180 Seconds

  With a heavy heart, I am asking for your help.

  Steffi is in the final stages of a brutal cancer, AML. It’s imperative that we get Allison to her as soon as possible so that these friends can be together when Steffi leaves this world. We need to make it to Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles as quickly as possible. Between the airline strikes and spring break, we need your help. Starting this journey now from Landon, Maine. Please use the hashtag #allisonandsteffi if you can help. Thank you in advance, and love you all.

  He’s attached a beautiful picture of Steffi and me, and I’m torn between looking at it constantly and never wanting to see it again. She is healthy and vibrant in the photo, and I know she won’t look anything like this when I get to her. If I get to her.

  An hour into the drive, I’ve accepted that I cannot keep up with the three of them. Esben, Kerry, and Jason are alternately silent and rapid-firing back and forth as they track comments and try to make a plan. There’s talk of too many airports, too many cities, too many time slots. Mention of trains and rental cars and overnight stays that will never get us there while there is any life still running through my friend and hero. I’m terrified that I won’t be able to give Steffi what she needs in her final hours.

  Final hours. I want to vomit at those words.

  “Stop jumping so far ahead!” Esben shouts. “I don’t want to hear about what could happen if we randomly got to Orlando, okay? Or about that person in Phoenix who will throw us in a wheelbarrow and run us to a bus station. Subway schedules in random cities do nothing! That’s not helping! We’ve got seats on a flight from Bangor to Chicago. That’s cutting it close, but let’s assume that will work. So get us from O’Hare to a second location, preferably directly to Los Angeles. Give me two steps at a time, max.”

  I take a break from staring out the window and set my hand on his shoulder. “Esben, they’re trying their best.”

  “I know, I know.” He looks into the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, guys.”

  “Chicago is a huge start,” I remind him. Steffi sent me ten heart icons when I messaged her this news.

  Two generous, incredible sisters from Colby College, on their way home for break, are meeting us at the Maine airport to give us their seats. They’ve already arranged this with an airline agent, and I have tweeted them five times already to thank them.

  I call Simon, and he picks up immediately. “I’m up to speed. What can I do? You have the credit card I gave you for emergencies. Use it for whatever you need.”

  “Okay. Thank you so much.” Something about hearing his voice weakens my resolve not to cry. “But I’m not sure that will help.”

  “I know,” he says sympathetically. “But it’s there. Don’t worry about the expense. This is Steffi we’re talking about.”

  “Thank you. I had to call you . . . I just . . .”

  “It’s all okay. I love you, and I love Steffi. I know you’re going to be rushed and crazed, but don’t forget that I’m here. You tell me if you need anything at all.”

  “I will.” I’m back to looking out the window.

  “I’m texting her, and she’s writing back,” he tells me. “Just so you know.”

  “Simon? I love you.”

  I have to hang up before I crack.

  The flurry of talk in the car is more than I can absorb, and I check out Twitter and Facebook to see if I can help out at all. It only takes a few minutes of scrolling to understand how difficult this will be. There are tons and tons of replies and hashtag comments, including a substantial portion that send love out to Steffi and me. Ones from people who have been in similar situations, on the brink of losing a best friend. The outpouring of support in such a short time is mind-boggling and incredibly touching. Excruciating, but touching, still. The problem, though, is that right now what we need is practical help.

  “Do a new post,” I say, but they’re so busy talking and trying to plan that they don’t hear me. “Guys, we need a new post!” I say more loudly.

  “Why?” Esben asks.

  “Because this last one is clogged with . . . with good wishes. It’s all so sweet, but we need a post for solely practical offers of help.”

  “You’re right. Dammit, I should have thought of that. Kerry, log on as me and post again. Thank everyone for their kind words, but ask that this thread be only for logistics and stuff. Tell people that we’ll do a new post for each leg of this trip. Letting people know where we are, and if we have a next step planned.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Jason’s hand rests on my shoulder. “You holding up okay?”

  I nod. “For now, yes.”

  “Atta girl.”

  There is some quiet while the new posts go up, and I flip off the radio, because every song sounds like a funeral to me right now.

  “Oh hell,” Esben suddenly says.

  “What?”

  But the sputtering noise from the car answers, and Esben pulls off to the side of the road. We’re out of gas. He hits the steering wheel hard three times. “I cannot believe I did this.”

  “We left so fast . . . ,” I offer. “None of us thought to check.”

  We all sit, unmoving and unspeaking, for a few minutes, and I know that we’re all thinking the same thing: we’re on a single-lane road, and there hasn’t been much traffic.

  As Steffi would say, God save the queen; we’ve got a problem.

  Jason is the first to talk. “AAA will take too long. Let’s see how far a gas station is from here. I’m a fast runner.”

  “Nine miles,” Kerry says a minute later. “Near the airport.”

  “Post this.” My fingers are nervously strumming against the windowsill. “Esben, post our location.”

  “Allison, we’re kind of in the middle of nowhere. I don’t know if—”

  “Post it,” I say more assertively.

  “Okay, okay.” Esben takes his phone from Kerry.

  “Do you have paper or something for a sign that says we need gas?” Kerry asks as she opens her door.

  Esben pops the trunk. “I think there’s a cardboard box in the back. I don’t know about a pen, though.”

  “Lipstick,” she answers. “I have five lipsticks in my purse.”

  Kerry and Jason stand outside with their rudimentary sign, while Esben and I both stare at our phones. My stomach flies into knots every time a car passes, and after ten cars go by with no help, I start to shake my head. This isn’t going to work.

  Suddenly, Esben lights up. “Boom!” He turns to me and smiles. “Someone is coming.” He hops out of the car, and I follow.

  “Seriously?” I’m in disbelief. “Someone is bringing us gas?”

  “Red pickup truck. A teenager and his dad. From that direction.” He points behind us.

  My heart pounds while we wait. We’re cutting this really close, and I hope to God we can make it to the Bangor airport in time. Then, like a rescue beacon, a rusty red truck emerges from behind the slight hill of the road, and we all erupt in cheers. It flies toward us so fast that I’m afraid they’re not going to stop, but the driver whips in front of Esben’s car, revealing a teen boy in the truck bed, who triumphantly raises two plastic gas containers.

  “Hey!” The boy’s face is flushed as he holds out one of the containers. “This enough for you?”

  Esben takes one of the gas containers and then shakes the teen’s hand. “You must be Finn. Dude, you’re amazing. Yeah, this is more than enough to get us to a gas station. I’d love to talk, but . . .”

  “Fill ’er up, kid!” the father calls from his driver’s seat.

  Esben and Kerry begin to refuel us, and I go to shake Finn’s hand. To my surprise, he leans over the truck bed and hugs me. “I saw the tweet. I couldn’t believe we were nearby, and we’d literally just been getting gas for lawn equipment.” He’s holding me so tightly. “My mom died from cancer nine years ago. I hope you make it to your friend. I can’t imagine if I couldn’t have been with my mother.”

  Now I squ
eeze him back. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I do.” I pat his back and pull away. “I’m going to thank your father, too.”

  “Don’t,” he says seriously. “He’s having a hard time right now. It’s a reminder . . . just . . .” Finn tries to smile. “Just be with Steffi. That will make my dad happy.”

  I nod and touch his arm. “I’m going to do everything I can.”

  “Ready!” Jason calls. “Let’s go!”

  We get back in the car. In front of us, the red truck beeps four long honks, and the father holds his muscular left arm out the window and pumps a fist at the air, wishing us luck. Then he blasts away, smoke and dust billowing behind him.

  “Floor it, Esben,” Kerry says. “Floor it. We can make it to the airport on what’s in the tank.”

  The car screeches as we pull from our spot on the side of the road, and I look at the clock. We won’t make this flight. An extra fifteen minutes and maybe we’d be okay. Esben is driving as fast as is responsibly possible, but it won’t be enough.

  “The flight’s going to leave,” I say flatly.

  “Just hold on.” Kerry is on her phone again, typing away. “I’m writing Caroline and Deb, the girls with the tickets . . . okay, they’re with a ticket agent. They have to print new tickets with your names and all that. Security is moving really fast, but they’re ready to put you at the front anyway.”

  “Don’t think. Just drive,” Jason says calmly to Esben. “Just drive.”

  We say nothing more until Esben pulls up at the small airport and slams on the brakes. We all get out, and he tosses the keys to Kerry as he rounds the front of the car to take my hand. “We’ll be in touch. I love you guys.”

  I start toward my friends, but Esben pulls my hand. “No time. Come on. The flight is supposed to leave in four minutes.”

  As we rush to the glass doors, I look back to see Jason and Kerry waving. As if I didn’t already know how wonderful they are, today has cemented my understanding of that.

  We both scan the terminal, and I yank Esben toward the airline’s ticket counter.

  “Caroline? Deb?” he yells ahead.

  Two girls, both with long red hair, wave wildly. “Esben! Allison!” they scream.

  We reach them, and one says, “No time to talk. Show the agent your licenses.”

  We do, and she prints out our tickets in record time. “I’ll walk you to security,” the agent says. “They’re holding the flight for you.”

  “What?” I could cry. “Oh God, thank you. I’ll pay you two back for the tickets. Message me.”

  “No. It’s on us. Just go.” The two girls run with us to security, and I try to say something, but they both shake their heads.

  “We’re sisters, and we were in foster care until we were five. We get the bond,” Caroline says.

  “Your friend Steffi needs you more than we need anything.” Deb’s voice cracks.

  “I’ll never forget this,” I call out as I stand in the scanning booth.

  “You two rock!” Esben shouts.

  We’re still holding our shoes as we run to the gate, which is thankfully right outside the security checkpoint. God bless little airports.

  There’s a flight attendant standing there. “Esben and Allison?”

  We nod.

  “Welcome to flight six forty-two.” She scans our tickets and then motions for us to quickly enter the corridor to the plane. The door slams behind us, and we all walk briskly. “I’m Michelle. Let me know if you need anything.”

  I assume that our fellow fliers are going to shoot us seething looks for holding them up, but the moment that we are in view of the other passengers, applause erupts. I look to Michelle and Esben with confusion.

  “We explained what’s going on. They’re all behind you,” Michelle says. “Let’s take off.”

  I can’t believe this, but as we walk down the aisle, people touch my arm, give me friendly nods, and continue clapping. One woman even has tears in her eyes. In a fog, I make it to our row and drop into the middle seat, next to a serious man in a business suit. Part of me is waiting for him to yell at us for delaying the flight, but he gives me a very brief smile before going back to his book.

  We buckle our seat belts, and I lean against the headrest as the plane begins to taxi. Esben is rustling in the seat pocket.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Damn,” he says under his breath, as he flips the plane’s info card in his hand.

  “What?”

  “No Wi-Fi.”

  “Oh God.”

  Quickly, he sends Kerry a voice text. “We’re going radio silent for almost two and a half hours until we hit our layover in Detroit. Get us from O’Hare to Los Angeles. Do anything you have to, Sis. Anything. I know you can do this. And send Steffi a text and let her know that we’re off-line. Stay in touch with her and her nurses, okay, Sis?”

  Seconds later, she replies, and it’s already soothing to hear how steady she is. “Got it all. I will get you two a flight. Calling Steffi now. Hold tight. Try to sleep, okay?”

  The noise from the plane increases, and we quickly pick up speed. The landing gear lifts, and I know that we are officially airborne, legitimately on our way. I’d celebrate, except that our ultimate destination holds no reason to celebrate. I will have to block that out. But I don’t know how. I’ve got too much time, with nothing to do but sit and think. White noise has always been my friend, so I try to focus on the bland sounds that envelop the cabin.

  This scenario though? Steffi in a hospital bed? A hospital bed where—I am barely able to think this—she is dying?

  Memories of our early days flood my entire being. From my initial dislike to the time I stopped the attack on her to our subsequent sisterhood. I remember so much.

  The fact that every single time that I’ve seen her, she’s always somehow managed to look like a dream. She’d find ways to scrape for clothes and makeup when we were younger, and she never failed to look like a million bucks, no matter the circumstances. Steff had a build-it-and-they-will-come attitude.

  When she found out that no one had ever read me Goodnight Moon, she read it to me every night for weeks. It didn’t matter that I was way too old for that book, because Steffi knew that someone should read it to me.

  When I changed my clothes in front of her and revealed what she felt was an entirely too lame and boring bra for a fifteen-year-old, she illegally took her foster family’s car, drove me to the mall, and used the money she’d made working at a fast-food place to buy me an unnecessarily sexy push-up bra. “It’s not okay to be wearing that cotton bullshit!” she’d screamed. “You, my friend, deserve some sexiness.”

  I still have that bra.

  When I woke up with nightmares, Steffi adjusted my pillow and sheets and told me to breathe and to imagine greatness. To envision a glorious and happy future. That’s what was coming, she would assure me. This pain was temporary and would soon be in the past.

  I never believed her, but she would still lull me back to sleep with her words.

  She taught me that no-pulp orange juice was the only orange juice to drink. That deodorant didn’t always have to smell like alcohol. That it could smell like grapefruit and lavender, if you looked for the right brand. That thin-crust pizza always won out over deep dish. That memorizing seemingly boring math theorems would be worth it, just to prove that I could. That laughing hard enough to make puking a possibility could happen.

  That learning to hate myself less was a real thing.

  That water is much, much thicker than blood.

  Here on the plane, I squirm in my seat. I don’t know whether to lose myself in these memories or shut them out. Maybe I don’t have control in that decision.

  I am hit with the impending loss I am about to face, and my breathing gets ragged. This was coming—I’ve known this—but the reality hits me on a new level.

  There will never be another Steffi.
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  The suffering she is dealing with is probably unbearable. It’s unclear to me how much physical pain she is in right now, and I imagine she’s got to be on a host of meds, so she could be okay . . .

  I grip the armrests and make myself take long, deep breaths.

  I’m surely tricking myself. Her pain is probably horrific, and that thought is torturous. There is also her emotional anguish, which is surely so much more intense. Her physical pain might outweigh that? I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

  There are no tolerable answers right now.

  There are no tolerable thoughts right now.

  Every thought that runs through my head feels inadequate or selfish or inconsiderate or frail.

  I don’t know how to do this.

  In a wave of grief, my body involuntarily contracts in a sob, and I begin to cry.

  Before even Esben can reach me, the seemingly cold businessman seated to my right sets a hand on my back. This makes me cry harder. “Let it out,” he says without looking at me. “Just let it out. It helps.” With a shaky hand, he turns the page of his book and doesn’t look my way.

  So, I let it out, because I can’t do anything else. I sob. The man’s hand never moves from where it is, even when I collapse into Esben’s comforting embrace.

  By the time we land in Detroit for our layover, I am drained and covered in snotty tissues. I don’t know how I will make it through these many upcoming and interminable hours, but I have to.

  From now on, I assert to myself, there is no room for me or what I feel. None. The only thing that matters is getting to Steffi and giving her what I can.

  CHAPTER 28

  BIKERS AND SURGES

  Every second of the flight hurt. The descent was just another step toward Steffi’s death, and so my body trembled during the landing in Detroit.