacouplehoursbeforehedied.
Myparentscameinthen,lookingexpectant,andIjustnoddedandthey
fellintoeachother,feeling,I’msure,theharmonicterrorthatwouldintime
comeforthemdirectly.
I called Isaac,who cursed life and the universe andGodHimself and
who saidwhere are thegoddamned trophies tobreakwhenyouneed them,
andthenIrealizedtherewasnooneelsetocall,whichwasthesaddestthing.
TheonlypersonIreallywantedtotalktoaboutAugustusWaters’sdeathwas
AugustusWaters.
Myparentsstayedinmyroomforeveruntil itwasmorningandfinally
Dadsaid,“Doyouwanttobealone?”andInoddedandMomsaid,“We’llbe
rightoutsidethedoor,”methinking,Idon’tdoubtit.
Itwasunbearable.Thewholething.Everysecondworsethanthelast.Ijust
kept thinking about calling him, wondering what would happen, if anyone
would answer. In the last weeks, we’d been reduced to spending our time
together in recollection, but that was not nothing: The pleasure of
rememberinghadbeentakenfromme,becausetherewasnolongeranyoneto
remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the
memory itself, as if the thingswe’ddonewere less real and important than
theyhadbeenhoursbefore.
***
WhenyougointotheER,oneofthefirstthingstheyaskyoutodoistorate
yourpainonascaleofonetoten,andfromtheretheydecidewhichdrugsto
use andhowquickly touse them. I’dbeenasked thisquestionhundredsof
timesover theyears,andIrememberonceearlyonwhenIcouldn’tgetmy
breathand it felt
,likemychestwasonfire, flames licking the insideofmy
ribsfightingforawaytoburnoutofmybody,myparentstookmetotheER.
Anurseaskedmeaboutthepain,andIcouldn’tevenspeak,soIheldupnine
fingers.
Later,after they’dgivenmesomething, thenursecameinandshewas
kind of strokingmy handwhile she tookmy blood pressure and she said,
“YouknowhowIknowyou’reafighter?Youcalledatenanine.”
Butthatwasn’tquiteright.IcalleditaninebecauseIwassavingmyten.
Andhereitwas,thegreatandterribleten,slammingmeagainandagainasI
lay still and alone in my bed staring at the ceiling, the waves tossing me
against the rocks then pullingme back out to sea so they could launchme
againintothejaggedfaceofthecliff,leavingmefloatingfaceuponthewater,
undrowned.
FinallyIdidcallhim.Hisphonerangfivetimesandthenwenttovoice
mail. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Augustus Waters,” he said, the
clarionvoiceI’dfallenfor.“Leaveamessage.”Itbeeped.Thedeadaironthe
linewassoeerie.Ijustwantedtogobacktothatsecretpost-terrestrialthird
spacewithhimthatwevisitedwhenwetalkedonthephone.Iwaitedforthat
feeling, but it never came: The dead air on the line was no comfort, and
finallyIhungup.
Igotmylaptopoutfromunderthebedandfireditupandwentontohis
wallpage,wherealreadythecondolenceswerefloodingin.Themostrecent
onesaid:
Iloveyou,bro.Seeyouontheotherside.
...WrittenbysomeoneI’dneverheardof.Infact,almostallthewallposts,
whicharrivednearlyasfastasIcouldreadthem,werewrittenbypeopleI’d
nevermetandwhomhe’dneverspokenabout,peoplewhowereextollinghis
various virtues now that he was dead, even though I knew for a fact they
hadn’tseenhiminmonthsandhadmadenoefforttovisithim.Iwonderedif
mywallwould look like this if Idied,or if I’dbeenoutof school and life
longenoughtoescapewidespreadmemorialization.
Ikeptreading.
Imissyoualready,bro.
Iloveyou,Augustus.Godblessandkeepyou.
You’llliveforeverinourhearts,bigman.
(Thatparticularlygalledme,becauseitimpliedtheimmortalityofthoseleft
behind:Youwillliveforeverinmymemory,becauseIwillliveforever!IAM
YOURGODNOW,DEADBOY!IOWNYOU!Thinkingyouwon’tdieis
yetanothersideeffectofdying.)
YouwerealwayssuchagreatfriendI’msorryIdidn’tseemoreof
youafteryou left school,bro. Ibetyou’realreadyplayingball in
heaven.
I imagined theAugustusWaters analysis of that comment: If I am playing
basketball in heaven, does that imply a physical location of a heaven
containingphysicalbasketballs?Whomakesthebasketballsinquestion?Are
therelessfortunatesoulsinheavenwhoworkinacelestialbasketballfactory
sothatIcanplay?OrdidanomnipotentGodcreatethebasketballsoutofthe
vacuumofspace?Isthisheaveninsomekindofunobservableuniversewhere
thelawsofphysicsdon’tapply,andifso,whyinthehellwouldIbeplaying
basketballwhenIcouldbeflyingorreadingorlookingatbeautifulpeopleor
something else I actually enjoy? It’s almost as if theway you imaginemy
deadselfsaysmoreaboutyouthanitsaysabouteitherthepersonIwasorthe
whateverIamnow.
Hisparentscalledaroundnoontosay thefuneralwouldbe infivedays,on
Saturday. I pictured a church packed with people who thought he liked
basketball,andIwantedtopuke,butIknewIhadtogo,sinceIwasspeaking
andeverything.WhenIhungup,Iwentbacktoreadinghiswall:
Justheard thatGusWatersdiedaftera lengthybattlewithcancer.
Restinpeace,buddy.
Iknewthesepeopleweregenuinelysad,andthatIwasn’treallymadatthem.
Iwasmadattheuniverse.Evenso,itinfuriatedme:Yougetallthesefriends
justwhenyoudon’tneedfriendsanymore.Iwroteareplytohiscomment:
We live in a universe devoted to the creation, and eradication, of
awareness.AugustusWatersdidnotdieaftera lengthybattlewith
cancer.Hediedafteralengthybattlewithhumanconsciousness,a
victim—as you will be—of the universe’s need to make and
unmakeallthatispossible.
Iposted itandwaitedforsomeone toreply, refreshingoverandoveragain.
Nothing.My comment got lost in the blizzard of newposts.Everyonewas
going to miss him so much. Everyone was praying for his family. I
rememberedVanHouten’sletter:Writingdoesnotresurrect.Itburies.
***
Afterawhile,Iwentoutintothelivingroomtositwithmyparentsandwatch
TV.Icouldn’ttellyouwhattheshowwas,butatsomepoint,mymomsaid,
“Hazel,whatcanwedoforyou?”
AndIjustshookmyhead.Istartedcryingagain.
“Whatcanwedo?”Momaskedagain.
Ishrugged.
But she kept asking, as if there were something she could do, until
finallyIjustkindofcrawledacrossthecouchintoherlapandmydadcame
overandheldmylegsreallytightandIwrappedmyarmsallthewayaround
mymom’smiddleandtheyheldontomeforhourswhilethetiderolledin.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
Whenwe first got there, I sat in the back of the visitation room, a little
room of exposed stonewalls off to the side of the sanctuary in the Literal
Heart of Jesus church.Thereweremaybe eighty chairs set up in the room,
anditwastwo-thirdsfullbutfeltone-thirdempty.
Forawhile,I justwatchedpeoplewalkuptothecoffin,whichwason
somekindofcartcovered inapurple tablecloth.All thesepeople I’dnever
seenbeforewouldkneeldownnexttohimorstandoverhimandlookathim
for a while, maybe crying, maybe saying something, and then all of them
would touch the coffin instead of touching him, because no one wants to
touchthedead.
Gus’smomanddadwerestandingnexttothecoffin,huggingeverybody
astheypassedby,butwhentheynoticedme,theysmiledandshuffledover.I
got up and hugged first his dad and then hismom,whoheld on tome too
tight, likeGusused to, squeezingmyshoulderblades.Theyboth lookedso
old—theireyesocketshollowed,theskinsaggingfromtheirexhaustedfaces.
Theyhadreachedtheendofahurdlingsprint,too.
“Helovedyousomuch,”Gus’smomsaid.“Hereallydid.Itwasn’t—it
wasn’tpuppyloveoranything,”sheadded,asifIdidn’tknowthat.
“He loved you so much, too,” I said quietly. It’s hard to explain, but
talkingtothemfeltlikestabbingandbeingstabbed.“I’msorry,”Isaid.And
thenhisparentsweretalkingtomyparents—theconversationallnoddingand
tightlips.Ilookedupatthecasketandsawitunattended,soIdecidedtowalk
up there. I pulled the oxygen tube frommy nostrils and raised the tube up
overmyhead, handing it toDad. Iwanted it to be justme and just him. I
grabbedmylittleclutchandwalkedupthemakeshiftaislebetweentherows
ofchairs.
Thewalkfeltlong,butIkepttellingmylungstoshutup,thattheywere
strong,thattheycoulddothis.IcouldseehimasIapproached:Hishairwas
partedneatlyon the left side inaway thathewouldhave foundabsolutely
horrifying, and his face was plasticized. But he was still Gus. My lanky,
beautifulGus.
I wanted to wear the little black dress I’d bought for my fifteenth
birthdayparty,mydeathdress, but I didn’t fit into it anymore, so Iwore a
plainblackdress,knee-length.Augustusworethesamethin-lapeledsuithe’d
worntoOranjee.
As Iknelt, I realized they’dclosedhis eyes—ofcourse theyhad—and
that I would never again see his blue eyes. “I love you present tense,” I
whispered, and
,thenputmyhandon themiddle of his chest and said, “It’s
okay, Gus. It’s okay. It is. It’s okay, you hear me?” I had—and have—
absolutelynoconfidencethathecouldhearme.Ileanedforwardandkissed
hischeek.“Okay,”Isaid.“Okay.”
I suddenly felt conscious that therewere all these peoplewatchingus,
that the last time somany people saw us kisswewere in theAnne Frank
House.Buttherewas,properlyspeaking,nouslefttowatch.Onlyame.
I snapped open the clutch, reached in, and pulled out a hard pack of
CamelLights.InaquickmotionIhopednoonebehindwouldnotice,Isnuck
themintothespacebetweenhissideandthecoffin’splushsilverlining.“You
canlightthese,”Iwhisperedtohim.“Iwon’tmind.”
WhileIwastalkingtohim,MomandDadhadmoveduptothesecondrow
withmytank,soIdidn’thavealongwalkback.DadhandedmeatissueasI
sat down. I blewmy nose, threaded the tubes aroundmy ears, and put the
nubbinsbackin.
Ithoughtwe’dgointothepropersanctuaryfortherealfuneral,butitall
happenedinthatlittlesideroom—theLiteralHandofJesus,Iguess,thepart
ofthecrosshe’dbeennailedto.Aministerwalkedupandstoodbehindthe
coffin,almostlikethecoffinwasapulpitorsomething,andtalkedalittlebit
abouthowAugustushadacourageousbattleandhowhisheroismintheface
ofillnesswasaninspirationtousall,andIwasalreadystartingtogetpissed
offattheministerwhenhesaid,“Inheaven,Augustuswillfinallybehealed
andwhole,”implyingthathehadbeenlesswholethanotherpeopleduetohis
leglessness, and I kind of could not repress my sigh of disgust. My dad
grabbedmejustabovethekneeandcutmeadisapprovinglook,butfromthe
row behindme, someonemuttered almost inaudibly nearmy ear, “What a
loadofhorsecrap,eh,kid?”
Ispunaround.
Peter Van Houten wore a white linen suit, tailored to account for his
rotundity, apowder-bluedress shirt, andagreen tie.He looked likehewas
dressedforacolonialoccupationofPanama,notafuneral.Theministersaid,
“Letuspray,”butaseveryoneelsebowedtheirhead,Icouldonlystareslack-
jawedatthesightofPeterVanHouten.Afteramoment,hewhispered,“We
gottafakepray,”andbowedhishead.
ItriedtoforgetabouthimandjustprayforAugustus.Imadeapointof
listeningtotheministerandnotlookingback.
TheministercalledupIsaac,whowasmuchmoreseriousthanhe’dbeen
at the prefuneral. “Augustus Waters was the Mayor of the Secret City of
Cancervania,andhe isnot replaceable,” Isaacbegan.“Otherpeoplewillbe
abletotellyoufunnystoriesaboutGus,becausehewasafunnyguy,butlet
metellyouaseriousone:AdayafterIgotmyeyecutout,Gusshowedupat
thehospital.Iwasblindandheartbrokenanddidn’twanttodoanythingand
Gus burst intomy room and shouted, ‘I havewonderful news!’And Iwas
like, ‘I don’t reallywant to hearwonderful news right now,’ andGus said,
‘Thisiswonderfulnewsyouwanttohear,’andIaskedhim,‘Fine,whatisit?’
andhesaid,‘Youaregoingtoliveagoodandlonglifefilledwithgreatand
terriblemomentsthatyoucannotevenimagineyet!’”
Isaaccouldn’tgoon,ormaybethatwasallhehadwritten.
After a high school friend told some stories about Gus’s considerable
basketball talents and his many qualities as a teammate, the minister said,
“We’llnowhearafewwordsfromAugustus’sspecialfriend,Hazel.”Special
friend?Thereweresometittersintheaudience,soIfigureditwassafeforme
tostartoutbysayingtotheminister,“Iwashisgirlfriend.”Thatgotalaugh.
ThenIbeganreadingfromtheeulogyI’dwritten.
“There’sagreatquoteinGus’shouse,onethatbothheandIfoundvery
comforting:Withoutpain,wecouldn’tknowjoy.”
I went on spouting bullsh*t Encouragements as Gus’s parents, arm in
arm,huggedeachotherandnoddedateveryword.Funerals, Ihaddecided,
arefortheliving.
AfterhissisterJuliespoke,theserviceendedwithaprayeraboutGus’sunion
withGod,andIthoughtbacktowhathe’dtoldmeatOranjee,thathedidn’t
believeinmansionsandharps,butdidbelieveincapital-SSomething,andso
I tried to imagine him capital-S Somewhere aswe prayed, but even then I
could not quite convince myself that he and I would be together again. I
alreadyknewtoomanydeadpeople.Iknewthattimewouldnowpassforme
differentlythanitwouldforhim—thatI,likeeveryoneinthatroom,wouldgo
onaccumulatinglovesandlosseswhilehewouldnot.Andforme,thatwas
the final and truly unbearable tragedy: Like all the innumerable dead, he’d
onceandforallbeendemotedfromhauntedtohaunter.
AndthenoneofGus’sbrothers-in-lawbroughtupaboomboxandthey
played this songGus had picked out—a sad and quiet song byTheHectic
Glowcalled“TheNewPartner.”Ijustwantedtogohome,honestly.Ididn’t
know hardly any of these people, and I felt Peter VanHouten’s little eyes
boring into my exposed shoulder blades, but after the song was over,
everyonehad tocomeup tomeand tellme that I’dspokenbeautifully,and
that itwasa lovelyservice,whichwasa lie:Itwasafuneral.It lookedlike
anyotherfuneral.
His pallbearers—cousins, his dad, an uncle, friends I’d never seen—
cameandgothim,andtheyallstartedwalkingtowardthehearse.
WhenMomandDadandIgotinthecar,Isaid,“Idon’twanttogo.I’m
tired.”
“Hazel,”Momsaid.
“Mom, there won’t be a place to sit and it’ll last forever and I’m
exhausted.”
“Hazel,wehavetogoforMr.andMrs.Waters,”Momsaid.
“Just...”Isaid.Ifeltsolittleinthebackseatforsomereason.Ikindof
wantedtobe little.Iwantedtobe likesixyearsoldorsomething.“Fine,” I
said.
I juststaredout thewindowawhile. I reallydidn’twant togo. Ididn’t
wanttoseethemlowerhimintothegroundinthespothe’dpickedoutwith
hisdad,andIdidn’twanttoseehisparentssinktotheirkneesinthedew-wet
grassandmoaninpain,andIdidn’twanttoseePeterVanHouten’salcoholic
bellystretchedagainsthislinenjacket,andIdidn’twanttocryinfrontofa
bunchofpeople,andIdidn’twanttotossahandfulofdirtontohisgrave,and
Ididn’twantmyparentstohavetostandtherebeneaththeclearblueskywith
itscertainslantofafternoonlight,thinkingabouttheirdayandtheirkidand
myplotandmycasketandmydirt.
But I did these things. I did all of themandworse, becauseMomand
Dadfeltweshould.
***
After itwas over,VanHoutenwalked up tome and put a fat hand onmy
shoulderandsaid,“CouldIhitcharide?Leftmyrentalatthebottomofthe
hill.” I shrugged, and he opened the door to the backseat right as my dad
unlockedthecar.
Inside,he leanedbetween the front seats and said, “PeterVanHouten:
NovelistEmeritusandSemiprofessionalDisappointer.”
My parents introduced themselves.He shook their hands. Iwas pretty
surprisedthatPeterVanHoutenhadflownhalfwayacrosstheworldtoattend
afuneral.“Howdidyoueven—”Istarted,buthecutmeoff.
“IusedtheinfernalInternetofyourstofollowtheIndianapolisobituary
notices.”Hereachedintohislinensuitandproducedafifthofwhiskey.
“Andyoujustlikeboughtaticketand—”
Heinterruptedagainwhileunscrewingthecap.“Itwasfifteenthousand
forafirst-classticket,butI’msufficientlycapitalizedtoindulgesuchwhims.
And the drinks are free on the flight. If you’re ambitious, you can almost
breakeven.”
VanHoutentookaswigofthewhiskeyandthenleanedforwardtooffer
ittomydad,who
,said,“Um,nothanks.”ThenVanHoutennoddedthebottle
towardme.Igrabbedit.
“Hazel,”mymomsaid,butIunscrewedthecapandsipped.Itmademy
stomachfeellikemylungs.IhandedthebottlebacktoVanHouten,whotook
alongslugfromitandthensaid,“So.Omniscellulaecellula.”
“Huh?”
“YourboyWatersandIcorrespondedabit,andinhislast—”
“Wait,youreadyourfanmailnow?”
“No,hesent it tomyhouse,not throughmypublisher.And I’dhardly
callhimafan.Hedespisedme.ButatanyratehewasquiteinsistentthatI’d
beabsolved formymisbehavior if I attendedhis funeral and toldyouwhat
became of Anna’s mother. So here I am, and there’s your answer:Omnis
cellulaecellula.”
“What?”Iaskedagain.
“Omnis cellula e cellula,” he said again. “All cells come from cells.
Everycellisbornofapreviouscell,whichwasbornofapreviouscell.Life
comesfromlife.Lifebegetslifebegetslifebegetslifebegetslife.”
We reached the bottom of the hill. “Okay, yeah,” I said. I was in no
moodfor this.PeterVanHoutenwouldnothijackGus’sfuneral. Iwouldn’t
allowit.“Thanks,”Isaid.“Well,Iguesswe’reatthebottomofthehill.”
“Youdon’twantanexplanation?”heasked.
“No,” I said. “I’m good. I think you’re a pathetic alcoholic who says
fancythingstogetattentionlikeareallyprecociouseleven-year-oldandIfeel
superbadforyou.Butyeah,no,you’renot theguywhowroteAnImperial
Afflictionanymore,soyoucouldn’tsequelitevenifyouwantedto.Thanks,
though.Haveanexcellentlife.”
“But—”
“Thanks for the booze,” I said. “Now get out of the car.” He looked
scolded.DadhadstoppedthecarandwejustidledtherebelowGus’sgrave
foraminuteuntilVanHoutenopenedthedoorand,finallysilent,left.
As we drove away, I watched through the back window as he took a
drinkandraisedthebottleinmydirection,asiftoastingme.Hiseyeslooked
sosad.Ifeltkindabadforhim,tobehonest.
Wefinallygothomearoundsix,andIwasexhausted.Ijustwantedtosleep,
butMommademeeatsomecheesypasta,althoughsheatleastallowedmeto
eatinbed.IsleptwiththeBiPAPforacouplehours.Wakingupwashorrible,
becauseforadisorientedmomentIfeltlikeeverythingwasfine,andthenit
crushedmeanew.MomtookmeofftheBiPAP,Itetheredmyselftoaportable
tank,andstumbledintomybathroomtobrushmyteeth.
Appraisingmyself in themirror as Ibrushedmy teeth, Ikept thinking
there were two kinds of adults: There were Peter VanHoutens—miserable
creatureswhoscouredtheearthinsearchofsomethingtohurt.Andthenthere
werepeoplelikemyparents,whowalkedaroundzombically,doingwhatever
theyhadtodotokeepwalkingaround.
Neitherofthesefuturesstruckmeasparticularlydesirable.Itseemedto
methatIhadalreadyseeneverythingpureandgoodintheworld,andIwas
beginningtosuspectthatevenifdeathdidn’tgetintheway,thekindoflove
thatAugustus and I share couldnever last.Sodawngoesdown today, the
poetwrote.Nothinggoldcanstay.
Someoneknockedonthebathroomdoor.
“Occupada,”Isaid.
“Hazel,”mydadsaid.“CanIcomein?”Ididn’tanswer,butafterawhile
Iunlockedthedoor.Isatdownontheclosedtoiletseat.Whydidbreathing
havetobesuchwork?Dadkneltdownnexttome.Hegrabbedmyheadand
pulleditintohiscollarbone,andhesaid,“I’msorryGusdied.”Ifeltkindof
suffocatedbyhisT-shirt,butitfeltgoodtobeheldsohard,pressedintothe
comfortablesmellofmydad.Itwasalmostlikehewasangryorsomething,
andI likedthat,becauseIwasangry, too.“It’s totalbullsh*t,”hesaid.“The
whole thing. Eighty percent survival rate and he’s in the twenty percent?
Bullsh*t.Hewas such a bright kid. It’s bullsh*t. I hate it.But itwas sure a
privilegetolovehim,huh?”
Inoddedintohisshirt.
“GivesyouanideahowIfeelaboutyou,”hesaid.
Myoldman.Healwaysknewjustwhattosay.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Acoupledayslater,IgotuparoundnoonanddroveovertoIsaac’shouse.
Heansweredthedoorhimself.“MymomtookGrahamtoamovie,”hesaid.
“Weshouldgodosomething,”Isaid.
“Canthesomethingbeplayblind-guyvideogameswhilesittingonthe
couch?”
“Yeah,that’sjustthekindofsomethingIhadinmind.”
So we sat there for a couple hours talking to the screen together,
navigating this invisible labyrinthine cave without a single lumen of light.
Themostentertainingpartofthegamebyfarwastryingtogetthecomputer
toengageusinhumorousconversation:
Me:“Touchthecavewall.”
Computer:“Youtouchthecavewall.Itismoist.”
Isaac:“Lickthecavewall.”
Computer:“Idonotunderstand.Repeat?”
Me:“Humpthemoistcavewall.”
Computer:“Youattempttojump.Youhityourhead.”
Isaac:“Notjump.HUMP.”
Computer:“Idon’tunderstand.”
Isaac: “Dude, I’vebeen alone in thedark in this cave forweeks and I
needsomerelief.HUMPTHECAVEWALL.”
Computer:“Youattempttoju—”
Me:“Thrustpelvisagainstthecavewall.”
Computer:“Idonot—”
Isaac:“Makesweetlovetothecave.”
Computer:“Idonot—”
Me:“FINE.Followleftbranch.”
Computer:“Youfollowtheleftbranch.Thepassagenarrows.”
Me:“Crawl.”
Computer:“Youcrawlforonehundredyards.Thepassagenarrows.”
Me:“Snakecrawl.”
Computer: “You snake crawl for thirty yards. A trickle of water runs
down your body. You reach a mound of small rocks blocking the
passageway.”
Me:“CanIhumpthecavenow?”
Computer:“Youcannotjumpwithoutstanding.”
Isaac:“IdislikelivinginaworldwithoutAugustusWaters.”
Computer:“Idon’tunderstand—”
Isaac:“Meneither.Pause.”
Hedroppedtheremoteontothecouchbetweenusandasked,“Doyouknow
ifithurtorwhatever?”
“Hewasreallyfightingforbreath,Iguess,”Isaid.“Heeventuallywent
unconscious, but it sounds like, yeah, it wasn’t great or anything. Dying
sucks.”
“Yeah,” Isaac said. And then after a long time, “It just seems so
impossible.”
“Happensallthetime,”Isaid.
“Youseemangry,”hesaid.
“Yeah,” Isaid.Wejustsat therequiet fora long time,whichwasfine,
andIwasthinkingaboutwaybackintheverybeginningintheLiteralHeart
ofJesuswhenGustoldusthathefearedoblivion,andItoldhimthathewas
fearingsomethinguniversalandinevitable,andhowreally,theproblemisnot
suffering itself or oblivion itself but the depravedmeaninglessness of these
things, the absolutely inhuman nihilism of suffering. I thought of my dad
tellingme that theuniversewants tobenoticed.Butwhatwewant is tobe
noticedbytheuniverse,tohavetheuniversegiveash*twhathappenstous—
notthecollectiveideaofsentientlifebuteachofus,asindividuals.
“Gusreallylovedyou,youknow,”hesaid.
“Iknow.”
“Hewouldn’tshutupaboutit.”
“Iknow,”Isaid.
“Itwasannoying.”
“Ididn’tfinditthatannoying,”Isaid.
“Didheevergiveyouthatthinghewaswriting?”
“Whatthing?”
“Thatsequelorwhatevertothatbookyouliked.”
IturnedtoIsaac.“What?”
“Hesaidhewasworkingonsomethingforyoubuthewasn’tthatgood
ofawriter.”
“Whendidhesaythis?”
“Idon’tknow.Like,afterhegotbackfromAmsterdamatsomepoint.”
“Atwhichpoint?”Ipressed.Hadhenothadachancetofinish*t?Had
hefinisheditandleftitonhiscomputerorsomething?
“Um,” Isaac sighed. “Um, I don’t know.We talked about it over here
once.Hewasoverhere,like—uh,weplayedwithmyemailmachineandI’d
justgottenanemailfrommygrandmother.Icancheckonthemachineifyou
—”
“Yeah,yeah,whereisit?”
He’dmentioneditamonthbefore.Amonth.Notagoodmonth,admittedly,
butstill—amonth.
,Thatwasenoughtimeforhimtohavewrittensomething,
atleast.Therewasstillsomethingofhim,orbyhimatleast,floatingaround
outthere.Ineededit.
“I’mgonnagotohishouse,”ItoldIsaac.
Ihurriedouttotheminivanandhauledtheoxygencartupandintothe
passengerseat.Istartedthecar.Ahip-hopbeatblaredfromthestereo,andas
Ireachedtochangetheradiostation,someonestartedrapping.InSwedish.
IswiveledaroundandscreamedwhenIsawPeterVanHoutensittingin
thebackseat.
“Iapologizeforalarmingyou,”PeterVanHoutensaidovertherapping.
Hewasstillwearingthefuneralsuit,almostaweeklater.Hesmelledlikehe
was sweating alcohol. “You’re welcome to keep the CD,” he said. “It’s
Snook,oneofthemajorSwedish—”
“AhahahahGETOUTOFMYCAR.”Iturnedoffthestereo.
“It’s your mother’s car, as I understand it,” he said. “Also, it wasn’t
locked.”
“Oh,myGod!GetoutofthecarorI’llcallnine-one-one.Dude,whatis
yourproblem?”
“Ifonlytherewerejustone,”hemused.“Iamheresimplytoapologize.
Youwerecorrect innotingearlier that Iamapathetic littleman,dependent
uponalcohol.IhadoneacquaintancewhoonlyspenttimewithmebecauseI
paidher todo so—worse, still, shehas sincequit, leavingme the rare soul
whocannotacquirecompanionshipeventhroughbribery.Itisalltrue,Hazel.
Allthatandmore.”
“Okay,” I said. Itwould have been amoremoving speech had he not
slurredhiswords.
“YouremindmeofAnna.”
“Iremindalotofpeopleofalotofpeople,”Ianswered.“Ireallyhaveto
go.”
“Sodrive,”hesaid.
“Getout.”
“No.YouremindmeofAnna,”hesaidagain.Afterasecond,Iputthe
carinreverseandbackedout.Icouldn’tmakehimleave,andIdidn’thaveto.
I’ddrivetoGus’shouse,andGus’sparentswouldmakehimleave.
“Youare,ofcourse,familiar,”VanHoutensaid,“withAntoniettaMeo.”
“Yeah, no,” I said. I turned on the stereo, and the Swedish hip-hop
blared,butVanHoutenyelledoverit.
“Shemay soon be the youngest nonmartyr saint ever beatified by the
CatholicChurch.ShehadthesamecancerthatMr.Watershad,osteosarcoma.
They removedher right leg.Thepainwasexcruciating.AsAntoniettaMeo
laydying at the ripened ageof six from this agonizing cancer, she toldher
father,‘Painislikefabric:Thestrongeritis,themoreit’sworth.’Isthattrue,
Hazel?”
Iwasn’tlookingathimdirectlybutathisreflectioninthemirror.“No,”I
shoutedoverthemusic.“That’sbullsh*t.”
“Butdon’tyouwish*tweretrue!”hecriedback.Icut themusic.“I’m
sorryIruinedyourtrip.Youweretooyoung.Youwere—”Hebrokedown.
As if he had a right to cry over Gus. Van Houten was just another of the
endlessmournerswhodidnotknowhim,anothertoo-latelamentationonhis
wall.
“You didn’t ruin our trip, you self-important bastard. We had an
awesometrip.”
“Iamtrying,”hesaid.“Iamtrying,Iswear.”ItwasaroundthenthatI
realizedPeterVanHoutenhadadeadperson inhis family. Iconsidered the
honestywithwhichhehadwrittenaboutcancerkids;thefactthathecouldn’t
speaktomeinAmsterdamexcepttoaskifI’ddressedlikeheronpurpose;his
sh*ttinessaroundmeandAugustus;hisachingquestionabouttherelationship
betweenpain’sextremityanditsvalue.Hesatbacktheredrinking,anoldman
who’dbeendrunkforyears.IthoughtofastatisticIwishIdidn’tknow:Half
of marriages end in the year after a child’s death. I looked back at Van
Houten.IwasdrivingdownCollegeandIpulledoverbehindalineofparked
carsandasked,“Youhadakidwhodied?”
“Mydaughter,”hesaid.“Shewaseight.Sufferedbeautifully.Willnever
bebeatified.”
“Shehadleukemia?”Iasked.Henodded.“LikeAnna,”Isaid.
“Verymuchlikeher,yes.”
“Youweremarried?”
“No.Well,notatthetimeofherdeath.Iwasinsufferablelongbeforewe
losther.Griefdoesnotchangeyou,Hazel.Itrevealsyou.”
“Didyoulivewithher?”
“No, not primarily, although at the end,we brought her toNewYork,
where I was living, for a series of experimental tortures that increased the
miseryofherdayswithoutincreasingthenumberofthem.”
Afterasecond,Isaid,“Soit’slikeyougaveherthissecondlifewhere
shegottobeateenager.”
“I suppose thatwouldbe a fair assessment,”he said, and thenquickly
added, “I assume you are familiar with Philippa Foot’s Trolley Problem
thoughtexperiment?”
“And then I show up at your house and I’m dressed like the girl you
hopedshewouldlivetobecomeandyou’re,like,alltakenabackbyit.”
“There’satrolleyrunningoutofcontroldownatrack,”hesaid.
“Idon’tcareaboutyourstupidthoughtexperiment,”Isaid.
“It’sPhilippaFoot’s,actually.”
“Well,herseither,”Isaid.
“Shedidn’tunderstandwhyitwashappening,”hesaid.“Ihadtotellher
shewoulddie.Hersocialworkersaid Ihad to tellher. Ihad to tellhershe
would die, so I told her shewas going to heaven. She asked if Iwould be
there, and I said that I would not, not yet. But eventually, she said, and I
promisedthatyes,ofcourse,verysoon.AndItoldherthatinthemeantime
wehadgreatfamilyuptherethatwouldtakecareofher.Andsheaskedme
whenIwouldbethere,andItoldhersoon.Twenty-twoyearsago.”
“I’msorry.”
“SoamI.”
Afterawhile,Iasked,“Whathappenedtohermom?”
Hesmiled.“You’restilllookingforyoursequel,youlittlerat.”
I smiled back. “You should go home,” I told him. “Sober up. Write
another novel. Do the thing you’re good at. Not many people are lucky
enoughtobesogoodatsomething.”
He stared at me through the mirror for a long time. “Okay,” he said.
“Yeah.You’re right.You’re right.”Butevenashe said it,hepulledouthis
mostlyemptyfifthofwhiskey.Hedrank,recappedthebottle,andopenedthe
door.“Good-bye,Hazel.”
“Takeiteasy,VanHouten.”
Hesatdownonthecurbbehindthecar.AsIwatchedhimshrinkinthe
rearviewmirror, he pulled out the bottle and for a second it looked like he
wouldleaveitonthecurb.Andthenhetookaswig.
It was a hot afternoon in Indianapolis, the air thick and still like we were
insideacloud.Itwastheworstkindofairforme,andItoldmyselfitwasjust
theairwhenthewalkfromhisdrivewaytohisfrontdoorfeltinfinite.Irang
thedoorbell,andGus’smomanswered.
“Oh,Hazel,”shesaid,andkindofenvelopedme,crying.
Shemademe eat some eggplant lasagna—I guess a lot of people had
broughtthemfoodorwhatever—withherandGus’sdad.“Howareyou?”
“Imisshim.”
“Yeah.”
Ididn’treallyknowwhattosay.Ijustwantedtogodownstairsandfind
whatever he’dwritten forme.Plus, the silence in the room really bothered
me.Iwantedthemtobetalkingtoeachother,comfortingorholdinghandsor
whatever.But they just sat there eating very small amounts of lasagna, not
even looking at each other. “Heaven needed an angel,” his dad said after a
while.
“Iknow,”Isaid.Thenhissistersandtheirmessofkidsshowedupand
piledintothekitchen.Igotupandhuggedbothhissistersandthenwatched
thekidsrunaroundthekitchenwiththeirsorelyneededsurplusofnoiseand
movement, excited molecules bouncing against each other and shouting,
“You’reitnoyou’reitnoIwasitbutthenItaggedyouyoudidn’ttagmeyou
missedmewellI’mtaggingyounownodumbbutt it’satime-outDANIEL
DO NOT CALL YOUR BROTHER A DUMB BUTT Mom if I’m not
allowed touse thatwordhowcomeyou justused itdumbbuttdumbbutt,”
andthen,chorally,dumbbuttdumbbuttdumbbuttdumbbutt,andat
,thetable
Gus’sparentswerenowholdinghands,whichmademefeelbetter.
“Isaac toldmeGuswaswriting something, something forme,” I said.
Thekidswerestillsingingtheirdumb-buttsong.
“Wecancheckhiscomputer,”hismomsaid.
“Hewasn’tonitmuchthelastfewweeks,”Isaid.
“That’s true. I’mnot even surewe brought it upstairs. Is it still in the
basem*nt,Mark?”
“Noidea.”
“Well,”Isaid,“canI...”Inoddedtowardthebasem*ntdoor.
“We’renot ready,”hisdad said. “Butof course, yes,Hazel.Of course
youcan.”
Iwalkeddownstairs,pasthisunmadebed,pastthegamingchairsbeneaththe
TV.His computerwas still on. I tapped themouse towake it up and then
searched for hismost recently edited files. Nothing in the lastmonth. The
mostrecentthingwasaresponsepapertoToniMorrison’sTheBluestEye.
Maybe he’d written something by hand. I walked over to his
bookshelves,lookingforajournaloranotebook.Nothing.Iflippedthrough
hiscopyofAnImperialAffliction.Hehadn’tleftasinglemarkinit.
Iwalkedtohisbedsidetablenext.InfiniteMayhem, theninthsequelto
ThePriceofDawn,layatopthetablenexttohisreadinglamp,thecornerof
page138 turneddown.He’dnevermade it to theendof thebook.“Spoiler
alert:Mayhemsurvives,”Isaidoutloudtohim,justincasehecouldhearme.
And then I crawled into his unmade bed, wrapping myself in his
comforter like a cocoon, surroundingmyselfwith his smell. I took outmy
cannulasoIcouldsmellbetter,breathinghiminandbreathinghimout, the
scentfadingevenasIlaythere,mychestburninguntilIcouldn’tdistinguish
amongthepains.
Isatupinthebedafterawhileandreinsertedmycannulaandbreathed
forawhilebeforegoingupthestairs.Ijustshookmyheadnoinresponseto
hisparents’expectantlooks.Thekidsracedpastme.OneofGus’ssisters—I
couldnot tell themapart—said,“Mom,doyouwantmetotakethemtothe
parkorsomething?”
“No,no,they’refine.”
“Isthereanywherehemighthaveputanotebook?Likebyhishospital
bedorsomething?”Thebedwasalreadygone,reclaimedbyhospice.
“Hazel,” his dad said, “you were there every day with us. You— he
wasn’talonemuch,sweetie.Hewouldn’thavehadtimetowriteanything.I
knowyouwant...Iwantthat,too.Butthemessagesheleavesforusnoware
coming from above,Hazel.”He pointed toward the ceiling, as ifGuswere
hoveringjustabovethehouse.Maybehewas.Idon’tknow.Ididn’tfeelhis
presence,though.
“Yeah,”Isaid.Ipromisedtovisitthemagaininafewdays.
Ineverquitecaughthisscentagain.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
Three days later, on the eleventh day AG, Gus’s father called me in the
morning.IwasstillhookedtotheBiPAP,soIdidn’tanswer,butIlistenedto
hismessagethemomentitbeepedthroughtomyphone.“Hazel,hi,it’sGus’s
dad.Ifounda,uh,blackMoleskinenotebookinthemagazinerackthatwas
near his hospital bed, I think near enough that he could have reached it.
Unfortunatelythere’snowritinginthenotebook.Allthepagesareblank.But
the first—I think three or four—the first few pages are torn out of the
notebook.Welookedthroughthehousebutcouldn’tfindthepages.SoIdon’t
know what to make of that. But maybe those pages are what Isaac was
referringto?Anyway,Ihopethatyouaredoingokay.You’reinourprayers
everyday,Hazel.Okay,bye.”
Three or four pages ripped from a Moleskine notebook no longer in
Augustus Waters’s house. Where would he leave them for me? Taped to
FunkyBones?No,hewasn’twellenoughtogetthere.
TheLiteralHeartof Jesus.Maybehe’d left it there formeonhisLast
GoodDay.
So I left twentyminutesearly forSupportGroup thenextday. Idrove
overtoIsaac’shouse,pickedhimup,andthenwedrovedowntotheLiteral
HeartofJesuswiththewindowsoftheminivandown,listeningtoTheHectic
Glow’sleakednewalbum,whichGuswouldneverhear.
Wetooktheelevator.IwalkedIsaactoaseatintheCircleofTrustthen
slowlyworkedmywayaroundtheLiteralHeart.Icheckedeverywhere:under
the chairs, around the lectern I’d stood behindwhile deliveringmy eulogy,
under thetreat table,onthebulletinboardpackedwithSundayschoolkids’
drawingsofGod’slove.Nothing.Itwastheonlyplacewe’dbeentogetherin
those lastdaysbesideshishouse,and iteitherwasn’thereor Iwasmissing
something.Perhapshe’dleftitformeinthehospital,butifso,ithadalmost
certainlybeenthrownawayafterhisdeath.
IwasreallyoutofbreathbythetimeIsettledintoachairnexttoIsaac,
andIdevotedtheentiretyofPatrick’snutlesstestimonialtotellingmylungs
they were okay, that they could breathe, that there was enough oxygen.
They’d been drained only a week before Gus died—I watched the amber
cancerwaterdribbleoutofmethroughthetube—andyetalreadytheyfeltfull
again.IwassofocusedontellingmyselftobreathethatIdidn’tnoticePatrick
sayingmynameatfirst.
Isnappedtoattention.“Yeah?”Iasked.
“Howareyou?”
“I’mokay,Patrick.I’malittleoutofbreath.”
“WouldyouliketoshareamemoryofAugustuswiththegroup?”
“IwishIwouldjustdie,Patrick.Doyoueverwishyouwouldjustdie?”
“Yes,” Patrick said, without his usual pause. “Yes, of course. So why
don’tyou?”
Ithoughtaboutit.MyoldstockanswerwasthatIwantedtostayalive
formyparents,becausetheywouldbeallguttedandchildlessinthewakeof
me,andthatwasstilltruekindof,butthatwasn’tit,exactly.“Idon’tknow.”
“Inthehopesthatyou’llgetbetter?”
“No,”Isaid.“No,it’snotthat.Ireallydon’tknow.Isaac?”Iasked.Iwas
tiredoftalking.
Isaac started talking about true love. I couldn’t tell them what I was
thinking because it seemed cheesy to me, but I was thinking about the
universewantingtobenoticed,andhowIhadtonotice itasbestIcould.I
feltthatIowedadebttotheuniversethatonlymyattentioncouldrepay,and
alsothatIowedadebttoeverybodywhodidn’tgettobeapersonanymore
andeveryonewhohadn’tgottentobeapersonyet.Whatmydadhadtoldme,
basically.
I stayedquiet for the restofSupportGroup,andPatrick saida special
prayer forme, andGus’snamewas tackedonto the long list of thedead—
fourteenof themforeveryoneofus—andwepromisedtoliveourbest life
today,andthenItookIsaactothecar.
When I got home, Mom and Dad were at the dining room table on their
separate laptops, and themoment Iwalked in the door,Mom slammed her
laptopshut.“What’sonthecomputer?”
“Justsomeantioxidantrecipes.ReadyforBiPAPandAmerica’sNextTop
Model?”sheasked.
“I’mjustgoingtoliedownforaminute.”
“Areyouokay?”
“Yeah,justtired.”
“Well,you’vegottaeatbeforeyou—”
“Mom,Iamaggressivelyunhungry.” I tookastep toward thedoorbut
shecutmeoff.
“Hazel,youhavetoeat.Justsomech—”
“No.I’mgoingtobed.”
“No,”Momsaid.“You’renot.”Iglancedatmydad,whoshrugged.
“It’smylife,”Isaid.
“You’renotgoingtostarveyourselftodeathjustbecauseAugustusdied.
You’regoingtoeatdinner.”
I was really pissed off for some reason. “I can’t eat, Mom. I can’t.
Okay?”
I tried to push past her but she grabbed both my shoulders and said,
“Hazel,you’reeatingdinner.Youneedtostayhealthy.”
“NO!” I shouted. “I’m not eating dinner, and I can’t stay healthy,
becauseI’mnothealthy.Iamdying,Mom.Iamgoingtodieandleaveyou
here alone and youwon’t have ame to hover around and youwon’t be a
motheranymore,andI’msorry,butI
,can’tdoanythingaboutit,okay?!”
IregretteditassoonasIsaidit.
“Youheardme.”
“What?”
“Did you hearme say that to your father?”Her eyeswelled up. “Did
you?” I nodded. “Oh, God, Hazel. I’m sorry. I was wrong, sweetie. That
wasn’ttrue.Isaidthatinadesperatemoment.It’snotsomethingIbelieve.”
Shesatdown,andIsatdownwithher.IwasthinkingthatIshouldhavejust
pukedupsomepastaforherinsteadofgettingpissedoff.
“Whatdoyoubelieve,then?”Iasked.
“Aslongaseitherofusisalive,Iwillbeyourmother,”shesaid.“Even
ifyoudie,I—”
“When,”Isaid.
She nodded. “Even when you die, I will still be your mom, Hazel. I
won’t stop being your mom. Have you stopped loving Gus?” I shook my
head.“Well,thenhowcouldIstoplovingyou?”
“Okay,”Isaid.Mydadwascryingnow.
“Iwantyouguystohavealife,”Isaid.“Iworrythatyouwon’thavea
life,thatyou’llsitaroundherealldaywithnometolookafterandstareatthe
wallsandwanttooffyourselves.”
Afteraminute,Momsaid,“I’mtakingsomeclasses.Online,throughIU.
To getmymaster’s in socialwork. In fact, Iwasn’t looking at antioxidant
recipes;Iwaswritingapaper.”
“Seriously?”
“Idon’twantyoutothinkI’mimaginingaworldwithoutyou.ButifI
get myMSW, I can counsel families in crisis or lead groups dealing with
illnessintheirfamiliesor—”
“Wait,you’regoingtobecomeaPatrick?”
“Well,notexactly.Thereareallkindsofsocialworkjobs.”
Dad said, “We’ve both been worried that you’ll feel abandoned. It’s
importantforyoutoknowthatwewillalwaysbehereforyou,Hazel.Your
momisn’tgoinganywhere.”
“No,thisisgreat.Thisisfantastic!”Iwasreallysmiling.“Momisgoing
tobecomeaPatrick.She’llbeagreatPatrick!She’llbesomuchbetteratit
thanPatrickis.”
“Thankyou,Hazel.Thatmeanseverythingtome.”
I nodded. I was crying. I couldn’t get over how happy I was, crying
genuine tears of actual happiness for the first time in maybe forever,
imagining my mom as a Patrick. It made me think of Anna’s mom. She
would’vebeenagoodsocialworker,too.
AfterawhileweturnedontheTVandwatchedANTM.ButIpausedit
afterfivesecondsbecauseIhadallthesequestionsforMom.“Sohowclose
areyoutofinishing?”
“IfIgouptoBloomingtonforaweekthissummer,Ishouldbeableto
finishbyDecember.”
“Howlonghaveyoubeenkeepingthisfromme,exactly?”
“Ayear.”
“Mom.”
“Ididn’twanttohurtyou,Hazel.”
Amazing.“Sowhenyou’rewaitingformeoutsideofMCCorSupport
Grouporwhatever,you’realways—”
“Yes,workingorreading.”
“Thisissogreat.IfI’mdead,IwantyoutoknowIwillbesighingatyou
fromheaveneverytimeyouasksomeonetosharetheirfeelings.”
Mydadlaughed.“I’llberighttherewithya,kiddo,”heassuredme.
Finally,wewatchedANTM.Dadtriedreallyhardnottodieofboredom,
andhekeptmessingupwhichgirlwaswhich,saying,“Welikeher?”
“No,no.WerevileAnastasia.WelikeAntonia,theotherblonde,”Mom
explained.
“They’realltallandhorrible,”Dadresponded.“Forgivemeforfailingto
tellthedifference.”DadreachedacrossmeforMom’shand.
“DoyouthinkyouguyswillstaytogetherifIdie?”Iasked.
“Hazel,what?Sweetie.”Shefumbledfortheremotecontrolandpaused
theTVagain.“What’swrong?”
“Just,doyouthinkyouwould?”
“Yes,ofcourse.Ofcourse,”Dadsaid.“YourmomandIloveeachother,
andifweloseyou,we’llgothroughittogether.”
“SweartoGod,”Isaid.
“IsweartoGod,”hesaid.
IlookedbackatMom.“SweartoGod,”sheagreed.“Whyareyoueven
worryingaboutthis?”
“Ijustdon’twanttoruinyourlifeoranything.”
Mom leaned forward and pressed her face intomymessy puff of hair
andkissedmeattheverytopofmyhead.IsaidtoDad,“Idon’twantyouto
becomelikeamiserableunemployedalcoholicorwhatever.”
Mymomsmiled.“Yourfatherisn’tPeterVanHouten,Hazel.Youofall
peopleknowitispossibletolivewithpain.”
“Yeah,okay,”Isaid.MomhuggedmeandIlethereventhoughIdidn’t
reallywant tobehugged.“Okay,youcanunpause it,” I said.Anastasiagot
kickedoff.Shethrewafit.Itwasawesome.
Iateafewbitesofdinner—bow-tiepastawithpesto—andmanagedto
keepitdown.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
Iwokeup thenextmorningpanickedbecause I’ddreamedof being alone
andboatlessinahugelake.Iboltedup,strainingagainsttheBiPAP,andfelt
Mom’sarmonme.
“Hi,youokay?”
My heart raced, but I nodded.Mom said, “Kaitlyn’s on the phone for
you.”IpointedatmyBiPAP.Shehelpedmegetitoffandhookedmeupto
PhilipandthenfinallyItookmycellfromMomandsaid,“Hey,Kaitlyn.”
“Justcallingtocheckin,”shesaid.“Seehowyou’redoing.”
“Yeah,thanks,”Isaid.“I’mdoingokay.”
“You’vejusthadtheworstluck,darling.It’sunconscionable.”
“Iguess,”Isaid.Ididn’tthinkmuchaboutmyluckanymoreonewayor
theother.Honestly,Ididn’treallywant to talkwithKaitlynaboutanything,
butshekeptdraggingtheconversationalong.
“Sowhatwasitlike?”sheasked.
“Havingyourboyfrienddie?Um,itsucks.”
“No,”shesaid.“Beinginlove.”
“Oh,”Isaid.“Oh.Itwas...itwasnicetospendtimewithsomeoneso
interesting.Wewereverydifferent, andwedisagreed about a lot of things,
buthewasalwayssointeresting,youknow?”
“Alas,Idonot.TheboysI’macquaintedwitharevastlyuninteresting.”
“He wasn’t perfect or anything. He wasn’t your fairy-tale Prince
Charmingorwhatever.Hetriedtobelikethatsometimes,butIlikedhimbest
whenthatstufffellaway.”
“Doyouhavelikeascrapbookofpicturesandlettershewrote?”
“Ihavesomepictures,butheneverreallywrotemeletters.Except,well
there are some missing pages from his notebook that might have been
something for me, but I guess he threw them away or they got lost or
something.”
“Maybehemailedthemtoyou,”shesaid.
“Nah,they’d’vegottenhere.”
“Then maybe they weren’t written for you,” she said. “Maybe . . . I
mean,nottodepressyouoranything,butmaybehewrotethemforsomeone
elseandmailedthem—”
“VANHOUTEN!”Ishouted.
“Areyouokay?Wasthatacough?”
“Kaitlyn,Iloveyou.Youareagenius.Ihavetogo.”
Ihungup,rolledover,reachedformylaptop,turnediton,andemailed
lidewij.vliegenthart.
Lidewij,
I believe Augustus Waters sent a few pages from a notebook to
Peter Van Houten shortly before he (Augustus) died. It is very
important to me that someone reads these pages. I want to read
them,ofcourse,butmaybetheyweren’twrittenforme.Regardless,
theymustberead.Theymustbe.Canyouhelp?
Yourfriend,
HazelGraceLancaster
Sherespondedlatethatafternoon.
DearHazel,
IdidnotknowthatAugustushaddied. Iamverysad tohear this
news.Hewas such a very charismatic youngman. I am so sorry,
andsosad.
IhavenotspokentoPetersinceIresignedthatdaywemet.It
isverylateatnighthere,butIamgoingovertohishousefirstthing
inthemorningtofindthisletterandforcehimtoreadit.Mornings
werehisbesttime,usually.
Yourfriend,
LidewijVliegenthart
p.s. I am bringing my boyfriend in case we have to physically
restrainPeter.
Iwonderedwhy he’dwrittenVanHouten in those last days instead ofme,
telling Van Houten that he’d be redeemed if only he gave me my sequel.
Maybe the notebook pages had just repeated his request toVanHouten. It
madesense,Gusleveraginghisterminalitytomakemydreamcometrue:The
sequel was a tiny thing to die for, but it was the biggest thing left at his
disposal.
I refreshedmy email
,continually that night, slept for a fewhours, and
then commenced to refreshing around five in the morning. But nothing
arrived.ItriedtowatchTVtodistractmyself,butmythoughtskeptdrifting
back to Amsterdam, imagining Lidewij Vliegenthart and her boyfriend
bicycling around town on this crazy mission to find a dead kid’s last
correspondence. How fun it would be to bounce on the back of Lidewij
Vliegenthart’sbikedownthebrickstreets,hercurlyredhairblowingintomy
face,thesmellofthecanalsandcigarettesmoke,allthepeoplesittingoutside
thecafésdrinkingbeer,sayingtheirr’sandg’sinawayI’dneverlearn.
Imissedthefuture.ObviouslyIknewevenbeforehisrecurrencethatI’d
never grow oldwithAugustusWaters. But thinking about Lidewij and her
boyfriend, I felt robbed. I would probably never again see the ocean from
thirtythousandfeetabove,sofarupthatyoucan’tmakeoutthewavesorany
boats,sothattheoceanisagreatandendlessmonolith.Icouldimagineit.I
couldrememberit.ButIcouldn’tseeitagain,anditoccurredtomethatthe
voraciousambitionofhumansisneversatedbydreamscomingtrue,because
thereisalwaysthethoughtthateverythingmightbedonebetterandagain.
Thatisprobablytrueevenifyoulivetobeninety—althoughI’mjealous
ofthepeoplewhogettofindoutforsure.Thenagain,I’dalreadylivedtwice
aslongasVanHouten’sdaughter.Whathewouldn’thavegiventohaveakid
dieatsixteen.
SuddenlyMomwasstandingbetweentheTVandme,herhandsfolded
behind her back. “Hazel,” she said. Her voice was so serious I thought
somethingmightbewrong.
“Yes?”
“Doyouknowwhattodayis?”
“It’snotmybirthday,isit?”
Shelaughed.“Notjustyet.It’sJulyfourteenth,Hazel.”
“Isityourbirthday?”
“No...”
“IsitHarryHoudini’sbirthday?”
“No...”
“Iamreallytiredofguessing.”
“IT ISBASTILLEDAY!”She pulled her arms frombehind her back,
producingtwosmallplasticFrenchflagsandwavingthementhusiastically.
“Thatsoundslikeafakething.LikeCholeraAwarenessDay.”
“Iassureyou,Hazel, that there isnothingfakeaboutBastilleDay.Did
youknowthat twohundredand twenty-threeyearsagotoday, thepeopleof
France stormed the Bastille prison to arm themselves to fight for their
freedom?”
“Wow,”Isaid.“Weshouldcelebratethismomentousanniversary.”
“ItsohappensthatIhavejustnowscheduledapicnicwithyourfatherin
HollidayPark.”
Sheneverstoppedtrying,mymom.Ipushedagainstthecouchandstood
up.Together,wecobbledtogethersomesandwichmakingsandfoundadusty
picnicbasketinthehallwayutilitycloset.
Itwaskindofabeautifulday,finallyrealsummerinIndianapolis,warmand
humid—thekindofweather that remindsyouaftera longwinter thatwhile
the world wasn’t built for humans, we were built for the world. Dad was
waiting for us, wearing a tan suit, standing in a handicapped parking spot
typingawayonhishandheld.Hewavedasweparkedandthenhuggedme.
“Whataday,”hesaid.“IfwelivedinCalifornia,they’dallbelikethis.”
“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t enjoy them,” my mom said. She was
wrong,butIdidn’tcorrecther.
WeendedupputtingourblanketdownbytheRuins,thisweirdrectangle
ofRoman ruinsploppeddown in themiddleof a field in Indianapolis.But
theyaren’trealruins:They’relikeasculpturalre-creationofruinsbuilteighty
yearsago,butthefakeRuinshavebeenneglectedprettybadly,sotheyhave
kindofbecomeactual ruinsbyaccident.VanHoutenwould like theRuins.
Gus,too.
SowesatintheshadowoftheRuinsandatealittlelunch.“Doyouneed
sunscreen?”Momasked.
“I’mokay,”Isaid.
You could hear the wind in the leaves, and on that wind traveled the
screamsofthekidsontheplaygroundinthedistance,thelittlekidsfiguring
outhowtobealive,howtonavigateaworldthatwasnotbuiltfor themby
navigating a playground thatwas.Dad sawmewatching thekids and said,
“Youmissrunningaroundlikethat?”
“Sometimes, I guess.”But thatwasn’twhat Iwas thinking. Iwas just
trying tonoticeeverything: the lighton theruinedRuins, this littlekidwho
could barely walk discovering a stick at the corner of the playground, my
indefatigablemotherzigzaggingmustardacrossherturkeysandwich,mydad
patting his handheld in his pocket and resisting the urge to check it, a guy
throwingaFrisbeethathisdogkeptrunningunderandcatchingandreturning
tohim.
Whoam I to say that these thingsmightnot be forever?Who isPeter
VanHoutentoassertasfacttheconjecturethatourlaboristemporary?AllI
knowofheavenandallIknowofdeathisinthispark:anelegantuniversein
ceaselessmotion,teemingwithruinedruinsandscreamingchildren.
Mydadwaswavinghishandinfrontofmyface.“Tunein,Hazel.Are
youthere?”
“Sorry,yeah,what?”
“MomsuggestedwegoseeGus?”
“Oh.Yeah,”Isaid.
So after lunch, we drove down to CrownHill Cemetery, the last and final
restingplaceofthreevicepresidents,onepresident,andAugustusWaters.We
droveupthehillandparked.CarsroaredbybehindusonThiry-eighthStreet.
Itwaseasytofindhisgrave:Itwasthenewest.Theearthwasstillmounded
abovehiscoffin.Noheadstoneyet.
Ididn’tfeellikehewasthereoranything,butIstilltookoneofMom’s
dumb littleFrench flags and stuck it in thegroundat the footofhisgrave.
MaybepassersbywouldthinkhewasamemberoftheFrenchForeignLegion
orsomeheroicmercenary.
***
Lidewij finally wrote back just after six P.M. while I was on the couch
watching bothTV and videos onmy laptop. I saw immediately therewere
fourattachmentstotheemailandIwantedtoopenthemfirst,butIresisted
temptationandreadtheemail.
DearHazel,
Peter was very intoxicated when we arrived at his house this
morning, but this made our job somewhat easier. Bas (my
boyfriend)distractedhimwhileIsearchedthroughthegarbagebag
Peterkeepswiththefanmailinit,butthenIrealizedthatAugustus
knewPeter’saddress.Therewasalargepileofmailonhisdining
room table,where I found the letter veryquickly. I opened it and
sawthatitwasaddressedtoPeter,soIaskedhimtoreadit.
Herefused.
Atthispoint,Ibecameveryangry,Hazel,butIdidnotyellat
him.Instead,Itoldhimthatheowedittohisdeaddaughtertoread
thisletterfromadeadboy,andIgavehimtheletterandhereadthe
entirethingandsaid—Iquotehimdirectly—“Sendittothegirland
tellherIhavenothingtoadd.”
Ihavenot read the letter, althoughmyeyesdid fallon some
phrases while scanning the pages. I have attached them here and
thenwillmailthemtoyouatyourhome;youraddressisthesame?
MayGodblessandkeepyou,Hazel.
Yourfriend,
LidewijVliegenthart
Iclickedopenthefourattachments.Hishandwritingwasmessy,slanting
acrossthepage,thesizeofthelettersvarying,thecolorofthepenchanging.
He’dwrittenitovermanydaysinvaryingdegreesofconsciousness.
VanHouten,
I’magoodpersonbutash*ttywriter.You’reash*ttypersonbuta
goodwriter.We’dmakeagoodteam.Idon’twanttoaskyouany
favors,butifyouhavetime—andfromwhatIsaw,youhaveplenty
—IwaswonderingifyoucouldwriteaeulogyforHazel.I’vegot
notesandeverything,butifyoucouldjustmakeit intoacoherent
whole or whatever? Or even just tell me what I should say
differently.
Here’s the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with
leaving amark upon theworld. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting
death.
,Weallwanttoberemembered.Ido,too.That’swhatbothers
me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient
andingloriouswaragainstdisease.
Iwanttoleaveamark.
ButVanHouten:Themarkshumansleavearetoooftenscars.You
buildahideousminimallorstartacouportrytobecomearockstar
and you think, “They’ll remember me now,” but (a) they don’t
rememberyou, and (b) all you leavebehind aremore scars.Your
coupbecomesadictatorship.Yourminimallbecomesalesion.
(Okay,maybeI’mnotsuchash*ttywriter.ButIcan’tpullmyideas
together, Van Houten. My thoughts are stars I can’t fathom into
constellations.)
Weare likeabunchofdogssquirtingonfirehydrants.Wepoison
thegroundwaterwithourtoxicpiss,markingeverythingMINEina
ridiculousattempttosurviveourdeaths.Ican’tstoppissingonfire
hydrants. I know it’s silly and useless—epically useless in my
currentstate—butIamananimallikeanyother.
Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly
upon theearth.Hazelknows the truth:We’re as likely tohurt the
universeaswearetohelpit,andwe’renotlikelytodoeither.
People will say it’s sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer
rememberher,thatshewasloveddeeplybutnotwidely.Butit’snot
sad, Van Houten. It’s triumphant. It’s heroic. Isn’t that the real
heroism?Likethedoctorssay:First,donoharm.
The real heroes anyway aren’t the people doing things; the real
heroesarethepeopleNOTICINGthings,payingattention.Theguy
whoinventedthesmallpoxvaccinedidn’tactuallyinventanything.
Hejustnoticedthatpeoplewithcowpoxdidn’tgetsmallpox.
AftermyPETscanlitup,IsnuckintotheICUandsawherwhile
shewasunconscious.Ijustwalkedinbehindanursewithabadge
andIgottositnexttoherforliketenminutesbeforeIgotcaught.I
reallythoughtshewasgoingtodiebeforeIcouldtellherthatIwas
going to die, too. It was brutal: the incessant mechanized
haranguing of intensive care. She had this dark cancer water
drippingoutofherchest.Eyesclosed.Intubated.Butherhandwas
stillherhand,stillwarmandthenailspaintedthisalmostblackdark
blueandIjustheldherhandandtriedtoimaginetheworldwithout
usand foraboutone second Iwasagoodenoughperson tohope
shediedsoshewouldneverknowthatIwasgoing,too.ButthenI
wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I
suppose.Ileftmyscar.
AnurseguycameinandtoldmeIhadtoleave,thatvisitorsweren’t
allowed,andIaskedifshewasdoingokay,andtheguysaid,“She’s
stilltakingonwater.”Adesertblessing,anoceancurse.
Whatelse?Sheissobeautiful.Youdon’tgettiredoflookingather.
Youneverworryifsheissmarterthanyou:Youknowsheis.Sheis
funnywithout ever beingmean. I love her. I am so lucky to love
her, Van Houten. You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this
world,oldman,butyoudohavesomesayinwhohurtsyou.Ilike
mychoices.Ihopeshelikeshers.
Ido,Augustus.
Ido.
Clickhereformorebooksfromthisauthor.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Theauthorwouldliketoacknowledge:
Thatdiseaseanditstreatmentaretreatedfictitiouslyinthisnovel.Forexample,thereisno
such thing as Phalanxifor. I made it up, because I would like for it to exist. Anyone
seeking an actual history of cancer ought to read The Emperor of All Maladies by
Siddhartha Mukherjee. I am also indebted to The Biology of Cancer by Robert A.
Weinberg, and to Josh Sundquist,Marshall Urist, and Jonneke Hollanders, who shared
their timeandexpertisewithmeonmedicalmatters,whichIcheerfully ignoredwhenit
suitedmywhims.
EstherEarl,whoselifewasagifttomeandtomany.IamgratefulalsototheEarlfamily
—Lori, Wayne, Abby, Angie, Grant, and Abe—for their generosity and friendship.
Inspired byEsther, theEarls have founded a nonprofit,ThisStarWon’tGoOut, in her
memory.Youcanlearnmoreattswgo.org.
TheDutchLiteratureFoundation,forgivingmetwomonthsinAmsterdamtowrite.I’m
particularlygratefultoFleurvanKoppen,JeanCristopheBoelevanHensbroek,Janettade
With,CarlijnvanRavenstein,MargjeScheepsma,andtheDutchnerdfightercommunity.
My editor and publisher, Julie Strauss-Gabel, who stuck with this story through many
years of twists and turns, as did an extraordinary team at Penguin. Particular thanks to
RosanneLauer,DeborahKaplan,LizaKaplan,SteveMeltzer,NovaRenSuma,andIrene
Vandervoort.
IleneCooper,mymentorandfairygodmother.
Myagent,JodiReamer,whosesagecounselhassavedmefromcountlessdisasters.
Nerdfighters,forbeingawesome.
Catitude,forwantingnothingmorethantomaketheworldsuckless.
Mybrother,Hank,whoismybestfriendandclosestcollaborator.
Mywife,Sarah,whoisnotonlythegreatloveofmylifebutalsomyfirstandmosttrusted
reader. Also, the baby, Henry, to whom she gave birth. Furthermore, my own parents,
MikeandSydneyGreen,andparents-in-law,ConnieandMarshallUrist.
MyfriendsChrisandMarinaWaters,whohelpedwiththisstoryatvitalmoments,asdid
JoellenHosler,ShannonJames,ViHart,theVenndiagramaticallybrilliantKarenKavett,
ValerieBarr,RosiannaHalseRojas,andJohnDarnielle.
PHOTOBYTONKOENE,2009
JOHNGREEN is an award-winning,NewYorkTimes–bestselling author
whosemanyaccoladesincludethePrintzMedal,aPrintzHonor,andtheEdgarAward.He
hastwicebeenafinalistfortheLATimesBookPrize.Withhisbrother,Hank,Johnisone
halfoftheVlogbrothers(youtube.com/vlogbrothers),oneofthemostpopularonlinevideo
projects in the world. You can join John’s 1.1 million followers on Twitter
(@realjohngreen),orvisithimonlineatjohngreenbooks.com.
JohnliveswithhiswifeandsoninIndianapolis,Indiana.
ALSOBYJOHNGREEN
LookingforAlaska
AnAbundanceofKatherines
PaperTowns
WillGrayson,WillGrayson
WITHDAVIDLEVITHAN
EPIGRAPH
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
,too, and
everyonewasholdinghands, and I couldn’t catchmybreath, andmy lungs
were acting desperate, gasping, pulling me out of the bed trying to find a
positionthatcouldgetthemair,andIwasembarrassedbytheirdesperation,
disgustedthattheywouldn’tjustletgo,andIremembermymomtellingmeit
wasokay,thatIwasokay,thatIwouldbeokay,andmyfatherwastryingso
hardnottosobthatwhenhedid,whichwasregularly,itwasanearthquake.
AndIrememberwantingnottobeawake.
EveryonefiguredIwasfinished,butmyCancerDoctorMariamanaged
togetsomeofthefluidoutofmylungs,andshortlythereaftertheantibiotics
they’dgivenmeforthepneumoniakickedin.
I woke up and soon got into one of those experimental trials that are
famous in the Republic of Cancervania for Not Working. The drug was
Phalanxifor, thismoleculedesigned to attach itself to cancer cells and slow
theirgrowth. Itdidn’twork inabout70percentofpeople.But itworked in
me.Thetumorsshrank.
And they stayed shrunk. Huzzah, Phalanxifor! In the past eighteen
months,mymetshavehardlygrown,leavingmewithlungsthatsuckatbeing
lungsbutcould,conceivably,strugglealongindefinitelywiththeassistanceof
drizzledoxygenanddailyPhalanxifor.
Admittedly,myCancerMiraclehadonlyresulted inabitofpurchased
time. (I did not yet know the size of the bit.) But when telling Augustus
Waters,Ipaintedtherosiestpossiblepicture,embellishingthemiraculousness
ofthemiracle.
“Sonowyougottagobacktoschool,”hesaid.
“Iactuallycan’t,”Iexplained,“becauseIalreadygotmyGED.SoI’m
takingclassesatMCC,”whichwasourcommunitycollege.
“A college girl,” he said, nodding. “That explains the aura of
sophistication.”Hesmirkedatme.Ishovedhisupperarmplayfully.Icould
feelthemusclerightbeneaththeskin,alltenseandamazing.
Wemade a wheels-screeching turn into a subdivision with eight-foot-
high stucco walls. His house was the first one on the left. A two-story
colonial.Wejerkedtoahaltinhisdriveway.
Ifollowedhiminside.Awoodenplaqueintheentrywaywasengravedin
cursive with the wordsHome IsWhere the Heart Is, and the entire house
turnedout tobe festooned in suchobservations.GoodFriendsAreHard to
Findand Impossible toForget read an illustration above the coatrack.True
Love Is Born from Hard Times promised a needlepointed pillow in their
antique-furnished living room.Augustus sawme reading. “My parents call
themEncouragements,”heexplained.“They’reeverywhere.”
His mom and dad called him Gus. They were making enchiladas in the
kitchen(apieceofstainedglassbythesinkreadinbubblylettersFamily Is
Forever). His mom was putting chicken into tortillas, which his dad then
rolled up and placed in a glass pan.They didn’t seem too surprised bymy
arrival,whichmadesense:Thefact thatAugustusmademe feel specialdid
notnecessarilyindicatethatIwasspecial.Maybehebroughthomeadifferent
girleverynighttoshowhermoviesandfeelherup.
“ThisisHazelGrace,”hesaid,bywayofintroduction.
“JustHazel,”Isaid.
“How’sitgoing,Hazel?”askedGus’sdad.Hewastall—almostastallas
Gus—andskinnyinawaythatparentallyagedpeopleusuallyaren’t.
“Okay,”Isaid.
“HowwasIsaac’sSupportGroup?”
“Itwasincredible,”Gussaid.
“You’re such aDebbieDowner,” hismom said. “Hazel, do you enjoy
it?”
I paused a second, trying to figure out if my response should be
calibrated to pleaseAugustus or his parents. “Most of thepeople are really
nice,”Ifinallysaid.
“That’sexactlywhatwefoundwithfamiliesatMemorialwhenwewere
inthethickofitwithGus’streatment,”hisdadsaid.“Everybodywassokind.
Strong,too.Inthedarkestdays,theLordputsthebestpeopleintoyourlife.”
“Quick,givemea throwpillowandsomethreadbecause thatneeds to
be anEncouragement,”Augustus said, andhis dad looked a little annoyed,
butthenGuswrappedhislongarmaroundhisdad’sneckandsaid,“I’mjust
kidding, Dad. I like the freaking Encouragements. I really do. I just can’t
admititbecauseI’mateenager.”Hisdadrolledhiseyes.
“You’re joiningus fordinner, Ihope?”askedhismom.Shewas small
andbrunetteandvaguelymousy.
“Iguess?”Isaid.“Ihavetobehomebyten.AlsoIdon’t,um,eatmeat?”
“Noproblem.We’llvegetarianizesome,”shesaid.
“Animalsarejusttoocute?”Gusasked.
“IwanttominimizethenumberofdeathsIamresponsiblefor,”Isaid.
Gusopenedhismouthtorespondbutthenstoppedhimself.
Hismomfilledthesilence.“Well,Ithinkthat’swonderful.”
They talked to me for a bit about how the enchiladas were Famous
WatersEnchiladas andNot toBeMissed and about howGus’s curfewwas
also ten,andhowtheywere inherentlydistrustfulofanyonewhogave their
kidscurfewsother than ten,andwasI inschool—“she’sacollegestudent,”
Augustus interjected—and how the weather was truly and absolutely
extraordinaryforMarch,andhowinspringallthingsarenew,andtheydidn’t
evenonceaskmeabout theoxygenormydiagnosis,whichwasweirdand
wonderful, and thenAugustus said, “Hazel and I are going towatchV for
Vendettasoshecanseeherfilmicdoppelgänger,mid-twothousandsNatalie
Portman.”
“ThelivingroomTVisyoursforthewatching,”hisdadsaidhappily.
“Ithinkwe’reactuallygonnawatchitinthebasem*nt.”
Hisdadlaughed.“Goodtry.Livingroom.”
“ButIwanttoshowHazelGracethebasem*nt,”Augustussaid.
“JustHazel,”Isaid.
“So show Just Hazel the basem*nt,” said his dad. “And then come
upstairsandwatchyourmovieinthelivingroom.”
Augustus puffed out his cheeks, balanced on his leg, and twisted his
hips,throwingtheprostheticforward.“Fine,”hemumbled.
I followed him down carpeted stairs to a huge basem*nt bedroom. A
shelfatmyeyelevelreachedallthewayaroundtheroom,anditwasstuffed
solidwithbasketballmemorabilia:dozensof trophieswithgoldplasticmen
mid–jumpshotordribblingorreachingforalayuptowardanunseenbasket.
Therewerealsolotsofsignedballsandsneakers.
“Iusedtoplaybasketball,”heexplained.
“Youmust’vebeenprettygood.”
“Iwasn’tbad,butalltheshoesandballsareCancerPerks.”Hewalked
toward theTV,whereahugepileofDVDsandvideogameswerearranged
into a vague pyramid shape. He bent at the waist and snatched up V for
Vendetta.“Iwas,like,theprototypicalwhiteHoosierkid,”hesaid.“Iwasall
aboutresurrectingthelostartofthemidrangejumper,butthenonedayIwas
shootingfreethrows—juststandingatthefoullineattheNorthCentralgym
shooting from a rack of balls.All at once, I couldn’t figure outwhy Iwas
methodically tossing a spherical object through a toroidal object. It seemed
likethestupidestthingIcouldpossiblybedoing.
“I started thinking about little kids putting a cylindrical peg through a
circularhole,andhowtheydoitoverandoveragainformonthswhenthey
figure it out, and howbasketballwas basically just a slightlymore aerobic
version of that same exercise. Anyway, for the longest time, I just kept
sinkingfreethrows.Ihiteightyinarow,myall-timebest,butasIkeptgoing,
Ifeltmoreandmorelikeatwo-year-old.AndthenforsomereasonIstarted
tothinkabouthurdlers.Areyouokay?”
I’d takenaseaton thecornerofhisunmadebed. Iwasn’t trying tobe
suggestiveoranything;IjustgotkindoftiredwhenIhadtostandalot.I’d
stood in the living room and then there had been
,the stairs, and thenmore
standing,whichwasquitealotofstandingforme,andIdidn’twanttofaint
oranything.IwasabitofaVictorianLady,fainting-wise.“I’mfine,”Isaid.
“Justlistening.Hurdlers?”
“Yeah,hurdlers.Idon’tknowwhy.Istartedthinkingaboutthemrunning
their hurdle races, and jumping over these totally arbitrary objects that had
been set in their path.And Iwondered if hurdlers ever thought, you know,
Thiswouldgofasterifwejustgotridofthehurdles.”
“Thiswasbeforeyourdiagnosis?”Iasked.
“Right,well, therewasthat, too.”Hesmiledwithhalfhismouth.“The
day of the existentially fraught free throwswas coincidentally alsomy last
dayof dual leggedness. I had aweekendbetweenwhen they scheduled the
amputation and when it happened.My own little glimpse of what Isaac is
goingthrough.”
I nodded. I liked AugustusWaters. I really, really, really liked him. I
likedthewayhisstoryendedwithsomeoneelse.Ilikedhisvoice.Ilikedthat
he took existentially fraught free throws. I liked that he was a tenured
professor in the Department of Slightly Crooked Smiles with a dual
appointment in theDepartmentofHavingaVoiceThatMadeMySkinFeel
MoreLikeSkin.AndIlikedthathehadtwonames.I’vealwayslikedpeople
withtwonames,becauseyougettomakeupyourmindwhatyoucallthem:
GusorAugustus?Me,IwasalwaysjustHazel,univalentHazel.
“Doyouhavesiblings?”Iasked.
“Huh?”heanswered,seemingalittledistracted.
“Yousaidthatthingaboutwatchingkidsplay.”
“Oh,yeah,no.Ihavenephews,frommyhalfsisters.Butthey’reolder.
They’relike—DAD,HOWOLDAREJULIEANDMARTHA?”
“Twenty-eight!”
“They’reliketwenty-eight.TheyliveinChicago.Theyarebothmarried
to very fancy lawyer dudes.Or banker dudes. I can’t remember.You have
siblings?”
Ishookmyheadno.“Sowhat’syourstory?”heasked,sittingdownnext
tomeatasafedistance.
“Ialreadytoldyoumystory.Iwasdiagnosedwhen—”
“No,notyourcancerstory.Yourstory.Interests,hobbies,passions,weird
fetishes,etcetera.”
“Um,”Isaid.
“Don’ttellmeyou’reoneofthosepeoplewhobecomestheirdisease.I
know so many people like that. It’s disheartening. Like, cancer is in the
growth business, right? The taking-people-over business. But surely you
haven’tletit*ucceedprematurely.”
ItoccurredtomethatperhapsIhad.Istruggledwithhowtopitchmyself
toAugustusWaters,which enthusiasms to embrace, and in the silence that
followed it occurred to me that I wasn’t very interesting. “I am pretty
unextraordinary.”
“I reject thatoutofhand.Thinkof somethingyou like.The first thing
thatcomestomind.”
“Um.Reading?”
“Whatdoyouread?”
“Everything. From, like, hideous romance to pretentious fiction to
poetry.Whatever.”
“Doyouwritepoetry,too?”
“No.Idon’twrite.”
“There!” Augustus almost shouted. “Hazel Grace, you are the only
teenagerinAmericawhoprefersreadingpoetrytowritingit.Thistellsmeso
much.Youreadalotofcapital-Ggreatbooks,don’tyou?”
“Iguess?”
“What’syourfavorite?”
“Um,”Isaid.
My favoritebook,byawidemargin,wasAn ImperialAffliction, but I
didn’tliketotellpeopleaboutit.Sometimes,youreadabookanditfillsyou
withthisweirdevangelicalzeal,andyoubecomeconvincedthattheshattered
worldwillneverbeputbacktogetherunlessanduntilalllivinghumansread
the book.And then there are books likeAn Imperial Affliction, which you
can’t tellpeopleabout,bookssospecialand rareandyours that advertising
youraffectionfeelslikeabetrayal.
Itwasn’teventhatthebookwassogoodoranything;itwasjustthatthe
author,PeterVanHouten,seemedtounderstandmeinweirdandimpossible
ways.AnImperialAfflictionwasmybook,inthewaymybodywasmybody
andmythoughtsweremythoughts.
Even so, I told Augustus. “My favorite book is probablyAn Imperial
Affliction,”Isaid.
“Doesitfeaturezombies?”heasked.
“No,”Isaid.
“Stormtroopers?”
Ishookmyhead.“It’snotthatkindofbook.”
Hesmiled.“Iamgoingtoreadthisterriblebookwiththeboringtitlethat
does not contain stormtroopers,” he promised, and I immediately felt like I
shouldn’thave toldhimabout it.Augustusspunaround toastackofbooks
beneathhisbedsidetable.Hegrabbedapaperbackandapen.Ashescribbled
aninscriptionontothetitlepage,hesaid,“AllIaskinexchangeisthatyou
readthisbrilliantandhauntingnovelizationofmyfavoritevideogame.”He
heldupthebook,whichwascalledThePriceofDawn.Ilaughedandtookit.
Ourhandskindofgotmuddledtogetherinthebookhandoff,andthenhewas
holdingmyhand.“Cold,”hesaid,pressingafingertomypalewrist.
“Notcoldsomuchasunderoxygenated,”Isaid.
“I love itwhenyou talkmedical tome,”hesaid.Hestood,andpulled
meupwithhim,anddidnotletgoofmyhanduntilwereachedthestairs.
***
Wewatched themoviewith several inches of couch between us. I did the
totally middle-schooly thing wherein I put my hand on the couch about
halfwaybetweenustolethimknowthatitwasokaytoholdit,buthedidn’t
try.An hour into themovie,Augustus’s parents came in and served us the
enchiladas,whichweateonthecouch,andtheywereprettydelicious.
Themoviewasaboutthisheroicguyinamaskwhodiedheroicallyfor
NataliePortman,who’sprettybadassandveryhotanddoesnothaveanything
approachingmypuffysteroidface.
Asthecreditsrolled,hesaid,“Prettygreat,huh?”
“Prettygreat,”Iagreed,althoughitwasn’t, really.Itwaskindofaboy
movie.Idon’tknowwhyboysexpectustolikeboymovies.Wedon’texpect
themtolikegirlmovies.“Ishouldgethome.Classinthemorning,”Isaid.
I sat on the couch for awhile asAugustus searched for his keys.His
momsatdownnexttomeandsaid,“Ijustlovethisone,don’tyou?”IguessI
hadbeenlookingtowardtheEncouragementabovetheTV,adrawingofan
angelwiththecaptionWithoutPain,HowCouldWeKnowJoy?
(ThisisanoldargumentinthefieldofThinkingAboutSuffering,andits
stupidity and lack of sophistication could be plumbed for centuries, but
sufficeittosaythattheexistenceofbroccolidoesnotinanywayaffectthe
tasteofchocolate.)“Yes,”Isaid.“Alovelythought.”
IdroveAugustus’s carhomewithAugustus riding shotgun.Heplayed
meacouplesongshelikedbyabandcalledTheHecticGlow,andtheywere
goodsongs,butbecauseIdidn’tknowthemalready,theyweren’tasgoodto
meastheyweretohim.Ikeptglancingoverathisleg,ortheplacewherehis
leghadbeen,tryingtoimaginewhatthefakeleglookedlike.Ididn’twantto
careabout it,but Idida little.Heprobablycaredaboutmyoxygen. Illness
repulses.I’dlearnedthatalongtimeago,andIsuspectedAugustushad,too.
AsIpulledupoutsideofmyhouse,Augustusclickedtheradiooff.The
air thickened. He was probably thinking about kissing me, and I was
definitely thinking about kissing him.Wondering if Iwanted to. I’d kissed
boys,butithadbeenawhile.Pre-Miracle.
Iput thecar inparkandlookedoverathim.Hereallywasbeautiful.I
knowboysaren’tsupposedtobe,buthewas.
“HazelGrace,” he said,my name new and better in his voice. “It has
beenarealpleasuretomakeyouracquaintance.”
“Ditto,Mr.Waters,”Isaid.Ifeltshylookingathim.Icouldnotmatch
theintensityofhiswaterblueeyes.
“MayIseeyouagain?”heasked.Therewasanendearingnervousnessin
hisvoice.
Ismiled.“Sure.”
“Tomorrow?”heasked.
“Patience, grasshopper,” I counseled. “You don’t want to
,seem
overeager.”
“Right, that’swhy I said tomorrow,”he said. “Iwant to seeyouagain
tonight.ButI’mwillingtowaitallnightandmuchoftomorrow.”Irolledmy
eyes.“I’mserious,”hesaid.
“Youdon’tevenknowme,” Isaid. Igrabbed thebookfromthecenter
console.“HowaboutIcallyouwhenIfinishthis?”
“Butyoudon’tevenhavemyphonenumber,”hesaid.
“Istronglysuspectyouwroteitinthebook.”
Hebrokeout into thatgoofysmile.“Andyousaywedon’tknoweach
other.”
CHAPTERTHREE
IstayedupprettylatethatnightreadingThePriceofDawn. (Spoileralert:
The price of dawn is blood.) It wasn’t An Imperial Affliction, but the
protagonist,StaffSergeantMaxMayhem,wasvaguelylikabledespitekilling,
bymycount,nofewerthan118individualsin284pages.
SoIgotuplatethenextmorning,aThursday.Mom’spolicywasnever
to wake me up, because one of the job requirements of Professional Sick
Personissleepingalot,soIwaskindofconfusedatfirstwhenIjoltedawake
withherhandsonmyshoulders.
“It’salmostten,”shesaid.
“Sleepfightscancer,”Isaid.“Iwasuplatereading.”
“Itmustbesomebook,”shesaidasshekneltdownnexttothebedand
unscrewedmefrommylarge,rectangularoxygenconcentrator,whichIcalled
Philip,becauseitjustkindoflookedlikeaPhilip.
MomhookedmeuptoaportabletankandthenremindedmeIhadclass.
“Didthatboygiveittoyou?”sheaskedoutofnowhere.
“Byit,doyoumeanherpes?”
“Youaretoomuch,”Momsaid.“Thebook,Hazel.Imeanthebook.”
“Yeah,hegavemethebook.”
“Icantellyoulikehim,”shesaid,eyebrowsraised,asifthisobservation
required some uniquely maternal instinct. I shrugged. “I told you Support
Groupwouldbeworthyourwhile.”
“Didyoujustwaitoutsidetheentiretime?”
“Yes. Ibrought somepaperwork.Anyway, time to face theday,young
lady.”
“Mom.Sleep.Cancer.Fighting.”
“Iknow,love,butthereisclasstoattend.Also,todayis...”Thegleein
Mom’svoicewasevident.
“Thursday?”
“Didyouseriouslyforget?”
“Maybe?”
“It’s Thursday, March twenty-ninth!” she basically screamed, a
dementedsmileplasteredtoherface.
“Youarereallyexcitedaboutknowingthedate!”Iyelledback.
“HAZEL!IT’SYOURTHIRTY-THIRDHALFBIRTHDAY!”
“Ohhhhhh,” I said. My mom was really super into celebration
maximization.IT’SARBORDAY!LET’SHUGTREESANDEATCAKE!
COLUMBUS BROUGHT SMALLPOX TO THE NATIVES; WE SHALL
RECALLTHEOCCASIONWITHAPICNIC!,etc.“Well,Happythirty-third
HalfBirthdaytome,”Isaid.
“Whatdoyouwanttodoonyourveryspecialday?”
“Comehomefromclassandsettheworldrecordfornumberofepisodes
ofTopChefwatchedconsecutively?”
MomreacheduptothisshelfabovemybedandgrabbedBluie,theblue
stuffed bear I’d had since I was, like, one—back when it was socially
acceptabletonameone’sfriendsaftertheirhue.
“Youdon’twant to go to amoviewithKaitlyn orMatt or someone?”
whoweremyfriends.
Thatwasanidea.“Sure,”Isaid.“I’lltextKaitlynandseeifshewantsto
gotothemallorsomethingafterschool.”
Momsmiled,hugging thebear toherstomach.“Is it stillcool togo to
themall?”sheasked.
“Itakequitealotofprideinnotknowingwhat’scool,”Ianswered.
***
I texted Kaitlyn, took a shower, got dressed, and then Mom drove me to
school.MyclasswasAmericanLiterature,alectureaboutFrederickDouglass
inamostlyemptyauditorium,and itwas incrediblydifficult tostayawake.
Fortyminutesintotheninety-minuteclass,Kaitlyntextedback.
Awesomesauce.HappyHalfBirthday.Castletonat3:32?
Kaitlynhadthekindofpackedsociallifethatneedstobescheduleddownto
theminute.Iresponded:
Soundsgood.I’llbeatthefoodcourt.
Mom drove me directly from school to the bookstore attached to the
mall,whereIpurchasedbothMidnightDawnsandRequiemforMayhem,the
first twosequels toThePriceofDawn, and then Iwalkedover to thehuge
foodcourtandboughtaDietco*ke.Itwas3:21.
Iwatchedthesekidsplayinginthepirate-shipindoorplaygroundwhileI
read.Therewasthistunnelthatthesetwokidskeptcrawlingthroughoverand
overand theyneverseemed toget tired,whichmademe thinkofAugustus
Watersandtheexistentiallyfraughtfreethrows.
Momwas also in the food court, alone, sitting in a corner where she
thoughtIcouldn’tseeher,eatingacheesesteaksandwichandreadingthrough
somepapers.Medicalstuff,probably.Thepaperworkwasendless.
At 3:32 precisely, I noticed Kaitlyn striding confidently past theWok
House.ShesawmethemomentIraisedmyhand,flashedherverywhiteand
newlystraightenedteethatme,andheadedover.
Shewore a knee-length charcoal coat that fit perfectly and sunglasses
thatdominatedherface.Shepushedthemupontothetopofherheadasshe
leaneddowntohugme.
“Darling,”shesaid,vaguelyBritish.“Howareyou?”Peopledidn’tfind
the accent odd or off-putting. Kaitlyn just happened to be an extremely
sophisticated twenty-five-year-old British socialite stuck inside a sixteen-
year-oldbodyinIndianapolis.Everyoneacceptedit.
“I’mgood.Howareyou?”
“Idon’tevenknowanymore.Isthatdiet?”Inoddedandhandedittoher.
Shesippedthroughthestraw.“Idowishyouwereatschoolthesedays.Some
oftheboyshavebecomedownrightedible.”
“Oh,yeah?Likewho?”Iasked.Sheproceededtonamefiveguyswe’d
attended elementary and middle school with, but I couldn’t picture any of
them.
“I’vebeendatingDerekWellingtonforabit,”shesaid,“butIdon’tthink
it will last. He’s such a boy. But enough about me. What is new in the
Hazelverse?”
“Nothing,really,”Isaid.
“Healthisgood?”
“Thesame,Iguess?”
“Phalanxifor!” she enthused, smiling. “So you could just live forever,
right?”
“Probablynotforever,”Isaid.
“Butbasically,”shesaid.“Whatelseisnew?”
I thoughtof tellingher that Iwasseeingaboy, too,orat least that I’d
watchedamoviewithone,justbecauseIknewitwouldsurpriseandamaze
her that anyone as disheveled and awkward and stunted asme could even
briefly win the affections of a boy. But I didn’t really have much to brag
about,soIjustshrugged.
“Whatinheavenisthat?”askedKaitlyn,gesturingtothebook.
“Oh,it’ssci-fi.I’vegottenkindaintoit.It’saseries.”
“Iamalarmed.Shallweshop?”
Wewenttothisshoestore.Aswewereshopping,Kaitlynkeptpickingoutall
these open-toed flats forme and saying, “These would look cute on you,”
which remindedme thatKaitlynneverworeopen-toed shoesonaccountof
howshehatedherfeetbecauseshefelthersecondtoeswere toolong,as if
thesecondtoewasawindowintothesoulorsomething.SowhenIpointed
out a pair of sandals that would suit her skin tone, she was like, “Yeah,
but . . .” the but beingbut theywill exposemy hideous second toes to the
public,andIsaid,“Kaitlyn,you’retheonlypersonI’veeverknowntohave
toe-specificdysmorphia,”andshesaid,“Whatisthat?”
“Youknow,likewhenyoulookinthemirrorandthethingyouseeisnot
thethingasitreallyis.”
“Oh.Oh,”shesaid.“Doyoulikethese?”Sheheldupapairofcutebut
unspectacularMary Janes, and I nodded, and she found her size and tried
themon, pacing up and down the aisle,watching her feet in the knee-high
angledmirrors.Thenshegrabbedapairofstrappyhookershoesandsaid,“Is
it even possible to walk in these? I mean, I would just die—” and then
stopped short, lookingatmeas if to say I’msorry, as if itwere a crime to
mention death to the dying.
,“You should try them on,” Kaitlyn continued,
tryingtopaperovertheawkwardness.
“I’dsoonerdie,”Iassuredher.
I ended up just picking out some flip-flops so that I could have
somethingtobuy,andthenIsatdownononeofthebenchesoppositeabank
ofshoesandwatchedKaitlynsnakeherwaythroughtheaisles,shoppingwith
thekindof intensityand focus thatoneusuallyassociateswithprofessional
chess.IkindofwantedtotakeoutMidnightDawnsandreadforawhile,butI
knewthat’dberude,soIjustwatchedKaitlyn.Occasionallyshe’dcircleback
to me clutching some closed-toe prey and say, “This?” and I would try to
makeanintelligentcommentabouttheshoe,andthenfinallysheboughtthree
pairs and I bought my flip-flops and then as we exited she said,
“Anthropologie?”
“Ishouldheadhomeactually,”Isaid.“I’mkindatired.”
“Sure,ofcourse,”shesaid.“Ihavetoseeyoumoreoften,darling.”She
placedherhandsonmyshoulders,kissedmeonbothcheeks, andmarched
off,hernarrowhipsswishing.
Ididn’tgohome,though.I’dtoldMomtopickmeupatsix,andwhileI
figuredshewaseitherinthemallorintheparkinglot,Istillwantedthenext
twohourstomyself.
I likedmymom, but her perpetual nearness sometimesmademe feel
weirdly nervous. And I liked Kaitlyn, too. I really did. But three years
removedfromproperfull-timeschoolicexposuretomypeers,Ifeltacertain
unbridgeabledistancebetweenus. I thinkmyschool friendswanted tohelp
methroughmycancer,buttheyeventuallyfoundoutthattheycouldn’t.For
onething,therewasnothrough.
SoIexcusedmyselfon thegroundsofpainandfatigue,asIoftenhad
over the yearswhen seeingKaitlyn or any ofmy other friends. In truth, it
always hurt. It always hurt not to breathe like a normal person, incessantly
remindingyourlungstobelungs,forcingyourselftoacceptasunsolvablethe
clawing scraping inside-out ache of underoxygenation. So I wasn’t lying,
exactly.Iwasjustchoosingamongtruths.
I found a bench surrounded by an Irish Gifts store, the Fountain Pen
Emporium, and a baseball-cap outlet—a corner of the mall even Kaitlyn
wouldnevershop,andstartedreadingMidnightDawns.
Itfeaturedasentence-to-corpseratioofnearly1:1,andItorethroughit
withouteverlookingup.IlikedStaffSergeantMaxMayhem,eventhoughhe
didn’thavemuchinthewayofatechnicalpersonality,butmostlyIlikedthat
hisadventureskepthappening.Therewerealwaysmorebadguystokilland
more good guys to save. Newwars started even before the old ones were
won.Ihadn’treadarealserieslikethatsinceIwasakid,anditwasexciting
toliveagaininaninfinitefiction.
Twenty pages from the end ofMidnightDawns, things started to look
prettybleakforMayhemwhenhewasshotseventeentimeswhileattempting
torescuea(blond,American)hostagefromtheEnemy.Butasareader,Idid
not despair. The war effort would go on without him. There could—and
would—be sequels starring his cohorts: SpecialistMannyLoco andPrivate
JasperJacksandtherest.
I was just about to the end when this little girl with barretted braids
appearedinfrontofmeandsaid,“What’sinyournose?”
AndIsaid,“Um,it’scalledacannula.Thesetubesgivemeoxygenand
helpmebreathe.”Hermotherswoopedinandsaid,“Jackie,”disapprovingly,
but Isaid,“Nono, it’sokay,”because it totallywas,and thenJackieasked,
“Wouldtheyhelpmebreathe,too?”
“Idunno.Let’stry.”I tookitoffandletJackiestickthecannulainher
noseandbreathe.“Tickles,”shesaid.
“Iknow,right?”
“IthinkI’mbreathingbetter,”shesaid.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,”Isaid,“IwishIcouldgiveyoumycannulabutIkindofreally
need the help.” I already felt the loss. I focused onmybreathing as Jackie
handed the tubes back tome. I gave them a quick swipe withmy T-shirt,
lacedthetubesbehindmyears,andputthenubbinsbackinplace.
“Thanksforlettingmetryit,”shesaid.
“Noproblem.”
“Jackie,”hermothersaidagain,andthistimeIlethergo.
Ireturnedtothebook,whereStaffSergeantMaxMayhemwasregretting
thathehadbutonelifetogiveforhiscountry,butIkeptthinkingaboutthat
littlekid,andhowmuchIlikedher.
TheotherthingaboutKaitlyn,Iguess,wasthatitcouldneveragainfeel
natural to talk toher.Anyattempts to feignnormal social interactionswere
justdepressingbecauseitwassoglaringlyobviousthateveryoneIspoketo
for the rest of my life would feel awkward and self-conscious aroundme,
exceptmaybekidslikeJackiewhojustdidn’tknowanybetter.
Anyway,Ireallydidlikebeingalone.IlikedbeingalonewithpoorStaff
SergeantMaxMayhem,who—oh,comeon,he’snotgoing tosurvive these
seventeenbulletwounds,ishe?
(Spoileralert:Helives.)
CHAPTERFOUR
Iwenttobedalittleearlythatnight,changingintoboyboxersandaT-shirt
beforecrawlingunderthecoversofmybed,whichwasqueensizeandpillow
toppedandoneofmyfavoriteplacesintheworld.AndthenIstartedreading
AnImperialAfflictionforthemillionthtime.
AIAisaboutthisgirlnamedAnna(whonarratesthestory)andherone-
eyedmom,whoisaprofessionalgardenerobsessedwithtulips,andtheyhave
anormallower-middle-classlifeinalittlecentralCaliforniatownuntilAnna
getsthisrarebloodcancer.
But it’snotacancerbook, becausecancerbooks suck.Like, incancer
books, the cancer person starts a charity that raisesmoney to fight cancer,
right? And this commitment to charity reminds the cancer person of the
essentialgoodnessofhumanityandmakeshim/herfeellovedandencouraged
becauses/hewillleaveacancer-curinglegacy.ButinAIA,Annadecidesthat
beingapersonwithcancerwhostartsacancercharityisabitnarcissistic,so
shestartsacharitycalledTheAnnaFoundationforPeoplewithCancerWho
WanttoCureCholera.
Also, Anna is honest about all of it in a way no one else really is:
Throughout the book, she refers to herself as the side effect, which is just
totally correct. Cancer kids are essentially side effects of the relentless
mutationthatmadethediversityoflifeonearthpossible.Soasthestorygoes
on,shegetssicker,thetreatmentsanddiseaseracingtokillher,andhermom
fallsinlovewiththisDutchtuliptraderAnnacallstheDutchTulipMan.The
DutchTulipMan has lots ofmoney and very eccentric ideas about how to
treatcancer,butAnna thinks thisguymightbeaconmanandpossiblynot
evenDutch,andthenjustasthepossiblyDutchguyandhermomareaboutto
get married and Anna is about to start this crazy new treatment regimen
involving wheatgrass and low doses of arsenic, the book ends right in the
middleofa
Iknowit’saveryliterarydecisionandeverythingandprobablypartof
thereasonI lovethebooksomuch,but there issomethingtorecommenda
story that ends. And if it can’t end, then it should at least continue into
perpetuityliketheadventuresofStaffSergeantMaxMayhem’splatoon.
IunderstoodthestoryendedbecauseAnnadiedorgottoosicktowrite
and thismidsentence thingwassupposed to reflecthowlife reallyendsand
whatever, but there were characters other than Anna in the story, and it
seemedunfairthatIwouldneverfindoutwhathappenedtothem.I’dwritten,
care of his publisher, a dozen letters to PeterVanHouten, each asking for
some answers about what happens after the end of the story: whether the
DutchTulipMan is a conman,whetherAnna’smother endsupmarried to
,him,whathappenstoAnna’sstupidhamster(whichhermomhates),whether
Anna’s friends graduate from high school—all that stuff. But he’d never
respondedtoanyofmyletters.
AIA was the only book PeterVanHouten hadwritten, and all anyone
seemedtoknowabouthimwasthatafterthebookcameouthemovedfrom
theUnitedStatestotheNetherlandsandbecamekindofreclusive.Iimagined
thathewasworkingonasequelsetintheNetherlands—maybeAnna’smom
andtheDutchTulipManendupmovingthereandtryingtostartanewlife.
But it had been ten years since An Imperial Affliction came out, and Van
Houtenhadn’tpublishedsomuchasablogpost.Icouldn’twaitforever.
As I reread that night, I kept getting distracted imagining Augustus
Watersreadingthesamewords.Iwonderedifhe’dlikeit,orifhe’ddismissit
aspretentious.ThenIrememberedmypromisetocallhimafterreadingThe
PriceofDawn,soIfoundhisnumberonitstitlepageandtextedhim.
Price of Dawn review: Too many bodies. Not enough adjectives.
How’sAIA?
Herepliedaminutelater:
AsIrecall,youpromisedtoCALLwhenyoufinishedthebook,not
text.
SoIcalled.
“HazelGrace,”hesaiduponpickingup.
“Sohaveyoureadit?”
“Well,Ihaven’tfinishedit.It’ssixhundredfifty-onepageslongandI’ve
hadtwenty-fourhours.”
“Howfarareyou?”
“Fourfifty-three.”
“And?”
“I will withhold judgment until I finish. However, I will say that I’m
feelingabitembarrassedtohavegivenyouThePriceofDawn.”
“Don’tbe.I’malreadyonRequiemforMayhem.”
“A sparkling addition to the series. So, okay, is the tulip guy a crook?
I’mgettingabadvibefromhim.”
“Nospoilers,”Isaid.
“Ifhe isanythingother thana totalgentleman, I’mgoing togougehis
eyesout.”
“Soyou’reintoit.”
“Withholdingjudgment!WhencanIseeyou?”
“Certainlynotuntilyou finishAnImperialAffliction.” I enjoyedbeing
coy.
“ThenI’dbetterhangupandstartreading.”
“You’dbetter,”Isaid,andthelineclickeddeadwithoutanotherword.
Flirtingwasnewtome,butIlikedit.
The nextmorning I hadTwentieth-CenturyAmericanPoetry atMCC.This
oldwoman gave a lecturewherein shemanaged to talk for ninetyminutes
aboutSylviaPlathwithouteveroncequotingasinglewordofSylviaPlath.
When I got out of class, Mom was idling at the curb in front of the
building.
“Didyoujustwaitheretheentiretime?”Iaskedasshehurriedaroundto
helpmehaulmycartandtankintothecar.
“No,Ipickedupthedrycleaningandwenttothepostoffice.”
“Andthen?”
“Ihaveabooktoread,”shesaid.
“And I’m the onewho needs to get a life.” I smiled, and she tried to
smile back, but there was something flimsy in it. After a second, I said,
“Wannagotoamovie?”
“Sure.Anythingyou’vebeenwantingtosee?”
“Let’sjustdothethingwherewegoandseewhateverstartsnext.”She
closedthedoorformeandwalkedaroundtothedriver’sside.Wedroveover
totheCastletontheaterandwatcheda3-Dmovieabouttalkinggerbils.Itwas
kindoffunny,actually.
WhenIgotoutofthemovie,IhadfourtextmessagesfromAugustus.
Tellmemycopyismissingthelasttwentypagesorsomething.
HazelGrace,tellmeIhavenotreachedtheendofthisbook.
OHMYGODDOTHEYGETMARRIEDORNOTOHMYGOD
WHATISTHIS
IguessAnnadiedandsoitjustends?CRUEL.Callmewhenyou
can.Hopeall’sokay.
SowhenIgothomeIwentoutintothebackyardandsatdownonthisrusting
latticedpatiochairandcalledhim. Itwasacloudyday, typical Indiana: the
kindofweatherthatboxesyouin.Ourlittlebackyardwasdominatedbymy
childhoodswingset,whichwaslookingprettywaterloggedandpathetic.
Augustuspickeduponthethirdring.“HazelGrace,”hesaid.
“Sowelcome to the sweet tortureof readingAnImperial—” I stopped
whenIheardviolentsobbingontheotherendoftheline.“Areyouokay?”I
asked.
“I’mgrand,”Augustusanswered.“Iam,however,withIsaac,whoseems
tobedecompensating.”Morewailing.Like thedeath criesof some injured
animal.GusturnedhisattentiontoIsaac.“Dude.Dude.DoesSupportGroup
Hazelmakethisbetterorworse?Isaac.Focus.On.Me.”Afteraminute,Gus
saidtome,“Canyoumeetusatmyhousein,say,twentyminutes?”
“Sure,”Isaid,andhungup.
Ifyoucoulddriveinastraightline,itwouldonlytakelikefiveminutestoget
frommy house to Augustus’s house, but you can’t drive in a straight line
becauseHollidayParkisbetweenus.
Eventhoughitwasageographicinconvenience,IreallylikedHolliday
Park.WhenIwasalittlekid,IwouldwadeintheWhiteRiverwithmydad
andtherewasalwaysthisgreatmomentwhenhewouldthrowmeupinthe
air,justtossmeawayfromhim,andIwouldreachoutmyarmsasIflewand
hewouldreachouthisarms,andthenwewouldbothseethatourarmswere
notgoing to touchandnoonewasgoing tocatchme,and itwouldkindof
scarethesh*toutofbothofusinthebestpossibleway,andthenIwouldlegs-
flailingly hit thewater and then come up for air uninjured and the current
wouldbringmebacktohimasIsaidagain,Daddy,again.
I pulled into the driveway right next to an old black Toyota sedan I
figuredwasIsaac’scar.Cartingthetankbehindme,Iwalkeduptothedoor.I
knocked.Gus’sdadanswered.
“JustHazel,”hesaid.“Nicetoseeyou.”
“AugustussaidIcouldcomeover?”
“Yeah, he and Isaac are in the basem*nt.”Atwhich point therewas a
wailfrombelow.“ThatwouldbeIsaac,”Gus’sdadsaid,andshookhishead
slowly. “Cindy had to go for a drive.The sound . . .” he said, drifting off.
“Anyway,Iguessyou’rewanteddownstairs.CanIcarryyour,uh,tank?”he
asked.
“Nah,I’mgood.Thanks,though,Mr.Waters.”
“Mark,”hesaid.
I was kind of scared to go down there. Listening to people howl in
miseryisnotamongmyfavoritepastimes.ButIwent.
“HazelGrace,”Augustus said as he heardmy footsteps. “Isaac,Hazel
fromSupportGroupiscomingdownstairs.Hazel,agentlereminder:Isaacis
inthemidstofapsychoticepisode.”
AugustusandIsaacweresittingontheflooringamingchairsshapedlike
lazyLs, staringupatagargantuan television.Thescreenwassplitbetween
Isaac’s point of view on the left, and Augustus’s on the right. They were
soldiers fighting in a bombed-outmodern city. I recognized the place from
ThePriceofDawn.As I approached, I sawnothingunusual: just twoguys
sittinginthelightwashofahugetelevisionpretendingtokillpeople.
OnlywhenIgotparallel to themdidIseeIsaac’sface.Tearsstreamed
downhisreddenedcheeksinacontinualflow,hisfaceatautmaskofpain.He
stared at the screen, not even glancing at me, and howled, all the while
poundingawayathiscontroller.“Howareyou,Hazel?”askedAugustus.
“I’mokay,”Isaid.“Isaac?”Noresponse.Noteventheslightesthintthat
hewasawareofmyexistence.Justthetearsflowingdownhisfaceontohis
blackT-shirt.
Augustusglancedawayfromthescreeneversobriefly.“Youlooknice,”
he said. Iwaswearing this just-past-the-knees dress I’d had forever. “Girls
think they’reonlyallowed toweardressesonformaloccasions,but I likea
womanwho says, you know, I’m going over to see a boywho is having a
nervous breakdown, a boy whose connection to the sense of sight itself is
tenuous,andgoshdangit,Iamgoingtowearadressforhim.”
“And yet,” I said, “Isaacwon’t somuch as glance over atme.Too in
lovewithMonica,Isuppose,”whichresultedinacatastrophicsob.
“Bit of a touchy subject,” Augustus explained. “Isaac,
