Elle

Preliminary Draft

Not to be quoted

Without prior consent

I first ran across Elle in the second grade. Her family moved in from Kuantan about the middle of the year. This was probably the worst thing they could have done to her; there was no way for her to form friendships with kids who had already established tight cliques. She knew this, intuitively, as all kids do. Because of this she wandered the halls at school in a desolate cloud, forlorn expression on her face, shoulders slumped. No, I'll take that back; her shoulders never slumped. Such an action was below her. Her shoulders would have slumped, had her pride allowed it. I remember feeling a bit sorry for her; but I kept my distance; she was, after all, nothing more than a girl.

Nevertheless, I remember being fascinated with her. She was a cute kid; a scrawny thing with almost spindly limbs. If I had thought about such things, it would have been easy to predict that she was going to be beautiful when she grew up. She had high cheeks and a moderately full mouth that usually exhibited an incredible smile. She wore her curly hair down around her shoulders. But above all this, what really made her cute then (and gorgeous now) was her eyes; they were gray with a touch of a glow in them, a kind of radiance that I'll never be able to explain. It was one of those things where the whole was greater that the sum of the parts; it was more than the way the corners were always turned up in a grin, or the alertness that they betrayed; those things added up to something prettier, somehow.

We were in several classes together that year and the next. Matter of fact, since they seated us alphabetically, we were in close proximity quite often. However, we both maintained a cold demeanor towards each other. Fascinated as I was, I could not allow myself to be caught looking at her, wondering about her; eye contact was strictly forbidden. At that age, no one wanted anything to do with the opposite sex, and heaven help you if you were caught interested in a member of the other side.

The first time we spoke to each other was a disaster. We were in the lunch line, alphabetically, waiting to eat whatever it was that they fed us. My shoes always found a way of being untied, no matter how often I tied them. I tripped over one of the strands and fell against her, knocking her off balance; she in turn splashed her bowl of soup all over her white denim skirt. She spent only a precious few seconds in shock at the mess before turning to me, furious.

"You jerk, look what you did!"

Had I been smart, I would have apologized and helped her clean up. I was not intelligent, though; I was a fifth grader.

"Stop whining, stupid. It'll come off. Besides, it wasn't my fault."

"My mom'll kill me!" Those eyes turned angry, boring into me. "And it was your fault."

"Was not! Take it back."

"Was too." She stepped forward and pushed me. I stumbled back a few steps, but maintained my balance.

Now I had a problem. I knew I'd get into trouble if I retaliated; there was a serious penalty for fighting. But I couldn't let a girl get the best of me, not in public, not just in public, but the in front of the whole school. I made my choice, balled up my right hand, and buried it in her stomach.

This is the breaking point for most girls that age. After the first punch, their courage turns to tears. Not Elle, though; she was in obvious pain, that I could see in her eyes, but she stayed on her feet. She took a second to regroup, and then, with a grace and efficiency of movement that most karate masters don't achieve, she brought a perfect right hook across my jaw.

A bolt of pain shot across my mouth and cheek. I was stunned; I had prepared myself for victory, not for resistance, and certainly not for that. Again I stumbled back, losing my footing. I fell into somebody's arms; who, I'll never know. She advanced on me for another shot, jaw set, arms by her sides but ready to strike. Had Mrs. Henderson not stepped between us, I have no doubt in my mind that Elle would have trounced me.

I was right - I got in trouble. Fighting was not a charge a student could plea bargain with. The no-nonsense policy demanded that we were both punished, regardless of who was at fault. The disciplinary measure at the time was isolation; each classroom had a booth that allowed you to listen to lectures but cut you off from the contact of your peers. Not that this was all that bad in itself, but there was the humiliation to deal with. There was a slight problem, though; they only had one isolation booth, and two of us. Quickly realizing that it would be worse to force us to remain in each other's company, they crammed us in that little booth together.

At first we ignored each other, both of us fuming at the indignity of the situation. We would hear it on the playground, later... "Bit and Julie, sitting in a tree, K-i-s-s-i-n-g..." We sat in silence and listened to our math teacher drone on about equivalent fractions. We remained this way for about half an hour, buried in our books as an excuse not to make eye contact.

I sat there, infuriated at her for getting me into trouble, trying to devise a way to escape the ragging of my peers, when I heard her sniff as if her nose was running. I looked at her and saw a stream of tears running down her right cheek. My anger suddenly dissipated, and I was about to reach out to her; when she noticed me watching her she turned the other way.

Fine. If she was going to be like that, then I didn't care, I tried to be angry again, but another sniff from her prevented me.

Everybody called her Julie (I started to call her Elle later). "Julie." No response. "Hey, Julie, I didn't hurt you too badly, did I?"

"That sissy punch? Don't be silly." Her diction was crisp and her voice strong, not irritatingly high like some.

I decided not to let her bait me. "Then what's the matter?"

She didn't want to surrender. "Nothing."

I started to speak, but decided to wait. A few long moments passed. I had almost decided to abandon my chivalrous endeavor, turning my attention back to fractions, when she capitulated, turning to face me.

"I've never been in this much trouble before. My parents will kill me." She sniffed again, almost dramatically.

"Don't worry. Mrs. Henderson won't send a note home until your third time in the booth. Your parents don't ever have to know."

She allowed herself to meet my eyes. There was genuine worry there.

"Really?”

"Really."

Suddenly her world looked less bleak. The worry crept off of her face, replaced, ever so cautiously, by the most beautiful smile I had ever seen.

For some odd reason, that incident had endeared me to her. She took a liking to me, probably because I was one of the few people (excluding teachers, as if they were ever counted as people) who had a kind word for her. She had seen something in me that I didn't know existed: tenderness.

Of course, this was a bad thing for me. It was highly un-cool to be tender, and I couldn't allow myself to exhibit any more of it if I expected to keep my friends. At least, that's what I told myself. But Julie was persistent, and persuasive; I had not met anyone before that was just fun to be with, and easy to laugh with.

She had taken the leap, with nothing to lose. I decided that it was worth the risk that I would be running; I crossed over and began talking to a girl. I feared alienation, but instead I became a trend setter. With my friendship with Julie came a tolerance, if not acceptance from the others.

I guess that was the beginning of our friendship. It was awkward, acceptance or not, but we didn't let it bother us. She was a little tom-boyish, as her fighting ability proved, so she didn't mind the rough and tumble war games we played. Now that I think about it, maybe the other boys didn't accept her, but feared her; they knew what she was capable of. Then again, maybe it was a respectful awe they had for her.

I quickly learned that she and her mother lived only two blocks from my house. Southern suburbia was quite safe at that time; a child of no more than five could walk the streets at eight at night with no problems at all. Once outside, he became the child of the collective mother was formed by all the inhabitants of all the homes in the area. If there ever was to be a problem, it would be quickly solved by the nearest 'mother', be it a sixteen year old neighbor or the sixty year old man-across-the-road. Our mothers held this assurance close to them, and because of it we were able to make frequent, if not incessant, trips back and forth.

It was here that I learned the art of compromise; I allowed myself to get talked into a game of "house" quite often. It wasn't the game that mattered anymore, it was the ability to spend time with her that was important. She'd do the same with my games too.

Of course, we found non-gender-specific activities as well; we could always find refuge in a swing-set, or at the park. There were a plethora of adventures to be had, whizzing down the streets of the neighborhoods in fast cars (bikes with banana seats), or exploring the forests and jungles (clumps of trees) between subdivisions. No child, male or female, wanted to miss these escapades, and Julie was the perfect companion, always ready to go anywhere, anytime. Again, it was the companionship that made the difference; Julie was the best part of the adventure. The jungle gym was never quite ready to fly to Mars unless she was there. A trip through Hell would have been pleasant, as long as we could have gone together, and as long as we could have made it back by dinner.

And when it rained, there were quiet afternoons inside somewhere, checkers or chess (she taught me, but I slowly met my teacher at her level); and not so quiet afternoons, tickling and wrestling and laughter and giggles. And once in a while, if we both felt daring enough, there would be a cautious game of doctor. Yes, we were both old enough to know better, but that's what made it so much fun... Besides, it was, uh, educational.

Worse than that, I remember a certain summer when we were eleven. Eleven is a weird age; I had just begun to discover girls, and yet I think Elle had come to the full realization that boys could be something more than... just boys.

In the woods near our house, on a lot that is now a subdivision of its own, there was a rather secluded lake. One sultry afternoon, Elle and I were braving all the dangers of these woods when we stumbled across this lake. The water was clear, obviously brook fed, and shaded by all the surrounding trees. Someone had built a rickety pier; Elle walked out on this pier and dipped her hand in the water.

"It's so cool. If I had a swimsuit, I'd jump right in."

I had one of my brilliant ideas. "Why do we need swimsuits?"

"What are you going to do, jump in with all your clothes?"

Rather than answer her, I pulled my shirt over my head and began to untie my shoes. Elle considered for a moment, and then flipped off her own sneakers.

I was careful to avert my eyes while she finished stripping. It was difficult, but I was very proud of myself for not succumbing to the urge to sneak a peak. I mean, we were hardly children anymore; Elle was now a young lady. Not only would she expect to be treated as such, but she would act as such, too-

"Bit! You've, uh... grown."

As ambiguous as the comment was, what she meant was clear. I was not surprised to find that I was not at all embarrassed; I don't think I've ever had anything to hide from Elle. But her remark couldn't go unavenged. "You pervert," I accused, tackling her around the waist and dumping us both in the lake.

We played in the lake together for the better part of two hours, racing, playing tag, splashing each other, and just generally goofing off. Afterwards, we sunned ourselves dry on the dock so that our parents would never discover we'd been swimming.

It was that kind of trust and carelessness that made our childhood together so wonderful. Sometimes I look back, and I realized how much I miss it. It was great; Elle and I simply did everything together.

We shared secrets and told stories, halved the pain and doubled the joy. These are the things children do with each other, for each other, without realizing that they are doing it; it's this compassion and loving that children don't even understand they are capable of. That's what's so wonderful about being a child, and the shame of it is we don't realize these things at the time...

This is not to say that our relationship was perfect. Like all kids, we had our fights, large and small, over matters mostly inconsequential. It was more often than necessary that a harsh word passed between us after a minor frustration or a blameless accident. I suppose that was where our relationship found its beginnings, and it sometimes returned there. Sometimes we argued, sometimes we yelled. I tried to avoid physically fighting her (I never forgot that first right hook) but we had our bouts, only a few of which I won. However, over a period of silence ranging from hours to days, all would be forgotten. In "I never want to talk to you again," 'never' was usually no more than 96 hours.

We had our fights, but through it all, we were inseparable. To those around us, parents, teachers, other friends, BitandJulie practically became one word; when you saw one, there was the other.

As we grew and changed, so did our relationship. The onset of puberty, and the onset of middle school, then high school, brings a difference in each of us. There are new elements to our lives. The biggest one, of course, would probably be a sudden, unexplained, set your heart thudding and trip over the ground interest in the opposite sex.

For this reason, your definition of friend includes a person you can confide secrets in, in my case secrets that would never be allowed to grace the ears of a mere girl. From what I understand, it's this way for females as well; there are things, girl things, that you just don't discuss with boys, a breed of indecipherable humans that can vary between infinitely fascinating to downright disgusting.

But Elle (she had asked me not to call her Julie, but she allowed no one else to call her Elle. It was a long time until I understood that this was her way of acknowledging me as something different from everybody else) was no mere girl. I was closer to her (and her to me) than anyone else, boy or girl. We could talk about things you usually save for a member of your own gender. Boys, girls, teachers, friends, love, parents, sex, homework, whatever, however candid - it didn't matter. She trusted me implicitly (and I her). We could turn to each other for anything. I have yet to meet somebody else, either sex, whom I could do that with.

Again, we had our disputes. Friends go though it all of the time - absurd moments, bad judgments, misunderstandings - it's inevitable. This happened more often than not after we began dating. Even though we were committed to each other, there came times of uncertainty. Priorities got confused, people got neglected; interpersonal politics clouded issues. One of us would feel left out, wounded; there'd be an argument. Some of them were yelling matches, others cold discussions. That's just human nature.

But rarely did it last too long. Between two people that have known each other for so long there is a strong drive to make amends and forgive. The bigger problem was our date's reaction to our relationship. There was always jealousy - I lost several girlfriends before I could make them understand that my interest in Elle was different. Most relationships I did maintain were with the agreement that Elle came first. Through it all, we stayed devoted to one another.

This doesn't mean that we had no... interest in each other. By high school, Elle had grown into an immensely attractive girl. She was 5'5" with a medium build. She looked a little heavy until you realized that her bone structure was large; she weighed only 120. She had curly brown hair that she still kept at shoulder length, to frame her face. She never troubled herself with make-up or jewelry; she dismissed all adornments as 'Frivolous.' Not that she needed it; her features were already soft, and her skin was almost flawless.

Her eyes were gray, but what struck you about them was the attentiveness in them. She was always so alert; she knew what was going on around her at all times. There was a light in her eyes, and not just a sparkle; those eyes could banish the shadows from a room on a cloudy day, or chase the despair from a life with little joy. I don't know how to explain it, but her eyes, and her person as a whole, just radiated, especially when she smiled.

And she always smiled; it was a dangerous smile, a smile that made your legs go weak, a smile that left you with the overpowering desire to scoop her up in your arms and hold her close to you and cover her with kisses. Even though she was my dear friend, I sometimes caught myself undressing her with my eyes. I enjoyed just watching her move; she glided instead of walking, grace and beauty and sensuousness just flowing from her.

More than her appearance, she was a beautiful person. She had no end to compassion, and she brought liveliness to any group or conversation, no matter how dour. She was the fun-loving type; she was quick to joke and even quicker to laugh. Outgoing and easy to befriend, everybody loved her - starting with me.

Sometime during our sophomore year, we ran into trouble. Then again, I wouldn't call it trouble... She had just had her sixteenth birthday. I had greeted her at the door on that day with, "Sweet sixteen and never been kissed." She just gave me one of those knowing looks.

Sometime a day or two later, she needed help with her algebra. Of course, I offered to help; she accepted. The problem was, and we both knew this, that we would spend as much, if not more, time goofing off instead of working. We now ignored our books, spread out on the low table in front of the couch, and talked.

"He was a jerk," Elle continued, "an arrogant jerk." Her latest fling had just crashed and burned, much to his chagrin.

"I thought he was rather nice." For some reason we always got each other's approval when it came to our dates. It was almost like bringing your girlfriend home to meet the family, without the stress.

"You call self-centered nice?"

"I never saw him as self-centered."

"That's because you never dated him."

I tried to look demur, casting my eyes to the floor. "Who says I haven't?"

She broke into laughter, that rich voice filling the room. I just listened. I could listen to her laugh all day. Her laugh had a way of wrapping around you, filling you with warmth.

When she calmed down, she paused for a while. Then - "I'm just glad I got rid of him. Invaluable lesson though - looks aren't everything."

"There you go. Write him off as a learning experience."

"But of course. It's a shame though. He was handsome... and a great kisser."

I tried not to react, but my usual pang of jealousy was now accompanied with shy embarrassment. I should have known better than to try to hide it from her; Elle used that uncanny intuition of hers and picked up my discomfort. She was very perceptive, especially when it came to me.

"Why Bitriz," - she called me Bitriz to be irritating, coy expression in her eyes, - "why the look?"

I babbled some ineffectual response. She knew exactly why; it's not like there were any secrets between us. Compassionate though she was, she decided to play with me, putting on her best Scarlett O'Hara accent.

"But Bit, darling, it was just a little kiss. You've been kissed before, haven't you?"

I didn't want to answer her. The truth was that even though I'd dated, I'd never more than pecked a girl. Of course, she knew this, but for some reason I could not bring myself to admit it. Again, I didn't have to; the answer written on my face.

"Okay, fine, I've never kissed anyone before."

"Surely you've wanted to."

"Yes, but..."

"But you didn't. Why?"

"I'm kinda... sorta..."

"Afraid?"

I was silent. I tried to avoid her gaze, but couldn't; we were both on the same couch. Suddenly I felt very small.

"Bit, fear is a natural part of it. But there's nothing to be afraid of; just relax and do what comes naturally."

Despite my overwhelming urge to curl up into a ball, I was struck with a sudden boldness. This ridiculous courage wasn't coming from within me, but from the creature across from me, from the alluring look on her face. Just like always, we were thinking the same thing at the same time.

She leaned closer to me, and I was nervous and frightened and excited at the same time. My mind ran quickly over all the times I'd wished for this moment, and all the times I'd dreaded...

But my brain went into neutral when I felt the warmth of her body near mine. She tilted her head to the left, our lips met, and we kissed.

I released her, and then realized that I didn't want to let her go. I held her head in my hands and kissed her again. She melted into my arms and stayed there for a long instant, letting me move away only after releasing my lip from between her teeth.

I studied her for a moment. She opened her eyes slowly, soft expression betraying that she felt the same way I did. But as I leaned towards her again –

"Wait a minute, Bit, we really shouldn't."

"Shouldn't?"

"Get close, I mean. Not like this."

My brain resumed its previous line of thought. ...all the times that I'd dreaded this moment, because I knew that, even though it was what I wanted, what we wanted, there was always the –

But I didn't want to admit it. "There's no harm done, Elle. We've always been close, so -"

"That's just it. If something goes wrong, we could mess up everything we've got. We've had such fun, we've been so much to each other, for so long. It would be too easy to replace that with anger. All those years would go to waste." She paused, a sad expression overtaking her features. "Bit, I couldn't face losing you."

I sighed; she was right. In an effort to chase the expression from her face, I took her into my arms. She laid her head on my shoulder and held me tightly.

Elle had always been mature beyond her years; and that maturity usually made her right. As much as I hated to admit it, she was right here too. It was too risky. I couldn't bear the though of losing her either; I ran my hands through her hair and told her so.

From that point on, we were careful about our relationship. We went out together quite often, even to dances, but always as friends. Not that there was distance between us; but for some reason it became very natural not cross the line between friendship and, well, whatever you called it.

Not that our mutual attraction died. I suppose that I enjoyed her embraces a bit too much, on occasion. Of course, we never hid it from each other, so instead of being a point of tension, it turned into a running joke. We were constantly hitting on each other, making passes, even lewd suggestions, just for fun.

But come Hell or high water, we stayed more than friends, and more than in love. There isn't really a way to describe it; she ceased being a friend, or a love interest, and became a part of my life, part of me. With her near me I suffered no hardship alone; and by no coincidence, any time there was joy in my life, there was Elle. I can't speak for her, but my life would be incomplete without her.

Two

We talked to each other often on the phone. My parents thought that this was ridiculous; "You see her every day in school." What they don't understand is that you never have time to talk at school. The teachers wouldn't let you during class (and the penalties are a little worse than isolation these days), and during breaks, like lunch, you were surrounded by only a hundred or so people. Meaningful conversation did not occur; there were things too private to discuss in front of one hundred of your closest friends.

It was Saturday morning when the phone rang. I noticed that she waited until just after Bugs Bunny was over. She was always doing considerate things like that.

"Hey Bit, it's me."

"Elle, how are you?"

"Fine." From the very fact that she answered my question in one word I knew that she wasn't fine. As we spoke, exchanging what were really formalities, she remained quiet, her responses uneasy and her mind distracted. She was usually such a cheerful person; even when she was having the worst of days she was talkative and somewhat energetic.

"Elle, what's wrong?" I had caught her off guard, practically interrupting her. This brought silence. "Darling, talk to me -" I remembered that she didn't respond to being pushed, so I cut myself off and waited.

After a few moments, she began hesitantly. "I don't know how to put this..." She halted to collect her thoughts. "Well... look, I was reading earlier, as I always do, laying on my back. It was this really cool book." She started to pick up momentum, but she was running from the conversation. "It's about this little girl who's parents are experimented on my the government, and she's pyrokinetic-"

"Elle." I didn't want to force her to tell me, but I knew her well enough to know that she wanted to talk about it. She was just... scared. What worried me is that fear is something very uncharacteristic of her. Something had to be really wrong.

She took a breath. "I'll spit it out eventually."

"You have to rip Band-Aids off quickly."

She smiled, slightly; I don't know how I knew it, but she did. "My neck started to hurt, so I flipped over onto my stomach. But before I got propped up on my elbow, I-"

There was a long silence while she searched for the words. "I... well..." and suddenly they came tumbling out, surprising her as much as it did me. "I felt a lump."

It was the first time she had allowed herself to actually think about it in those terms. I know this because I heard her say, "Oh God," quietly to herself.

I took my time absorbing what she said. "A lump."

"Yes." It didn't sound like her voice.

"Do you mean-"

"In my right breast, Bit." No, not her voice at all.

"Are you sure?"

"I checked quite thoroughly." Elle's voice was never this weak.

A pause. I really had no idea what to say. I've consoled people at funerals- and suddenly I was angry at myself for even having that thought. Of course this was different. Very different.

"When did this happen?"

"An hour or two ago." Elle's voice didn't make it sound like it was different.

"Have you told your mom?"

She hesitated. "No." That one-word answer again, where she would usually have followed with a reason or rationalization. I tried to determine why she sounded different. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have known instantly; she was terrified.

I was really at a loss. "You should. And then you should see a doctor - soon." Suddenly I felt useless. She called me because she was frightened, because she needed help, and I could do nothing but state the obvious.

"But-" she said more, but I didn't hear; her voice had failed.

"Really, Elle, you should."

She found the strength to whisper. "But what if it's serious?"

"All the more reason to go now." I tried to keep my voice even and strong, but I was reeling. The numbers on the phone had started to blur.

"Bit," - she almost lost her voice again, this time to tears. - "I'm scared."

"Tell your mom, and call a doctor. I'll be there in about 30 seconds."

I spent most of that day with her. A quietness had descended on the Peterson household; neither Elle or her mom had much to say. Or if they had something to say, they didn't want to say it, almost as if they were scared of what might come out of their mouths. That much I could see in their eyes, when I could actually make eye contact. At this point there wasn't much that I could do; my words of reassurance sounded hollow, and my cheery attitude was obviously forced. In truth I was probably as scared for Elle as she was for herself. But I offered the few smiles I could, to let her know that I was there to hold her should she want to be held. By her side was where I belonged, and where I wanted to be.

Within two weeks Elle had seen a gynecologist, who in turn referred her to a breast surgeon. Even though the ob/gyn had assured them that he was "referring them to a surgeon only to be sure," since he didn't think anything was amiss, the word 'surgeon' terrified Mrs. Peterson as well as Elle.

Elle awkwardly requested that I come with her to the hospital for the exam. Of course I said yes, but her hesitant tone bothered me; it was probably the first time she had been uncomfortable around me in years.

Tuesday afternoon her mother and I waited silently in the sitting room while Elle had her examination and a mammogram. The whole thing took about an hour, even though it seemed like more. All either one of us could do was stare at the floor, as if speaking, or even looking at each other, would shatter the fragile hope that lingered in the room. Mrs. Peterson was very fidgety.

I made the mistake of speaking in an effort to cheer her up. "It's probably nothing. Besides, Elle's quite young. My bet is that she's fine."

She started at the sound of my voice. When she regained her wits, she just looked at me and tried to smile. "My mother died of breast cancer," she said bleakly. Cancer. It was the first time anyone had used that word. It had danced in the back of our minds, but no one had dared utter it aloud, giving the idea life.

My mind tightly shut out the thought.

"She's quite young," I insisted. "She'll be fine."

A few minutes later, Elle floated through the door, followed by Dr. (Mrs.) Patel. Elle's eyes remained on the floor; cheeks seemed hollow for some reason, and she looked thinner. Her mom and I stood; I caught Elle's eyes as she glanced at me from under her brow. "No worries," I offered, pasting a half-smile on my lips. She just looked at me, eyes completely dull, before returning her gaze to the floor.

"Mrs. Peterson, I need to speak to you and your daughter... alone." The Doc looked pointedly in my direction. I took the queue and turned to sit.

"He's coming too." From within that thin frame Elle's voice projected an uncharacteristic authority that shocked Dr. Patel; I guess doctors are used to giving orders, not submitting to them. Consummate professional that she was, she just brushed it off and held the door for us. We proceeded into her office.

The Doc circled to her seat behind her desk; Elle and her mom took the two sparse chairs. I stood protectively over Elle. It was unintentional; only later did I realize that I was doing it.

"What can I say?" the Doc began. "Both palpitation and the mammogram" - which she showed us on the lighted panel built into her desktop - "indicate the presence of a cyst." She allowed silence while we studied the X-ray. With her pen, she pointed out a spot that was stark white, compared to all the grays and blacks on the film.

Mrs. Peterson's shoulders dropped; she shrank back in her chair and put her hand over her eyes. She sighed, and asked, "What's the next step?"

"I can't tell whether the cyst is benign or malignant from the procedures so far. For that, I'll need a biopsy done."

Elle looked up from the mammogram and met the doc's eyes. She had her hands clasped in her lap, but her shoulders seemed to be straight. Her voice came out thin. "I don't understand."

"The simple version is that there are two types of tumors. 'Benign' tumors are ones that don't spread; they are generally very easy to remove. The more dangerous tumors are 'malignant'. As for a 'biopsy', all we do is take a sample of the tumor for testing."

Elle's eyes flicked quickly to the desk, then back at the doc. "The tumor isn't on the surface. That would mean that collecting a sample would involve -"

"A simple surgical procedure. It does require full anesthesia, though. I want to check you in upstairs as soon as possible." I waited for Elle's reaction, but there was none. She sat, a little ridged, in her chair, not moving.

The doc looked back and forth between Elle and her mother, forgetting that I was there. After a short while - I knew that it wasn't my place to say anything, but I couldn't bear the silence. Besides, I felt that Elle wanted to hear the answers to these questions... It's one of the by-products of knowing each other so long. We have some kind of understanding of what the other is thinking, and sometimes we complete each other's sentences.

Whatever the reason, I interjected into the silence, "I've two questions. One: isn't she just a bit young? This is supposed to happen in women over fifty."

The Doc begrudgingly acknowledged my question. "You're right, but there are a significant number of cases in women between the ages of twenty and fifty. A case in a seventeen-year-old is rather rare, but unfortunately, it does happen. Your other question?"

"What comes after the biopsy?" I immediately regretted asking; I was going to get an answer that would scare Elle.

A thoughtful look crossed the doc's face. She realized my mistake, and was trying to soften her answer. There was no point being graphic at this stage. "It's really hard to say. It depends on the tumor."

We filed out of the office after Mrs. Peterson completed the needed paperwork. She handed me the keys to her car. No one made a sound for the duration of the trip home.

The biopsy appointment was scheduled for that Friday. Elle was scheduled at 2:45, but she had to report to the hospital at 10:00 that morning. She had hesitated asking me to come with her.

"Bit, could you..."

When she didn't finish her sentence, I took her shoulders gently. "Elle, this is me here. We grew up together, we shared everything... we've even gone skinny dipping together. You have nothing to be embarrassed about."

The intended memories came back to her; the intended reaction flicked across her face. It was the first time I'd seen her smile in two weeks... and yet, deep in her eyes there was a cornered look. I wanted nothing more to bundle her up in my arms and tell her everything would be fine, but I was just scared enough that I wouldn't have believed it myself.

"Just tell me when and where, and I'm there."

That morning we sat in the Doc's office while she explained the procedure in detail. That, I think was Dr. Patel's most endearing quality, next to her quiet, sure manner; she fully understood that people think that their bodies should not be submitted to someone else's discretion. People want to know exactly what's going to happen, and they want the opportunity to ask questions, and even veto a procedure. That fact that she understood it was very reassuring.

It reassured me, at least. I ignored the Doc's lecture in an effort to read Elle's and Mrs. P's take on the issue. The latter was easy; she was not at all reassured. I would have been shocked had she been anything other than terrified. She was, after all, watching her daughter confront what could be a life threatening disease. She had been jumpy the past few days, and you could see on her face the damage the worry was doing to her.

Elle was a different story. Where her mother's feelings were transparent, she remained unnervingly blank. I had expected her to be scared too, and yet very attentive at the Doc's lecture; her own brand of curious and horrified. But if she was, there was no way for anyone to tell. Her face remained passive, as it had since Tuesday; her eyes reflected nothing.

I don't know if I ever, at that point, doubted that Elle would come through this without much of a problem. It was probably benign, or it would be banished with a simple minor surgery, and she would continue on like nothing happened. I was nervous, but not scared.

Until I saw the emptiness in her eyes.

Again, her mother and I sat it out in the waiting room. She remained on her feet, striding around the room and fidgeting with her hands. I managed not to join her, remaining instead stiffly in my seat; so stiff that I was sore for two days afterwards. There was nothing said; all that a body could hear was that waiting room silence, the silence, born of nervousness, that is more silent than silence usually is. I wracked my brain for something comforting to say, but I came up sadly empty.

I had only a vague idea what Mrs. P. Must has been going through. This was every woman's fear, and now she had to watch as her daughter dealt with it. Sort of like living a nightmare vicariously. Not that anyone was sure than Elle was in trouble, that she even had cancer; but the anxiety was weighing heavily on Mrs. P's shoulders, making her usually light heart drag.

Mrs. P. bore this burden alone; she didn't even have the support of her husband, whom she'd divorced when Elle was three. I knew that I could offer her nothing to lighten her load, but I hoped that my presence was some comfort.

We were at Elle's bedside when she woke up, dazed and hungry. All three of us left the hospital a few hours later. That evening I helped Mrs. P. with dinner, offering what company and support I could, before returning home. I didn't sleep that much; Elle and her mom couldn't have slept at all.

Another positive thing about Dr. Patel was that she understood that people needed all the support and comfort they could get while receiving what could be bad news. She figured that phones were not the most reassuring thing at a time of anxiety, so she always invited her patients to her office to discuss test results, be it pregnancy or pap smear. Elle was scheduled for 10:30 on the following Monday; but the Doc must have known that she would be addressing all three of us that morning. She showed no shock when I held the door for Mrs. P. and Elle.

It was an odd place for a male of my position to be in; even brothers, fathers, and husbands of the Doc's other patients didn't advance past the waiting room. Now that I think about it, it was a little awkward; I was making a conscious effort not to stare too long at the anatomical charts on the wall. But there was no other place for me at the time; Elle's side is where I wanted to be.

So on that bright morning the three of us arrayed ourselves in the office as we had before. Even with the sunlight pouring in the windows and the birds chirping merrily, the room seemed dark and clinical.

After preliminary 'how are you's, the doc opened the folder on her desk. She looked Elle right in the eye. "I'll be straight with you." She was using the same flat tone that she always did; bedside manner or not, her voice didn't differentiate between 'We're about to eat dinner' and 'The space shuttle just exploded.' "The cyst has proven to be malignant. If it is not removed, it could very quickly spread to your other organs, and cause serious trouble. I can only recommend a mastectomy, and soon."

She was met only with blank, uncomprehending stares. I'm not sure Elle had even heard anything past the word 'malignant'.

"With the mastectomy, your chances of leading a normal, full length, life increase from nothing to good. I welcome a second opinion, though."

Mrs. Peterson was the first to get her thoughts re-connected to her mouth. "M-mastectomy?" was all she could manage at first, but in a few seconds, she continued. "Isn't that just a bit... drastic?"

"Yes, ma'am, it is, but with tumors as aggressive as this one, removing the entire breast is the only way to ensure the cancer is eliminated."

Mrs. P. remained absolutely shocked, but Elle's face remained expressionless, mouth set and eyes leveled at the Doc. After a few moments, she flatly, evenly asked, "When?"

"This appears to be a very fast growing cancer. I'm going to find the earliest possible opening in the schedule of the operating rooms."

Elle didn't move, not even a blink. In the same featureless voice she answered, "Good."

Elle's reaction or lack thereof, worried me excessively. I watched her closely as we walked out of the hospital, looking for some way to reach out to her. Her face hadn't changed; her eyes remained fixed ahead of her, but she only barely saw what was in front of her... she was lost within herself somewhere. She returned to reality just long enough to glance at her mother. When her gaze stayed there, I looked too.

There were tears running down her mother's face. Before I could say anything, Elle stepped over to her, wrapping her arms around her mom and holding her for a very long time. I waited a few paces behind with my hands clasped behind my back, trying not to invade by staring. Elle was softly whispering into her mom's ear, stroking her dark hair gently. She hugged her once again, and then led her to the car. I had the keys again, and automatically drove them home.

Again, I stayed with them through the silent lunch that followed. Elle's mom had to go back to work after lunch, but I felt that Elle would like some company for the afternoon.

"Don't you worry," I offered to Mrs. P. when Elle's hearing was diminished by the running water in the sink. "Elle's one Hell of a trooper. She'll do well." Mrs. P. only gave me that same resigned look, as if to say, 'Thank you for your encouraging attitude and stuff, but I'm not holding my breath.'

I was worried, though; Elle continued to shut out us and everything around her, she had eaten her sandwich without even protesting the excess mayonnaise. She should have offered some reaction by now; there was no way she could be so calm about this. She was hiding, burying her feelings, and it wasn't healthy for her.

Later that afternoon, I tried to breach the subject, to coax her out in the open. "How ya' feeling, gorgeous?"

"Decent." We were seated on the couch in the living room; the radio was playing in the background. I don't believe that Elle heard it. As withdrawn as she had been, I was surprised that she had heard me. She had answered without moving; she had her eyes closed and her head tilted back.

I prodded her some more, letting my exasperation show. "Doesn't this bother you at all?"

At first she didn't respond. Then, she slowly opened her eyes, lifted her head, and turned it towards me, all her motions deliberate and mechanical. She took a moment to focus on me, and then her eyes narrowed, only for a moment. "Sure it does. But tons of women go through this, and then go on with their lives. It'll be nothing more than an inconvenience." Her tone was even, almost artificial. "Besides, when the question is my breast or my life, the answer is obvious. There is no use being upset."

At her mention of her breasts, my eyes momentarily flicked to her chest. I quickly caught myself, and focused on her eyes again. "That's oversimplifying things."

She continued to stare through me. "Not really."

"Why won't you talk to me? You know that burying everything will only lead to ulcers."

The attempt at levity was lost on her. Sounds like something I'd do, using medical problems to distract someone with medical problems.

With he same mechanical style, she returned to her reclining position, closing her eyes again, sealing me out. "Bit, trust me. I'm fine."

I let it go at that; I knew Elle well enough to know that I wasn't going to get anywhere by pushing her. Besides, I had to consider the minute possibility that she was telling the truth; or maybe notion just hadn't hit her yet.

A day after Doc Patel had made the diagnoses, she asked Elle back for the standard briefing. There was the same clinical lecture about procedures and incisions. Elle listened to it patiently, and quietly asked her questions.

Basically, the doc was going to remove Elle’s entire right breast, including some muscle and tissue underneath. The doc assured her that it was a simple procedure with a good success rate.

"So what will I be... left with afterwards?"

"There will be no reconstructive surgery or implants, not yet. Maybe in a year or two, after we're very sure that there is no remission. If there was another problem, the implant would be in the way. Until then, we'll get you a well-matched prosthetic breast that will fit into your brassier."

Elle's response was slow and measured. "You said this operation had a good success rate. What other problems could there be?"

"As I said, there is a very good chance that this one surgery will wipe out the problem completely. But there is the possibility of a need for follow up procedures to remove any remaining malignant cells."

They went on for a while, Elle asking frank questions and the Doc giving frank answers. I think Mrs. P. was a little startled when her little girl brought up sex, childbirth, and physical attractiveness, but the good doctor took it all in stride.

Half an hour later Elle exhausted all her questions. She was quiet for a minute; then she drew a long breath. Straightening her back, and flashing a half-hearted smile, she flatly said, "Great. When do we begin?"

Dr. Patel had found a spot in the schedule for Elle for two weeks later. Elle's mother had to work really late the night before the surgery, on some big deadline; her employers were in a relentless mood. Rather than let Elle spend the evening alone, I offered to stay over. As a matter of fact, I got permission to stay the entire night, since there was no point in driving home at two in the morning. Mrs. P. had no objections; it had been a while, but I used to spend the night at their place all the time.

More than that, I think the same unspoken thought passed between Mrs. P. and myself. Elle had still refused to allow any emotion pass over her face. Neither her mother or I wanted her to be alone when the dam broke.

Elle boiled the spaghetti in silence, and we ate in silence. After we finished the dishes, in silence, she trudged up the stairs for a shower while I made up my bed on the couch.

After she dressed for bed, we sat in her room for a while, dragging ourselves through a slow, agonizing conversation. I think she spoke to me only to be polite. She was propped up in her bed, arms wrapped around her chest, with a comforter enveloping her; I perched in a chair in the corner of the room.

At about 11:00, I decided that I'd tortured her enough. I could do nothing for her, and though that fact distressed me, I was at a loss.

I stood. "I'm going to head downstairs." She didn't respond, at least I don't think so... I might have been imagining it, but I think she shuddered, slightly. "You'd better get some rest. You have a long day tomorrow." She nodded imperceptibly, and I turned off the lights and started out the door.

"Bit..." Her voice was barely audible. "Don't leave."

I turned to look at her. In the sparse light from the window she suddenly looked smaller, almost frail, underneath the comforter. The rigid countenance that she had worn for the past three weeks had slipped, leaving her with the expression of a deer caught in a pair of headlights.

"Stay with me."

"Elle, I really-"

"Please?"

I looked again into her eyes, and realized that she had never, not once, asked me for anything in that tone of voice; I don't believe I had heard that note of desperation before. It was completely unlike her; Elle was too calm and level headed to be desperate.

Instead of objecting, I pulled my shirt over my head, tossed it onto the chair, and climbed into her bed. As I stretched out, she curled up around me, burying her face in my neck. I wrapped my arms around her and held her against me, kissing her lightly on the forehead and running my hands through her soft hair. She held me tightly for a few minutes, but gradually her breathing slowed, and she fell asleep. She had to have been exhausted, from the tension, if nothing else.

I lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering what Mrs. P. would say when she woke Elle the following morning. Deeper in the back of my mind, I worried about Elle, and surgery, and hospitals, and cancer, and - no, not that, not ever that.

I was afraid I wasn't going to drop off, but the warmth of her body against me and the gentle rhythm of her breathing lulled me to sleep within the hour.

The next morning, we drove to the hospital. Dr. Patel, who was again performing the surgery, had scheduled her for Tuesday, July 12, at 11:00.

Once again, Mrs. P. and I waited out the surgery. She paced for a while, as was her habit; soon the worry and tension and overwhelming silence exhausted her, and she was forced to take a seat next to me.

I reached over and squeezed her hand. She looked at me with this look that mothers have, one that I can't quite describe. She was somewhere between tears and hope and... something.

"Oh, Bit. You've been so good to Elle through all this. I can't thank you enough-"

I put my finger to her lips. "Don't." Looking into her face, I realized for the first time that she had lines around her eyes, and in her forehead. I would have sworn that they weren't there just last month.

Two hours later I realized that I hadn't yet released her hand.

All the while, I fretted over Elle. With the exception of the previous night, she had refused to express any sort of worry, grief, anger, or any emotion at all about her... cancer. For the love of God, this was cancer, and she wouldn't even allow us to convey to her that she could be hurt, or scared, or something, dammit.

Elle was a strong person, though. I never doubted that since that first time I punched her. Since then, she handled most situations with stoic courage, always calmly doing the right thing, never letting fear control her, or even touch her. I had always admired her for that.

Something told me that, admirable quality or not, it wasn't always a good thing. I couldn't decide if she was pushing things too far, allowing her pride to cloud her judgment. She treated this as her burden and her burden alone, not sharing it with anyone. There would be only so much weight she could shoulder before she snapped.

Again we perched anxiously by her bedside until she regained consciousness. Mrs. P. and I sat in a silence broken only by the sound of Elle's breathing.

She lay on her back, chest slowly rising and falling. There was something disconcerting about seeing Elle unconscious... something that made me want to jump up and shake her awake, something that made me want very, very badly to deny the implications unconsciousness brought, implications of mortality.

And try as I might, I couldn't keep my eyes from constantly returning to her chest. Even though I shouldn't have noted, it's something that males note; Elle had very beautiful breasts. And now... she had a beautiful breast. The unevenness of her chest underneath the sterile white sheet seemed to attract one's attention, only because it was so obvious that something wasn't quite right. I chided myself for such shallowness. My only consolation was that I saw her mother suddenly force her attention to her daughter's face, as if Mrs. P. was trying not to notice, like I was.

She woke up slowly; she had never responded well, psychologically, to drugs. I got to show off my quick reactions by getting her propped up, bowl under her chin, just in time to save her from vomiting all over her pillow.

When her stomach had settled, she admitted to being ravenously hungry. She ate what she could of an early dinner, despite the soreness in her throat and (according to her) the complete lack of taste in the food.

With her stomach taken care of, her spirits steadily improved. She was suddenly talkative; over the next few days she spoke incessantly with whoever was within earshot, be it her mother, or me, or any one of several nurses, or (just once, when she thought we weren't looking) the potted plant that sat in the corner, diligently watching over her. She spent her time catching up on the daytime soaps, reading, and sleeping. One of us was always with her during visiting hours. She would fill her mother in on all the torrid occurrences on 'Days'; she made a game out of coaxing me into discussions about the... physical attributes of the nurses.

During the nights, Mrs. Peterson asked me to stay at their place, on the couch. I'm not sure why she asked; but it seemed to relieve her when I obliged.

After two days of observation and steady convalescence, Elle was discharged. Of course, she was to make frequent trips back for check- ups, starting just one week from the date of the surgery.

The withdrawn, quiet Elle with the empty eyes was gone, never to be mentioned again. Despite her actions before the surgery, her demeanor now suggested that none of the entire ordeal bothered her. Where she had been absolutely silent, her usual bubbly exuberance had returned almost from the moment she woke. It was as if she had made a deliberate effort to put behind her the surgery, the cancer, and the fear and worry that went along with it. Now that it was all over, she was determined not to let it affect her.

Again, I didn't know if she was being strong or stubborn. I had always admired her strength, her courage; but I couldn't tell if she had crossed the line between strength and... I don't know what.

Three days later, I decided to drop in on the Peterson household at about nine in the morning. Mrs. P. had already left for work; her employers had expressed the concern that she had taken too much time off, but Mrs. P. just told them off, and went back when she felt Elle wouldn't miss her.

Of course the door was locked, but I had known for a long time where the key was hidden. When there was no response to the bell, I let myself in, carefully replacing the key for the next time somebody got locked out.

"Elle?" My call went unanswered. "Elle, it's me!" I glanced into the kitchen, and, not finding her there, bounded up the steps two at a time. "Elle!"

I heard her voice over the sound of running water. "Be out in a minute, Bit!" The water stopped. "Just let me get some clothes on!"

A mischievous smile crossed my face. "Don't bother!" I heard her laugh, the kind of subdued giggle that announces to everyone that you're laughing at a dirty joke.

I crossed to her room to wait. Her bed was yet unmade, so I threw myself onto it, laying on my back with my hands behind my head.

After a few minutes, though, she hadn't come out.

Elle wasn't the type to fuss over her appearance. She rarely wore make-up and kept her hair-style simple; her grooming habits were Spartan, almost male. She'd run a brush through her hair, maybe a thin layer of lotion to protect her skin in winter, but that was it. Because of this, she never took a long time in the bathroom getting dressed. I gave her a few more minutes, but then I decided that something wasn't right.

"Elle?" I walked to the bathroom door and knocked cautiously. "Elle? You okay?" There was only silence within. Suddenly my head was filled with visions of her sprawled at the bottom of the tub, head bleeding- "Julian Elle Peterson, you answer me!"

Again, silence. "Final warning, kiddo. Answer, or I'm coming in." Still nothing. "I hope you're dressed."

I turned the knob, and slowly opened the door. I was relieved to find her standing in front of the vanity mirror. She was stock still, hands by her sides, slightly damp, and nude.

"Why didn't you ans-" I stopped short. There were tears all down her face, and her jaw was quivering. I stood behind her, and put my hands on her arms.

She continued to stare at her reflection. With her left hand, she gingerly traced the line of sutures left by the surgery. "Look what she did to me." In her low, unsteady whisper I heard another emotion uncharacteristic of Elle; pure, unadulterated anger.

"Look what that bitch did to me."

This was the first time I had seen the results of the surgery. It was done very cleanly; the sutures under Elle's hand were very neat and nondescript. The fact remained, though - where there should have been a set of delicate curves and fullness across the right side of her chest, there was only a smooth stretch of skin that ran to her stomach. Elle was, very simply put, completely missing her right breast.

Her eyes continued to turn darker and darker, fingers skittering across each suture. The paternal impulse in me wanted to shield her from the situation, so that she didn't have to be angry, or hurt, or any of the other things she'd feel in the upcoming weeks. All I could to protect her was remove her from the presence of the mirror; I turned her around so that she was facing me. She met my eyes and glared at me angrily for a few seconds, arms taught, but before she could take anything out on me she totally lost her composure. She clutched the front of my shirt and buried her face into my shoulder, tears spilling onto my clothes.

I did the only thing I could. I wrapped my left arm around her waist, and my right across her back. I rested my head on hers and cradled her against me as tightly as I could.

The sobs were wracking her body now; every time she drew a breath, she choked on it. I whispered to her softly, telling her that everything was fine, and to go ahead and let it all out.

After about half an hour, she slowly calmed down. She remained pressed against my body, though, holding me tightly. I glanced up at the mirror. I hadn't seen her naked since we were eleven; I moved my right arm to her waist and out of the way.

As anyone could have predicted, she had grown up to be a beautiful, beautiful young woman. She was a swimmer; she claimed that it was the one good thing that she did for herself on a regular basis, and it showed. The muscles of her shoulders were strong and soft at the same time. Her skin was almost flawless, with a tan line where her bikini strap crossed her back. With my eyes, I followed the curve of her spine down to the small of her back. Her rigorous exercise kept her rear and thighs perfectly toned. She was just a series of smooth, powerful, graceful curves, from her neck, across her back and hips, down the backs of her legs, to her tiny feet. I had never in my life seen anybody or anything more gorgeous.

It suddenly struck me as an injustice that anyone so beautiful could doubt herself. And yet she was huddled up in a tight little ball against me, crying because she was insecure about her body. That was going to have to change. If she was to live with herself, to even face herself in the mirror again, she would have to see that she has lost nothing.

"Elle -"

"Jesus, Bit," she whispered, "look at what she did. How can any man love me when..." Her voice faltered; she shuddered and tucked her head against my chest.

"Elle, look at me. ...Better yet, look in the mirror."

"I can't Bit," she pleaded. "Please don't make me. I just can't."

I didn't want to make her: I couldn't stand to hear her plead. But there was no protecting her; there were just too many mirrors. Besides, protection wasn't what she needed; she needed her self-image back. "Yes you can. Look." I gently held her shoulders and spun her around. "Look. What do you see?"

She was silent, refusing to lift her eyes off of the floor. "Even better," I said, "look at this one." I turned her towards the full- length mirror on the door. "Look."

I placed my hand under her chin and slowly lifted her head. Unable to avoid it, she fixed her gaze on her reflection and studied herself. Again, nothing but graceful curves; her collarbone, breast, smooth stomach and abdomen, well defined waist, sensuous hips, strong slender legs.

"Look. Look at her. Isn't she beautiful, that creature in the mirror?"

"How can you say that?" Her eyes locked again on the line of sutures. "She's... she's incomplete."

I reached up and undid the pins that held her hair; it bounced down about her shoulders. "She's complete all right. And she's gorgeous." I was about to say something corny about how 'It's what's inside that counts,' but that would be counter-productive. She had the self-assurance to know that she was a beautiful person; she needed to acknowledge that she had a beautiful body.

"Tell me what you see."

"I see... a naked chick." A smile played across her lips, only for a moment.

"And?"

Another tear rolled down her cheek.

"Look. Look at those eyes. That face. That sad face." I squeezed her cheeks playfully.

"That body. Look how sensuous her hips are - your hips are. Have you ever seen a stomach so flat? Have you ever seen more curvaceous legs? And you have the cutest feet."

She half-heartedly wiggled her toes. "I'm lop-sided." I saw her grin bitterly at the mirror, tilting her head to one side. "First guy to undress me is going to get a quite a surprise."

"What do you think a man will see when he's undressing you? T and A? No. Besides, if you get involved with a dude who only wants to see you naked, then you didn't need to be undressed by him anyway. You've got better taste in men that that."

"Don't lie to me. He'll see, just like you and I do."

"He'll see you, and nothing more. That's all I see, and if you'd look, you'd see it too. You know as well as I do that intimacy isn't about tits and ass, but about sensuality," I ran my hand gently across her cheek, "and tenderness."

"I guess."

"You can do better than that."

She was slowly tracing the outline of her form with 

her eyes. "Yeah, you're right."

I turned her a little to the right, so she could see 

herself at an angle. "Besides, you have a very nice 

ass. And a pretty breast. And a beautiful smile. 

Face it, dear, you're just downright stunning. 

Anyone who cares to argue can go to Hell."

She turned and looked at herself over her shoulder, then sideways, and from various angles. She studied her reflection carefully for a full minute; I saw the gleam gradually return to her eye, a slight smirk positively dancing on her lips. She put one hand on her hip, and ran the other down her thigh. She shifted her weight to the side, tossed her hair so that it fell partially across her eyes, and gave the mirror a seductive look. I was suddenly a tad uncomfortable; my best friend was at that instant one of the most erotic things I'd ever see. I tried to ignore it.

After admiring her pose for a moment, she tried another one, one hand in her hair and her leg drawn up against the other. She giggled, and said, "To Hell with all of them."

And suddenly she changed; I could actually see that she was different. Elle had come back; finally returning from that dark place that she had hidden herself for the last month.

"Good girl," I whispered, almost to myself. I was watching her in the mirror; it was like watching the sun rise. Her eyes were almost glowing and she had this silly half smirk on her face.

She saw the smile on my reflection, and met my eyes. Her face assumed that look I had seen on her mother's face, the one I didn't understand. From Elle it was clearer, easier to read... Thank you. There was more to it, but that was all I could glean out of it at the time.

"You pervert, get out of here so I can get some clothes on." The look was gone, replaced by the tongue she had playfully stuck out at me. I stuck mine out as she closed the door behind me.

That was clearly the beginning of the rest of her convalescence. My intrusion, into her fears as well as her bathroom, finally convinced her that she was not alone, and never needed to be.

That had been her misconception all along. Now that she learned to talk about what had happened, she told me everything. Before the surgery, she was afraid for her life, and simply couldn't cope with it. Almost on a subconscious level (we decided) her brain had started blocking things out, starting with the realities of cancer and surgery. It all happened, she admitted, but not to her.

"Do you know what those few weeks were like, Bit? I woke up every day worried sick that I was going to die, sometime in the very near future. Suddenly, one Saturday morning, there was this tiny hell constructed in my brain, and I spent a large part of each day huddled up in there, alone."

"You didn't have to."

"I know, but this was big; it loomed over me, clouded my vision. Anyway, just after waking up-"

"Throwing up."

She wrinkled her nose at me. "Whatever - It was suddenly gone, and I was so thrilled that I wouldn't be greeted each day by these looming iron gates with the inscription 'all hope abandon, ye who enter here'. That was a really good feeling, and it lasted right up until I went to the bathroom and caught my reflection in the mirror. That gown of theirs, it didn't drape properly on my chest." She tilted her head sideways. "One side just kinda... hung."

"But you never showed it."

"How could I? That was such a stupid thing to be upset over. I had my life back, and here I was letting myself get so depressed over a minor amputation. That struck me as so petty, so... vain. I decided right then that I wouldn't shame myself by making an issue out of it. So I acted as bubbly as I could, and pretty soon it made an issue out of itself..."

Of course, Elle became a regular at the hospital. Every few days, either Mrs. P. or I would accompany her to get her check-up. But the docs repeatedly gave her the thumbs-up.

Elle admitted to me that the entire month seemed like a distant memory when our senior year began. She was looking forward to going back to school, to being a normal kid instead of a patient. "For some reason, you just don't feel like laughing in a hospital bed." To her, returning to those halls meant that nothing had changed; only a few of her trusted friends ever knew what she went through.

Once in a while, when she was quieter than usual, I would find a private moment to hold her. She quickly remembered that she had people around her that cared, and she would confide in me an old fear, or maybe an insecurity, that had crept up on her again. I suppose that she would never totally put it behind her; every time she stepped out of the shower that word, cancer, invaded her consciousness again.

"I guess that there will always be demons and doubts, Bit." We had taken advantage of one of the last warm days of the year by walking to the woods and sunning ourselves on the dock of the lake we'd discovered together, years before. She was now stretched out across the planks with her head on my lap. "It's part of life, and there's no way around it.

"Just promise me that I'll always have friends as good as you by my side, and I'll never have fear of any of those demons."

Three

One Year Later

The phone rang violently, rousing me from my bed. I could barely make out the numbers 1:12 AM on the clock as I tried desperately to find the phone. I finally got my arm untangled from the sheets and prepared the tongue lashing that the so-and-so was going to get when Mrs. P's panicked voice came across the line.

"Bitriz, is that you?"

I was instantly alert, sitting on the side of my bed. "Yes ma'am."

"Oh God, Bit. Come quick. We're at the hospital."

"What happened?"

"Elle woke up with chest pains. They were pretty bad, and she begged me to call 911. I did, and now she's in the ER."

"Chest pains." My brain scrambled to assemble a clear picture. "Like, in her breast?"

"No Bitriz. In her heart."

"Damn." I let a long, scared breath escape from my lungs, "I'll be there in a few moments." I dropped the phone in what I hope was the cradle; for all I know I left it off the hook.

My mother intercepted me as a staggered down the hall with a pair of jeans on only one leg. I braced myself against the wall and pulled on the other leg as I explained the situation. "Elle's in the hospital again. Something about chest pains. I've got to go, and I don't know when I'll be back. So don't wait up."

She didn't say a word, but slowly nodded. I think that's the only time I ever gave my father an order, and normally it would not have been tolerated. But she had watched Elle and I grow up together; she knew what Elle meant to me, and she let my transgression slide.

I pulled a shirt onto my shoulders and headed for the door, buttoning with one hand and reaching for the keys with the other. I hit the door at a half trot, fear rushing through my system with adrenaline right behind it.

I almost hit the goalpost as I backed the car out of the drive. As I put it in gear, my eyes focused momentarily on the door of the house, where dad was leaning nonchalantly. I saw him mouth the words, 'All the best for Julian' just before I tore down the road.

With that, Elle, and Mrs. P. and I with her, was plunged back into the world of sterile white hallways and white coated nurses with forced smiles. I found Mrs. Peterson in the waiting room, sitting rigidly in a chair and wringing her hands. I took a seat next to her; I wanted to ask what had happened, the look on her face told me that, if a forced her to talk, she would lose her composure altogether. Instead I let her keep her lips pressed tightly together in an attempt to keep it inside for a while.

Some hour later, we were approached by Dr. Micheals, the oncologist who had worked with Doc Patel on Elle's case last year. He was still in his green surgical outfit. "Dr. Patel told me to expect you here, Bit." There was a thin smile on his lips.

I just nodded, not returning the smile. Nobody spoke for a moment while each of us waited for the other start. Micheals realized, reluctantly, that the ball was in his court.

"She's stable, but for how long I can't say. The heart-lung machine can only be useful for so long..."

"The what?" Mrs. Peterson's jaw fell. "When the hell did her heart become an issue?"

"There was a cyst, an advanced malignancy, in her left ventricle. The entire muscle had been injured; the pain she felt was her heart trying to shut down."

I had never seen all the color drain out of a person's face, but Mrs. P's went completely white as she sank back into her chair. "Sweet Mary, mother of God..."

"You already know that it's malignant?"

"We haven't had time to do a full biopsy, but given her history and the rapid growth of a cyst that wasn't even there last year..."

"You think it wasn't there last year."

"We hope it wasn't there last year, but you've got a point."

I took a deep breath in a effort not to lose my temper. "Dammit!"

Micheals took a breath and plunged on. "Looks like the malignancy in her breast was only the tip of the iceberg. Once a cancerous growth starts, it can metastasize, or break off and spread in the bloodstream. I think the cyst in her heart started first, and then-"

"But it was over." Mrs. P. had buried her face in her hands, and was now speaking through them. "She was fine. You said that she was just fine."

"In short, we spent narrowed our focus to much. This rarely happens, and no one thought... There was no way for us to know..." Suddenly Micheals felt very, very inadequate. It showed on his face. I almost felt sorry for him. Here he was, top of his field, several hundred years of medical knowledge at his disposal, and he was helpless.

"She went through so much, and now she's back to square one. All those doctors, all those treatments, all the -" she tried to cut herself off, but the word 'pain' seemed to fill the room without her saying it.

"Right now, we've got a heart specialist, Dr. Gene Edwards, trying to figure out what to do. But there aren't that many options... to be perfectly honest, he doesn't think there is anything he can do."

"And that means she'll..."

Micheals closed his eyes. Mrs. Peterson sank into her chair without a word.

"God."

"For now, she's resting comfortably. We have her on Morphine for the pain. It would help her if at least one of you was with her at all times."

We were both led through a maze of white corridors to her room. Again, I was confronted with the sight of Elle laying on her back, looking very pale and unnervingly unconscious. The sheet draped over her outlined her limbs harshly, making her look scrawny.

Mrs. P. stood in the doorway for a long moment, perfectly still. She opened her mouth, but for a moment, nothing came out. When she did speak, all that she could muster was a dry whisper. "I thought I would be spared ever having to see her like this again." She bit her lower lip.

"Me too."

There was a chair on each side of Elle's bed. We sat in them, both of us leaning towards Elle, as if we were straining to hear her breathing, just to reassure ourselves.

"We'll do this in shifts, Bit. I'll take the first one. You go home, get some rest, clean up, and please be back in four hours. That's as long as I can last."

I nodded, and stood to leave.

"One more thing." Mrs. Peterson had extended her hand towards me. I slowly returned to my seat, and gave her my hands in return. She laced her fingers with mine, and we placed our hands on Elle's still form.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..."

The next morning was a crisp one, only a slight hint of the autumn to come in the pre-dawn air. The sun rose over the buildings in the distance as I parked the car. I stood on the asphalt for just a moment to admire, then hurried inside.

When I arrived, Elle was awake, barely. She was whispering quietly to her mother, who had somehow managed not to fall asleep. I could see in her face how tired she was; I would have sworn that there were a few more lines around her eyes...

"My shift, Mrs. P." At the sound of my voice, Elle's eyes flickered to my face; something that resembled a smile crossed her lips.

"When do you need me to come back, Bit?"

"Whenever you're ready." She'd be back sooner than she should, though. There was no way she was going to get any sleep as long as her baby was on an IV.

Mrs. P. stood up, letting her fingers linger in Elle's hand before leaving; I took my position in the chair. "How ya' feeling, gorgeous?"

She met my eyes for a brief moment, and then stared at the ceiling. There was no sparkle there, no gleam; just emptiness.

"Okay."

I looked at her sternly.

"You're right. I'm no where close to okay. I'm scared, and mad and depressed and really, really pissed. Dammit, Bit. I was better. I was past this." A few tears spilled onto the pillow. "It was over."

I sat on the bed and, being cautions of the IV, cradled her against me. I could hear her muffled cries through my shirt for only a few minutes. When I laid her back onto her pillow, she was asleep.I stayed on the side of the bed for a while, watching her and running my hands through her hair, hoping she wouldn't wake up and see me crying.

She slept soundly for two hours, and then slowly stirred awake. She tried to be in better spirits, but her smiles never got past her mouth; her eyes remained dull. The nurse took this opportunity to chase me out in the hall and bathe Elle; I returned just in time to sit with her for a tasteless lunch. Elle was a bit more talkative now, so I tried to keep conversation light but fast. She wouldn't cooperate, though.

"They haven't given me my prognosis, Bit. What's happening?"

I wanted to avoid telling her. "First, what happened last night?"

"Not much, really. I woke up with a severe pain, right here," she answered, placing her fingers between her... over her heart. "It felt like I was being split in half, like someone had taken an ax and just buried it in my sternum. It just hurt so badly, I think I passed out once or twice. All I remember is a lot of flashing lights and squealing tires... and then I opened my eyes and mom and I were here."

She searched my eyes for a response. I turned away from her and stood; then crossed my arms over my chest and ambled over to the window. Off in the distance I could see the trees in the park, turning dark green as summer neared its end. They would soon be bright colors, screaming reds and oranges. Elle and I had always enjoyed hanging out in the park, running across the ballfields and laying under those trees. Suddenly a line from some silly poem came to me. I repeated the line quietly to myself. "Somewhere children are playing..."

"What?" I didn't respond; I just didn't know how to tell her. My mind raced for a way to put her off of the question for just a little longer.

"Bit?" She waited some more. "It's back, isn't it?"

A chill ran up my spine and my shoulders visibly shook. Welcome to Hell, sweetheart. Welcome back.

She let loose a long sigh. "Greedy bastard. One of my breasts wasn't enough. It's back for more."

I tuned on her, bordering on anger at her for giving up so quickly.

"You're being an ass."

"Am I?" She just held my stare, eyes somewhere between hatred and fear. "Stop screwing around with me. What did they tell you?"

There was no way around it. I turned back to the window and forced my voice to be steady and strong while I repeated, probably verbatim, the conversation from a few hours ago. She was silent for the duration of my soliloquy, leaving her eyes fixed on the wall opposite her.

As I expected, she didn't say anything. I turned back to her. "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Me too." She looked at me for a long time, digesting what she had heard, chewing on her lower lip.

"So, that's all she wrote, huh? 'Damage is irreparable, heart and lung failure imminent'. 'She canna' handle the strain much longer, capt'n'"

"Don't be so damn bleak. Micheals hasn't given up yet. Have faith, in providence if not technology."

A cynical little laugh escaped her lips. "Faith? Providence? What are you, naive?”

"Bitriz, providence, as you call it, has no more to do with any of this than... than Mother Teresa. Less so, in fact."

I looked at her carefully. "What are you saying? That God won't help you?"

She settled back into her pillow, eyes on the wall again. "I think I'm saying that there is no God." She looked at my face, and could probably read my thoughts before I could properly organize them.

"Bit," she began, "I am what most people call religious. I was baptized as a baby, and confirmed at age twelve. " For a brief moment, there was a twinkle in her eye.

"I'm never going to live that down, am I? You think they would at least heat the water to a temperature above freezing..."

She smiled at me for only an instant; then her eyes dulled. "I attended church, maybe not every Wednesday, but every Sunday, save twice, twice, when I was ill. I even say my prayers every night... now more than ever.

"And I wasn't just acting, Bit, and I wasn't just going through the motions because I was told to, or expected to. I believed; it made sense. The rituals seemed like the appropriate way to pay homage to God. I did it because I wanted to, because I thought it was right. I had accepted in my heart that Jesus was my savior, and for his sacrifice my life was to be his. I felt that, with every fiber of my being. I knew what it meant to be Christian, the reassuring joy of knowing that there is everlasting life after this one, 'a world without end, Amen.'"

I had decided not to challenge her just yet. I returned to my chair and remained there, fingers forming a steeple in front of my lips. "You're using the past tense."

"Well, look where I am. I have spent the last year or so battling cancer, in and out of hospitals, hanging on every MD's every word. And I won." Her eyes darkened again. "Dammit Bit, I won, I beat it, fair and square."

I put my hand on her knee, trying to calm her down some. She took a breath before continuing. "And at no small price... Bit, do you know what it feels like to have a breast removed? Of course not. I mean, I got through it, and I'm alive, and mostly intact, but I left a small and slightly significant part of myself behind. It's not just a body part, Bit. How would you feel if you were castrated?"

I winced, balling up in my chair. She giggled, then sighed.

"It's a part of me, part of my identity as a woman. It's a miserable feeling. And who have I to blame for that? Where I once cursed Dr. Patel, who should be blamed for that?" She left the answer unspoken.

"'Kill the umpire,' huh?"

She looked at me quizzically.

"Casey missed a swing, and the crowd shouted, 'Kill the umpire!' It's from that poem I was quoting a moment ago."

"I'm missing your point."

"Things go wrong, and we blame it on the person in authority. That's not always the right response, especially when God's involved. On a larger scale, everything fits in this ...master plan." Suddenly, the thought I was trying to express, however, badly, ceased to make sense. My own words sounded like the babblings of a two year old. "I realize that sounds corny, but-"

"You're damn right it sound corny. God's master plan. What about my plans, Bit?

"You have this unshakable faith in a God, that He exists, and that He wants the best for all of us. So did I, but this creature, if He exists, has taken my faith for granted. I trusted Him, and all He's done is disappoint, abandon, and betray me. And that would be fine; if He wants to go his way, let Him, and I'll go mine. But He didn't just leave, He took something with him: my life."

"You have got to stop assuming that you're... not going to make it. You could very well live for years and years-"

"Define live."

I stopped short, seeing my mistake: I was using the biological definition.

"Bit, just because your heart is still beating in your chest doesn't mean you're alive. For me to pull through this, I would need a heart transplant or implant, massive radiation or chemotherapy, etcetera, etcetera, ad nausiam, no pun intended. In short, it would be years, maybe decades, until I returned to what I call life.

"Have you ever stopped to consider what life really is? And what about its justification? Sure, you, in your voice like an evangelist-" she glared at me accusingly "-would say the justification lies with God, but I refuse to find justification in a being that has betrayed me the way He has. I would rather live in a world without a God than live in a world with a God that can't be trusted."

I found myself ready to agree with her, before I caught myself. Instead, I wanted to press my case; but now I was no longer trying to convince her... I was trying to convince myself. "Without God, where does the justification lie?" For some reason, I didn't think I was ready for the answer.

"Possibly in life itself. Take my life, Bit. I've spent it so far preparing for the rest of it. I'd planned to go into medicine. I wanted my life to mean something, and I could think of no better way to bring meaning to my life than to better the lives of others.

"I also wanted to enjoy my time here. And how do we do that? By partaking in the simple pleasures that life offers. Small things that make life worth living. Things like... like love, like making love. Like having a child, giving birth to it and raising it. Like spending your years with someone you care about. Like succeeding in your goals, in my case, seeing that I've helped someone else, maybe even saved a life. Things that we, as humans, take for granted. Flowers, and blue skies, and rain storms. You want miracles, Bit? Those are you miracles. Not last minute recoveries for terminal cases... but sunrises and sunsets."

She paused for a moment. "I have experienced very little of that in the part of my life that I've lived. That was okay, because I was going to later. But now..."

I glared at her, trying not to lash out at her. "So you're just going to give up."

"Face it, Bit, it's over. I have fought to keep my dignity through all this, and I'll not change that by clinging to the ridiculous hope that I may pull through. Death has a dignity all its own, and I will not shame myself by not recognizing that."

"What dignity is there in surrendering?"

"Do you remember Peter, that boy I was dating earlier this year? Remember how, after a month, I decided that it wasn't going to work out? How did he act after that? He begged me not to leave him, and refused to accept the facts. Now, tell me, exactly how much dignity did Peter have left after that little episode?"

"How can you compare a juvenile relationship with life and death? It's not the same thing."

"What's different about it?" She knew that I would not have an answer.

She sighed. "All that I'd wanted, had hoped for, had dreamed of, will remain just that - hopes and dreams. And why is that? In whose 'plan' does this happen?" Again, no answer was needed. "It's just not fair."

"How can you be so bitter? So cold?"

"I hope that this never happens to you, but if ever your God and your own body conspire to destroy you, you will feel no different."

After a letting that linger for a moment, Elle changed to subject to something else. She either felt better, having gotten all of those feelings out in the open, or she was pretending to; regardless, she seemed to be in good spirits. As a matter of fact, she was almost hyper, but I bet some of that was due to the Morphine. I tried to match her vigor, for her sake; but her little speech had given me a very negative outlook on the odds. I kept glancing nervously at the heart monitor, as if I expected it to flatline at any moment now.

Mrs. Peterson came in looking like she hadn't slept at all in the three hours she was away. I stayed for a while longer, since I hadn't planned to leave for a few hours anyway. Besides, like Mrs. P., I wouldn't get anything productive done if I left; my thoughts would still be with Elle.

I left that evening, returning close to midnight after dinner and a restless nap. On the drive in, a flower shop caught my eye.

"Roses! Bit, they're beautiful. But... isn't purple is color of true love? Shouldn't you save these for someone else?" The look in my eyes probably made her regret saying that, but I gave her an answer different from the reprimand she expected.

"A few centuries ago, purple was a very difficult shade to come by. It was so rare that it was reserved for only royalty, and it came to signify nobility, grace... and dignity."

She held back her tears. "You understand."

"Maybe not. But I'll be by your side, whatever happens."

She swallowed hard, managing only to whisper her next words. "Thank you."

Mrs. Peterson was probably sleeping only lightly when I called her later on that night.

"Mrs. P. this is Bit. You'd better drive over."

She made a conscious effort not to lose control of her voice. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Just... get here."

Elle had been sleeping for only a few hours when steady rhythm of the EKG began to slow down. My diligence had dropped, it took me a few minutes to notice it. I summoned the nurse, who in turn called Dr. Patel, Dr. Micheals, and the heart specialist, Dr. Edwards. Of course, the case what out of Doc Patel's hands now, and there was little Micheals could do either. But Elle was their patient, and they weren't likely to abandon her.

The room was a flurry of activity when Mrs. Peterson arrived, with nurses coming and going at brisk walks; of course, they were too dignified to actually run. There was no room for either of us inside, so we stood out in the hall, staring at each other nervously.

A few minutes later, Edwards, Micheals, and Doc Patel filed out of the room and gathered around us in the hall. There was a moment of silence while the assembled professionals decided who would speak.

"She's stable," said Dr. Edwards, who's case Elle had become. "The human body has a high degree of resilience... despite all the damage, her heart is still operating. Barely, but it is still operating."

Mrs. Peterson was silent; I spoke instead. "Say something encouraging, for God's sake."

"The heart-lung machine can be used indefinitely, but there's very little hope that we can do anything for her. Our question to you is, what do we do?"

Without his saying it, it was clear what he was implying. I thought Mrs. Peterson would be shocked, or angry, or something, but she didn't do anything but put her head in her hand, massaging her temples.

Mrs. Peterson finally spoke, flatly. "Why are you asking me? It's not my decision."

Dr. Edwards gave Elle the same brief that he gave us, but with a little more hesitation. He couldn't quite bring himself to look her in the eye, probably for the same reason that he didn't want to talk to her in the first place. It was wrong of him to ask Mrs. Peterson without Elle's knowledge of what was going on; and yet, I felt sorry for him. "You can opt to hang on," he continued. "There is the slim possibility that we could do something, given time."

She was silent for a while, staring into the corner where the roses had been placed. I realized that I was the only other person in the room that knew what she was thinking; her mother wanted her to opt for life-support, and the doctors probably thought she would. After all, how many patients didn't cling to life?

And yet, even though I knew what I was going to say, my mind kept returning to the image of her unconscious form the day after the surgery. Suddenly, I couldn't bear the thought.

"Elle," I pleaded, "there's no shame in fighting. There's still hope-"

"'Please don't give up on me. Just give me one more chance,'" she replied, mockingly.

The others in the room, still not realizing that her decision was not what they expected, just looked back and forth at each of us.

"That's not funny."

"What do I have left, Bit? What is there?"

My mind raced for an answer. But there was no answer other than the one she had already decided on.

"Dignity."

"What about your dreams, your future? You can't sacrifice that."

"They're already gone, Bit. I can't smell the flowers, or feel the rain, from in here."

I just stared at her, shaking my head. "I'll bring you fresh flowers, every day."

"That's not what I mean."

I tossed a quick glance out the window. The park was shrouded in darkness, only a few streetlights illuminating the trees. 

"Please, Bit, stand by me on this one."

I turned and looked at her, into her serene eyes. "Always."

Elle started to speak, and then wavered. She forced herself to take a deep breath, and then tried again. "There is simply no point in prolonging-" She stopped again when she saw the stricken look in her mother's eyes.

"Please don't look at me that way, mother. There's just no other choice."

Mrs. Peterson wanted to say something, but she only opened her mouth a few times. She then gave up, nodding her head. She just stood with her shoulders drooped, clutching her forearms; it was a full minute before she spoke again.

"What needs to be done now?" We assumed she was talking to the assorted medical professionals in the room, but her eyes stayed on the ground.

"Anything she wants," said Micheals. "Anything that makes her comfortable." He gave my shoulder a squeeze and looked me in the eye, for just a moment, before filing out with the others.

Mrs. Peterson was now standing protectively at Elle's bedside. "Anything we can do, hon? Anything you want?"

There came a thin whisper from the figure on the bed. "I want to go home."

Mrs. P. looked at me; I knew what she wanted. I headed out the door for another conference with the doctors.

The prognosis was that Elle had at least a day, even as much as a week; further, there was no reason to keep her confined. She no longer needed any of the life support systems that would keep her bed-ridden, only morphine for the pain. Edwards and Micheals agreed that it was possible for her to be discharged. Releases were signed, paperwork taken care of, and Elle was checked out.

She was wearing her own clothes when she emerged from the room. When she was offered a wheelchair, she refused with an emphatic "Take it away;" instead she was on her feet, walking unsteadily despite the protests of the doctors, her mother, and me. Not only was she weak to begin with, but the doses of pain-killers she had been given should have left her incapacitated and euphoric.

They did neither. She continued, step after hesitant step, down the hall. It was difficult for her; she was going slowly and carefully, breathing deliberately. And yet, she remained perfectly erect, her posture still better than mine; her strides were purposeful, if slow. That girl and her pride...

But it didn't last. As she stepped out of the elevator, she faltered and fell into my arms. I scooped her up and cradled her against me, supporting her legs with one arm and her back with the other.

Of course, the moment she began to totter, a nurse appeared out of nowhere and tried to place a wheelchair underneath Elle; but Mrs. Peterson's stern look discouraged it.

Mrs. Peterson went to get the car, and I stood for a moment with Elle in my arms. She was clutching my neck, head on my shoulder, eyes closed.

"I'm sorry Bit. I didn't mean for you to carry me. I probably weigh a ton."

"For the love of God, Elle, you're light as a feather." I bounced her in my arms, twice, to emphasize my point. "A little too light... hospital food must not agree with you."

"Always with the jokes. Does the laughter ever end?"

My chest was suddenly tight. I fought not to let it show; I had for force the words, "Keep laughing, and it won't."

"Such faith." A weak smile graced her lips. "Bit... I love you."

Even at the age of eighteen, Elle would be the first to admit that she was still very much a child. I would argue Elle's case, but in general I would have to agree that most eighteen-year-olds, starting with myself, are children at heart, still young and in-experienced, and lacking in maturity.

And yet adolescents regularly discuss something commonly labeled as 'love'. Boys and girls at this age fall in love and out of love on a daily basis.

At one point, years ago, Elle and I talked about this phenomenon, and determined that 'love' had to mean more than what it did when we heard it used. It just didn't make sense; love is supposed to be something wonderful and deep, so how could a person say one day, "I love you," and turn their back the next?

No, we decided, this wasn't what love was. Love had to bee something more, something that kids our age didn't encounter very much. In this age, the word 'love' was simply mis-used, if not abused.

There was a lot that went unsaid during that discussion... and yet, I think we both came to the same conclusions. It seemed to us, even that long ago, that what we had was an uncommon friendship; a bond of trust and faith far stronger than anything else either one of us had experienced. We knew, quite simply, that we had something extraordinary.

Further, we agreed, without actually ever having discussed it, that the word 'love' as we knew it didn't fit our relationship. For that reason neither one of us had ever used that word to describe our feelings. All that doing so would accomplish would be to degrade the extraordinary to the common. It was an unspoken pact, and I don't believe that either one of us had ever broken it, had ever even said, 'I love you.'

But she said it, and I knew she hadn't broken our pact. There was something in her that made it different... something in her voice, in the expression on her face, that I just can't explain. Yet it was there, and it made what she said so eloquent and dignified. They were only three simple words, but with them she summed up everything that there was between us, everything we had shared for as long as we had shared it. As many times as I would hear that phrase in the future, from my parents, my wife, or my children, 'I love you' would never again mean as much.

I groped for a response. There was no way I could simply say, "I love you, too;" not if I wanted it to convey all that I wanted to say. But then, words had always been my weakness, and I had never possessed her grace. It was a lost cause; I could have spoken for hours and done nothing but insult her. There was no way I could say anything meaningful, especially not as meaningful as what she said.

But years of closeness breeds something like telepathy, I suppose. She opened her eyes and looked at me, and whispered, "You don't have to say anything. I can see it in your eyes."

I cradled her closer to me.

Her mother drove home; I was sitting in the back with Elle. She stared out of the window into the pre-dawn gloom, watching the passing cars.

After a few minutes, she leaned forward and whispered something to her mother. Mrs. Peterson reached back and held one of Elle's hands for a moment. Elle then settled back into her seat. I offered her my arm; she allowed me to wrap it around her. She looked at me, forlornly studying my eyes; then she drew a small, sighing breath and snaked her arms around my chest. She then snuggled up against me, laying her head on my shoulders and burying her face against my neck.

A few miles from her house, I glanced out the window. The first rays of dawn were creeping into the eastern sky. I looked at the clock on the dash. It read 5:47.

"Hey, Elle, there's your miracle." I tried to direct her attention out the window.

"Elle?"

I took a deep breath to steady myself. "Mrs. Peterson, you'd better turn around."

Eulogy

Mrs. Peterson had asked that I deliver Elle's eulogy. I don't remember being nervous, but I don't remember a lot of things from that day. I don't even remember viewing the body.

Then again, I'm glad I don't remember seeing her in her coffin. I would much rather keep the image I have of her, alive and smiling...

"Before I get started, I would like each of you to take a moment to look around." A few people glanced to their right or left. "No, really, take a look." At my insistence, almost everybody turned one way or the other. I was silent for a moment, and all that could be heard was the rustling of clothing.

"I don't believe that I have ever seen this many people at a..." the word funeral just would come out "memorial service. I'm sure that each of you here has, at least at one point in your lives, been touched by Elle- Julian. That in itself says more for her than I ever could; the fact that she, in her short lifetime, left with each and every one of us a fond memory, or a cherished moment. That in itself is a testament to the kind of person she was.”

"Julian was, well... simply incredible. Just outstanding. She excelled in everything she did, whether it was academics, or athletics, or whatever. And her high standards brought out the best in those around her... we improved just by following her example, if nothing else. I think there are several people here who would agree with me on that." My eyes settled on a moment on the girl who almost wasn't valedictorian, due to Elle's high grades our senior year.

"I think what made Julian outstanding was that she was good at what she did. Not just the things I said earlier, more than that... she was good at life. She knew how to live, and live well. She got the most out of every day, out of everything she did. And yet I think that she was one of those people who never forgot the way to fairyland. '...and blessed are they above mortals.'“

“There's just so much to say about her. She was a good person, and a good friend. Before you even realized that you needed her, she was there for you, without fail. She was, well, ... dammit, describing her is next to impossible. I guess I would say she was... the perfect balance of poise and laughter... When you were with her, you just knew you were in the presence of someone special, someone really, really cool.”

"She was all of these things, all bundled up together, and I don't think she ever knew it. If she did, she certainly didn't show it. Among other things, I always admired her complete lack of pretentiousness. She did everything without trying to be more than she was. Yet, she did it all with a simple... grace, for lack of a better word, that spoke for itself.”

"I suppose I've gone on and on about this perfect woman. If I were saying this to someone who had never met her, they would probably not believe me. Of course, I think she was unbelievable myself, but the connotations are different.”

"But all of you knew her, and I don't think anyone would say that I have exaggerated, not in the slightest. I haven't said a whole bunch of nice things about the ...deceased..." And at that instant it hit me, just like it had each and every day since her death- She's gone.

I was silent for a full minute, willing myself to speak. But I couldn't; instead I just stared blankly out past the people in front of me.

Finally, I found that I could just barely force the words out past the lump in my throat. "I'm not saying these things just because that's what I'm supposed to do in a eulogy. I truly believe in what I'm saying, just like I believe in her. Besides, I have never lied in her presence, not once, and I would not start now.”

"And, as always with losses, we are all asking ourselves, 'why did this happen?' A few days ago I might have said 'God works in mysterious ways' or something equally useless. But now..."

I hadn't intended to say this, and I knew that it was a mistake. At the word 'useless' a tremor of shock had passed through the assembled mourners. But now that I had gotten started, I found that I couldn't stop... or maybe I just didn't want to.

"I don't know if God had a hand in this, or if He even exists. If He does, and if this is his doing, then I, for one, will never forgive Him. I couldn't, not for doing something this horrible, not for taking someone as magical as Julian. And that's blasphemy, and in the house of the Lord at that, but I'm not sure I care anymore.”

"However, whether God exists or not, I am certain there is a heaven. There has to be; it is the only place for an angel like Elle."