SERAPHINA
In honor of getting through another week, I’m doing two things that frighten me today, the first of which is submitting my poem to the Revolve Magazine contest. I’m even submitting it early, which is incredibly off brand for me.
With a few more keystrokes, my application form is complete. I hold my breath and pray as I click “submit.” The page reloads with a confirmation it’s been received.
I had a last-minute change of heart and used the poem I workshopped in class as my contest entry. After all the feedback I received, I made some fairly substantial changes. Chloe helped me with a few more tweaks, and Maxine gave me some feedback as well. Still no way to know if it’s what the judges are looking for, but it’s easily the rawest thing I’ve ever written. I bled all over that page. Even if I don’t win—which is likely—at least I know I gave it my all.
The second, and current, frightening item on my agenda is booking my BRCA testing. Or trying to book it, anyway. I’ve been sitting in my room looking at my phone for more than ten minutes, trying to will myself to hit the green call button.
My thumb hovers over the screen, my heart roaring in my ears. I swallow hard and tap it, waiting for the line to connect. It takes all the strength I have not to end the call before it does.
A female receptionist answers after one ring, well before I’m prepared to speak.
“North End Medical Center, how can I help you?”
Nausea slams into me, and the thought of hanging up crosses my mind but I force myself not to.
“Um, hi.” I clear my throat. “Doctor Wilson’s office referred me for some genetic testing. It should be under Seraphina Carter?”
“Hold please.” A moment later, she comes back on the line. “Yes, we have all your paperwork right here. Normally, we book a few weeks out, but we had a last-minute cancellation and there’s a spot available this morning. Would you be able to come in then?”
“Sure.” There is no part of me that wants to do this today, but something tells me if I don’t take the opening, I’m going to put it off forever. “What time?”
“Eleven-thirty. I realize that’s short notice. I can look at the next available appointment if that doesn’t work for you.”
Terror threads around my throat, and I force myself to reply. “That works.”
Two hours later, I’m sitting outside the testing center in my car on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. Even driving as slowly as the limits of safety and common courtesy would allow, I’m five minutes early. Some latent, self-destructive part of me was secretly hoping I’d be late and miss the appointment.
I turn off the ignition, and the motor dies. Get out, Sera. Get it over with. It could be negative. Everything might be fine. Remember the power of positive thinking.
Gritting my teeth, I reach for the door handle, then immediately withdraw my hand. The sooner I know, the sooner I can deal with it whether it’s positive or negative. So why can’t I make myself get out of the vehicle?
I should have brought someone here with me; should have told someone, at a minimum. That way when I leave here after, I could’ve called them to tell them how it went.
I’ve never felt more alone, and it’s probably because I am.
“Thanks again for letting me reschedule on you.” I set down the tray of coffee, pulling out a red plastic chair next to Chloe in the Communications common area. There’s a regular latte for me instead of decaf sitting next to hers, which is how you know things are dire. I’m tired in the way sleep won’t fix. Even my bones are weary.
“No problem. Is everything okay?” Her dark brows tug. “Not to be nosy, it’s just… you look like you’ve been crying.”
Concealer can only hide so much, and it can’t camouflage the fact I had a half-hour crying session in my car when I got to school. It’s makeup, not magic.
“Um, well—” my voice cracks, and so does something else. I don’t know how or why it happens, but suddenly, everything I’ve been holding back breaks free in a torrential downpour of emotion. All of the fear; uncertainty; hope; doubt; sadness; grief; worry; anger. I haven’t even scratched the surface when it comes to the last one, and I’m terrified to find out what’s beneath.
Tears overflow, spilling down my cheeks as sobs wrack my chest. Embarrassment adds to the intensity of everything else I’m feeling, and I’m sorely tempted to run away, lock myself in a bathroom, and drop Creative Writing so I don’t have to see Chloe ever again. Who has a meltdown in the middle of the foyer? We’re surrounded by people, and all of them are staring.
“Sera. Oh my gosh. Is there something I can do?” Chloe hands me a handful of tissues, scooting her chair closer in an effort to partially block me from sight of everyone else. My nose is pouring snot, I can’t catch my breath, and my mascara is running into my eyes.
“No, it’s just—” I gasp. “Medical. Mom. Cancer.”
She touches my arm. “Your mom has cancer?”
I nod, burying my face in my palms. For weeks, I’ve been repressing everything, and now that I’ve started crying, I can’t seem to stop. It’s like the floodgates opened earlier today and everything keeps gushing out.
“Here.” She gathers our things and helps me stand, carrying the tray of coffee for me. “Let’s go somewhere else where there are fewer people around.”
Chloe leads me down a hallway I’m not familiar with, into another, older building that’s connected to the one where we just were. With another left-hand turn, we’re sitting on a bench near a bunch of vacant classrooms. She gets me a bottle of water from the vending machine and sits with me as I cry, saying nothing. In a strange way, it helps. Even not talking, having someone hold space for me is surprisingly comforting.
Once I’m finally calm enough to speak in full sentences again, I glance up at her. “Thank you. And I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—I don’t know where that came from.”
There’s sympathy across her face as she looks at me over her white plastic cup. “Can I ask what kind of cancer she has?”
“Breast cancer. Stage three. She’s undergoing treatment and she’s doing really well, but they found she tested positive for BRCA1.”
The last piece of information hangs between us; words I didn’t mean to say. I’m not sure if Chloe even knows what BRCA means, but the way her face immediately falls tells me she does. Or at least, she must know enough to know it’s bad.
“Oh my god, Sera. I am so sorry.”
I grind my molars together, swallowing hard. Validation is comforting and upsetting all at once. “I got tested to see if I’m a carrier today, and now I have to wait to get the results.”
In other words, my entire future hangs in the balance and it’s literally a coin toss.
“I can’t even imagine. No wonder you’re upset.” Chloe’s expression shifts into recognition. “Wait. Can I ask—is that what the poem was about? Sorry, I just put two and two together and…”
Sniffling, I dab at my nose with a soggy tissue. I pocket it and take out a new one, wiping my eyes. “Yeah, it is. Speaking of that, I wanted to tell you I entered the contest with that. So thank you for all your help.”
“You did?” Her voice brightens. “I’m so happy to hear that. I’ve got my fingers crossed for you. It’s a strong piece. I mean, I think so anyway.”
We sit and talk for a few more minutes. She tells me how her father is in remission for prostate cancer, and knowing she’s been through some of the same things makes me feel a lot more understood. It’s a strange role reversal being the one to worry about your parent as a child. It’s stressful and confusing, and people who haven’t experienced it don’t understand.
When Chloe has to leave for her next lecture, I’m calm enough that I can safely drive home. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have driven to school. While I wasn’t crying then, my brain definitely wasn’t all there.
She wraps me in a hug before we part ways. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay? Anything at all, even if it’s just to bring by food or if you need someone to talk to.”
“Thanks, Chloe. I appreciate that.”
As I walk to my car, all I can think about is the fact Chloe showed me more care and consideration than a so-called friend I’ve known for more than half my life, and I’ve known Chloe for less than two months.
Having a meltdown at school must have been somewhat cathartic because my mental state improves marginally after that.
After I get home, I collapse into bed and take a two-hour nap. I sleep like the dead, and when I wake up it almost feels like a new day—which is fortunate because I agreed to go watch the guys play tonight at Northview Arena.
I poke my head out of my room to find the house empty. I’d forgotten how superstitious hockey players are. Apparently, Chase, Dallas, and Tyler have an elaborate game day routine that starts the moment they wake up, stretches into the afternoon, and carries them all the way to puck drop. My brain took a mini-vacation when Chase tried to explain the specifics, but I gather that it involves a pre-game nap, a meal at a specific restaurant, and a handful of assorted other eccentricities. Hence why they’re not home.
Tyler is allegedly the most superstitious of them all, as goalies tend to be. That probably explains why he’s been distant all day via text. His stress levels show some days more than others. He hasn’t been playing along much with twenty-one questions today, and I’m trying not to take it personally.
I microwave some leftover spaghetti and meatballs, then check my missed texts from when I was asleep. There’s one from Abby I promptly ignore without reading it, and another from Bailey confirming our plans tonight.
Bailey: Do you still want to come to the game with us?
Sera: Yep. What time?
Bailey: Shiv and I can pick you up at 6:30.
When they pull up to get me in Siobhan’s car, I’m oddly nervous. Not having a matching jersey like they both do makes me feel like the odd one out. I should have stolen some of Chase’s Falcons gear, but it’s too late now. The Falcons beanie I stole from Tyler will have to suffice. It’ll also help keep me warm because Bailey tells me Northview Arena is freezing.
Traffic is a nightmare as we draw closer to the venue, and parking is even worse. When we step inside, it’s swarming with people. It might sound silly, but I’d forgotten how big of a deal college hockey is at some schools. It wasn’t much of a thing at ASU. At Boyd, hockey players are full-on celebrities.
Because a hockey game isn’t a hockey game without snacks, we grab popcorn, candy, and drinks at the concession before pushing through the crowd to our seats. We’re early enough to catch the end of warm-ups, and a little buzz of excitement runs through me when I spot Tyler standing in front of the net as the guys take practice shots on him. I’m not sure whether he’s happy I’m here or not. It was a little hard to get a read on his reaction when I told him I was coming.
The arena, like Bailey warned me ahead of time, is freaking freezing. It may even be colder than it is outside. Thankfully, I wore extra layers beneath my clothes, including one of the warmest wool sweaters I own.
“Who are they playing tonight again?” I ask, turning to face the girls. Bailey is in the middle of us, and Siobhan is seated on her other side.
Bailey makes a face as she reaches for another hand of popcorn. “Callingwood. My school.”
“Oh, shit. Is that awkward for you? Because your brother…?” Who would I cheer for if Chase and Tyler were on opposite sides, anyway? Tough call. Chase is my brother and all, but he can be a real pain in the ass.
“A little.” She shrugs. “I’m used to it by now. It’s sort of a win-win. Or I guess it’s lose-lose, depending how you look at it.”
“Boyd versus Callingwood games are always bloodbaths,” Shiv chimes in. “Expect a lot of penalties, especially from your brother.”
Chase takes a lot of penalties to begin with, so that’s really saying something.
Siobhan isn’t wrong. The game is a total barn burner. High scoring, high penalty minutes, and high drama on the ice. It’s clear the teams hate each other, as evidenced by the constant sneaky shots and cheap jabs they both keep taking at one another. I even catch some things directed at Tyler, which is considered extra dirty as far as hockey code goes. He gets annoyed enough to slash one guy in return, but the officials seem to miss it.
Halfway in, the score is tied three-three. Even at a distance, I can tell Tyler’s upset. His body language makes that much clear. It isn’t solely his doing; there are a lot of factors at play. Both teams are playing sloppy, which includes nonexistent defense, and the goalies are being hung out to dry. Tyler is a phenomenal goalie, and he’s having an off night.
The game takes an even worse turn after the third period starts. Callingwood scores again, but it gets called back due to goalie interference. Somehow, I don’t think that’s of any comfort to Tyler. Knowing him, he’s beating himself up for letting another puck get by.
“He’s getting hammered out there,” I say, watching him reset his position between the posts. It’s incredibly hard to watch. I’ve never seen things from the goalie’s perspective the way I do now. Every time a shot slips past him, I feel a little sick.
“Do you think they’ll pull Ty?” Siobhan tears open a package of Skittles, offering us some.
Bailey shakes her head, her gaze still glued to the play. “No.”
“Probably not,” I reply at the same time.
Though I’m not sure which is worse: getting pulled or getting lit up like he is right now.
Siobhan’s forehead creases. “Really? He’s let in a lot of goals. I mean, I love the guy, but mathematically speaking.”
“So has the other goalie,” Bailey explains. “When the score is close like this, coaches usually let it ride.”
I squint, leaning forward. “What the hell is Chase doing?”
My brother just missed the most basic pass imaginable. None of the team is showing up well tonight. It’s frustrating for me, and I’m not even on the ice. I can only imagine how Tyler feels right now.
As the third period winds to a close, the score is tied five-five, and we’re sitting on the edgesof our seats. If it ends in a tie, it goes into sudden-death overtime. And if that carries on long enough, it goes into a shootout—which is probably one of the highest-pressure scenarios imaginable for a goalie.
The play carries down to our side of the net, and there’s a ton of traffic in front. I crane my head, trying to see where the puck is.
“Can you see?” I ask. “I see Dallas, but some guy is blocking Tyler.”
“Why isn’t their defense clearing the net?” Bailey gestures with her drink. “They’re letting Callingwood stand there cherry picking.”
The fun part about Bailey is she knows as much, if not more about hockey than the guys. Since she’s invested in both teams tonight, we’ve been getting a detailed running commentary the entire time. It’s highly entertaining. For someone who’s largely soft-spoken and reserved, hockey really gets her fired up.
Our attention stays fixed on our net, waiting to see if Boyd clears the puck. There’s a huge commotion out front, blocking Tyler from my line of sight, and the buzzer sounds to signify another goal.
Bailey stands up, her eyes darting between the scoreboard and the ice. “What? That was goalie interference again. And they’re just going to let it go?”
“I couldn’t see what happened,” I admit, hoping she’s right. Maybe it would be some small consolation for him, even if it wasn’t called.
My stomach aches as Callingwood skates off to their end, exchanging fist-bumps and hollering with excitement. Boyd’s team surrounds the net to give Tyler props, but the mood is decidedly somber.
More than anything, I want to hug him right now, and I can’t.
