“Darra.”
            I stop, midway through the stack of magazines, my thumb hovering between Women’s Digest and a lipstick-smeared issue of the National Enquirer. “What?”
            My mother touches my hand lightly, faintly, almost like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. “I’m just—I don’t know—” Her voice falters, the silence swallowing the rest of her words.
            “Mom, it’s okay. I’ll be okay. Let’s just see what the results say.”
            She shakes her head, her pale lips folded tightly against her face, and scoots back over, training her eyes on the brightly-colored fish in the tank.
            I abandon the magazine stack, which is grimy anyways, and follow my mother’s gaze. There’s something about that fish tank that’s always upset me. Maybe it’s how out-of-place it seems, all fluorescent and exotic amidst the stark white walls. But despite all the hectic colors, there’s something indescribably lonely about it. The fish live for such a small time, only one or two years, before they inevitably float to the top. They’re taken out and flushed down a pristine white toilet, and no one even seems to notice.
            I guess when your life is that short, you’re replaceable. No one really cares whether or not you exist.
            I suck in a breath as my gaze swivels around the room. The women at the front desk are as busy as ever, the nurses rushing in and out of the double doors. Most of the other patients are my mother’s age, in varying states of decay. Many are bald from the chemo, others burdened with oxygen tanks or heavy crutches. But as I look around, my eyes fall on one person in particular.
            She’s tiny, frail—really a wisp of a little girl. Thin golden curls fall just past her chin, her shining eyes trained on the toy truck in her fist. One of the bald patients bends a little and pats her on the head, and for the briefest second, a shadow passes over the little girl’s face.
            My heart weighs a thousand pounds. I want to curl up into a ball and block out the memories flooding through my mind. I’ve seen that look before, that same shadow. It’s something I want more than anything to forget.
            It happened a month ago, when my little sister finally caught on.
            “Da-wa, come play with me,” was my greeting when I rolled out of bed.
            I yawned and stooped down to ruffle Becca’s hair. “What, no ‘good morning’ anymore?”
            Becca swatted my hand away. “It’s four o’clock, Da-wa.”
            I swallowed hard, glancing at the clock. So it was. The dusty mirror behind my clock showed a scrawny scarecrow, dark shadows beneath its drooping eyes. You could almost see the outlines of ribs beneath my loose T-shirt. I winced and sunk down to the floor.
            “What’re we playing, Becca?”
            My sister slid over next to me. “Hide and seek. You hide, and I’ll count down.”
            I smiled at her bossy tone, her little face set and determined. “Yes, ma’am.”
            Becca toddled away, and I proceeded to prop myself up behind the couch, willing myself to ignore the jarring pain in my chest.
            “10, 9, 8. . .”
            I couldn’t help it. I started to cough.
            “7, 6, 5. . .”
            I was heaving. Big, hacking breaths that sent my entire body trembling.
            “4, 3, 2. . .”
            I collapsed in on myself, head between my knees, lungs rattling.
            “1. Ready or not, here I come, Da-wa.”
            I heard her assured footsteps coming up towards me. I curled up tighter, begging my body to just relax, to be okay.
            When I peeked out from behind my legs, Becca was frozen beside me. Her trusting smile had faltered.
            “Da-wa?”
            I tried to muster a smile, but all I could get was a faint grimace. My every limb was shaking. “You found me,” I croaked out. My hoarse voice sounded eighty years old.
            My little Becca began to slowly back away, and that’s when I saw it.
            Her big brown eyes were pricked with tears. There was a dark kind of doubt clouding her expression, like some kind of realization had just clicked inside her and dimmed down her happy light.
            In that moment, I hated myself. I hated how pathetic I looked. How much worry I was causing.
            That look in Becca’s eyes was forever burned into my memories, a scar I could never quite erase.
            Out of the blue, Dr. Evan’s voice draws me away from my thoughts. “Darra. Can you join me in my office?”
            My throat is bone-dry. I draw in a breath, then push the air back out before I rise and follow her through those dreaded double doors.
            The doctor sits me down as her printer whirrs to life, dishing out dozens of tables and charts and tiny lines of text.
            This can’t be good.
            Dr. Evan’s voice is neutral as she turns to me, papers in hand. “Darra, I’m going to be straight with you. Your body is very weak right now. I’ve diagnosed you with Stage II lung cancer.”
            I blink hard.
            “We’re going to get you into treatment, and we’re going to fight this. Survival rates are going up every day, and we’re constantly improving our drugs.” She pauses, her voice softening.
            “How are you holding up?”
            “I just—I’m sorry. Can I have a moment?”
            “Of course. I’ll go get your mother.”
            As the door clicks behind her, I sink to the floor, head between my knees. Surprisingly, I don’t feel angry or devastated. I’m numb. The whole thing feels surreal, as if I’m simply watching a movie play out.
            When Mom slips inside the room, I enter her outstretched arms without hesitation. There are no tears, which is a relief; instead, she clutches me as if afraid to let go.
            When at last she pulls away, she takes a slip of paper from her purse. In a voice she’s fighting to keep steady, she tells me, “Becca made this for you this morning. Somehow she knew where we were going.”
            Scrawled across the page is a crayon fish holding a lollipop, scribbled underneath: “Get well soon.”
            I try to speak, but the words are lodged in my throat, and only this choking, hoarse, animal noise escapes my mouth. I clear my throat and say the most normal thing I can. “Why the lollipop?”
            My mother’s gaze sweeps over the page tenderly. “She was pretty proud of that. A little joke of hers; she said you’re the sweetest sucker she knows.”
            And it’s something so banal, so mundane and silly amidst my tumultuous news, that my lips curve upward into a startled laugh. This, if nothing else, feels real.
            I take the paper into my hands and peer closer at it. I can see every deft stroke her chubby little fingers made, purple wax pressed into the thick cream-colored paper. With a start, I realize it’s the same as the fish from the lobby. A tropical swimmer, only this one seems happy. Somehow, this fish doesn’t upset me. Unlike those in the tank, it will last.
            The door opens, just a crack, as Dr. Evan peeks in at us. “Are you ready for me to come in?”
            “Yes,” I say, as my little sister’s drawing smiles up at me. “I’m ready.”