I decided on waiting in the cafeteria. I hadn’t actually been in that cafeteria for years; my dad had decided it was too expensive to eat there when we could pay just the same at the Eaton Centre which was right down the road. I had completely forgotten about the wonderfully painted enchanting room. The cafeteria was small, but it made up for its size with its wonderful colours. Once I got my coffee, I sat down at an empty table to admire the beautiful paintings. Then I saw him.

A boy no more than seventeen, was walking towards an empty table. He had light-brown shaggy hair that made him resemble a dog, but his beautiful hazel eyes and crooked smile humanized him somehow. Trying not to drop anything, he held onto his coffee and donut in his left hand and an IV stand in his right.

“Oh, let me help you with that,” I said to him brightly as I took the coffee cup and donut from his hands. He smiled gently. “I’m Veronica, by the way,” I introduced myself confidently.

He smiled at me for a moment, then flicked his hair and finally responded, “Nice to meet you Ronnie, I’m John.” I could feel my posture stiffen. He couldn’t just call me anything he wanted. And why did it have to be ‘Ronnie’; could he come up with an uglier name? I was just about to give him a piece of my mind, but his sweet crooked smile and mysterious hazel eyes convinced me otherwise. I smiled at him and laughed involuntarily. He smiled back and, as though he were the maître d’ of the most prestigious restaurant in Paris, gestured for me to sit down with him.

“So let me guess,” John said now taking the role of a doctor, “Semi-annual cleft lip check-up?”

I laughed almost silently. (What was it about him that made me laugh at nothing?) “…and cleft palate” I corrected, “How’d you figure that out so quickly?”

He thought for a brief moment then finally justified, “Well you seem to know your way around here so I know you’ve been here countless times before, but I know you’re not visiting a family member because if you were, you wouldn’t have come to the cafeteria with your backpack; you would have left it in the room.” Taking on yet another role, John’s eyes creased like a top investigator sniffing out clues. “I know you can’t be a volunteer because-”

I cut him off, “…because I look too young?”

He laughed lightly. “No, I’m guessing you’re at least…” he sized me up and down with a critical eye, as I could feel my posture straighten as I gracefully rolled my shoulders back, trying to look as elegant as possible. “Sixteen?”

“Why yes, I swear you read my mind.” I laughed once again at absolutely nothing.

“I know you can’t be a volunteer because you don’t have a volunteer badge,” he stated matter-of-factly.

We looked at each other for a brief moment and both began to laugh. I challenged him again, “Okay. But how did you figure out it was a semi-annual appointment and not a weekly thing?” I could feel my eyebrows raise, taking back the upper hand.

“Well I know you’ve come more than just once a year because you walk through these halls with a certain confidence. I guessed you haven’t been here in less than six months because I’ve been living here for that long and I’m sure I would have noticed you.”

Suddenly the conversation became much more serious. Talking to John, I completely forgot where I was. I was shocked back to reality by a thought. ‘Six months? Why was he here six months?’ There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with him. Then my glance shifted from his perfect face to the IV stand, which brought me back to where I was: Sick Kids Hospital.

I looked to his eyes again and tried to find the words I was searching for. I looked at him unable to speak, unable to ask the questions that were going through my head. I was caught in his perfectly magnificent eyes and was silenced.

He laughed lightly, “It’s okay.” He smiled and said words that would never have been able to even escape my mouth calmly. “I have leukemia,” he smiled acceptingly. He went on to explain how they had discovered it a few years back. It became too hard for his parents to keep him at home so he was forced to move into the hospital.

We talked for what seemed like just a few minutes, until I realized I was very late for my appointment. We had been talking for an hour! I was twenty minutes late! I told him I had to go which made us both look at our invisible watches and break out into more spontaneous and gratuitous laughter. We exchanged cell phone numbers and I promised him I’d be back the next week to visit.

“Same time, same place?” he said with that crooked grin.

“Of course,” I smiled and waved goodbye as I ran to the counter of the cleft lip and palate section, still laughing at absolutely nothing.

When I got home, I lied. I told my parents that the schedule was changed; that instead of semi-annual appointments, I had ‘weekly sessions with the doctors’. My dad laughed at this, “Right, because we’re supposed to believe that,” he snorted, “Nice try young lady but you’re not skipping school under my watch.” Oh, he was so wrong. It took me a while but I had devised a simple, but affective, plan. Once a week, I called the school myself. To my advantage, I sound just like my mother on the phone. That may sound too simple to work, but it did; for a while at least.

All was well with John and me; that is, until he told me his life expectancy. The doctors didn’t believe he would last more than five months, and regardless of our resentment toward the whole “Life Expectancy” stuff, the doctor’s remark only scared both of us. If I continued to only visit once a week, we would only have a few days left together. So our schedule was forced to change.

My weekly visits soon turned into daily visits. I wasn’t initially a fan of skipping school but it seemed to me there was no choice in the matter. After a few failed tests and exams, it wouldn’t have mattered even if I had returned to school, it was impossible to pass. Besides, failing school didn’t matter; I was simply trying to make sure we had time. We started meeting more and more often trying to enjoy our limited time together, both of us scared that we’d run out of time before we were ready. For four whole months we saw each other nearly every day. Each day that I went to the hospital, John would greet me with a slight frown. “You should be in school,” he would say. For the most part, I would just shrug it off and we’d act like it was all cool, but one day he decided it wasn’t cool; it wasn’t cool that I was ‘ruining my future’.

“What are you doing?” he had shouted at me for the first time after he discovered I had skipped a math exam, “Why do you insist on throwing your life down the gutter?”

“Geez, you’re starting to sound like my dad,” I laughed, “Besides, what’s one exam?”

“One exam? Ronnie, you skip school every day. Don’t try and tell me this is the first time.”

I stared at him for a moment. I sighed, “But don’t you want me to be with you?”

He inhaled slowly and flicked his hair, his signature move, “Of course I want you to be with me.”

“Then let me skip,” I said boldly, “I can go to summer school if I have to. I can do the grade again if I have to,” I looked at my feet, worried about what I was going to say next, “There’ll always be time for school, but there may not be time for-" I didn’t need to say who or what. He understood what I was saying and we made a deal. I would continue with my skipping habits because no one, not even John, could tell me what to do. But never would I skip when there was an exam.

A few weeks went by but my parents had finally discovered the truth. My dad had received a call from my school asking about my absence. Of course, my parents thought the worst of it all and assumed...drugs. The next thing I knew I was grounded and suspended for all the skipping. Thinking it would prevent me from doing “drugs” my dad confiscated my wallet, money, and phone.

It didn’t matter, however. I had already memorized John’s number by heart. We called each other every night. It had become the new schedule. We hadn’t been able to physically see each other, but like the soul mates we were, we didn’t need to see each other to feel together. We would talk for hours and hours until the sun would rise the next morning and sometimes, even then. Everything seemed to be working out just fine. We of course missed each other dreadfully, but at least, in a sense, we still had each other’s company at night. Sometimes though, when I had a really bad day at school or had to deal with more substance abuse lectures and accusations, I dreamt about just leaving. I dreamed about just walking out of the house and visiting John; the only person on Earth who I felt any comfort around.

A few more weeks went by and we kept to our new system. Then one night I called, and he didn’t answer. I tried again three more times, so scared since this had never happened before. Finally, by my fifth try, someone picked up; but it wasn’t John.

“Hello,” the voice said sleepily, “This is John’s mother. Who is this? Why are you calling my son?”

I paused for a moment, not knowing how to say who I was. “I’m John’s friend, Ronnie,” I finally said.

“Ronnie?” she questioned. I was so used to John calling me ‘Ronnie’; I barely noticed that I introduced myself like that. I had adopted the name that I once despised.

“’Ronnie’ is short for ‘Veronica’,” I clarified.

“Well, Veronica, why are you calling my son at eight?”

“I-I always call him at eight.”

“Well, then,” she sounded angry this time, “You`re the reason he’s been staying up all night!” she said accusingly.

“Well, uh,” I didn’t know what to quite say to that, “Uh, yes. I mean, I guess I could be.”

John’s mother then informed me that John was in critical condition. He hadn’t been able to breath properly all day long. I didn’t want to believe what she was saying. John couldn’t be that bad, he just couldn’t. I’d talked to him just the night before, how could he have gotten so bad all of a sudden?

I began to yell at her, forgetting who she was. “What do you mean he can’t talk? I just talked to him yesterday. He was doing fine then, as he is doing fine now!” I nearly screamed with rage.

She screamed right back, “Yeah, you’re right, he was still talking yesterday, but he has been having trouble breathing since this past Wednesday.”

It couldn’t be. Wednesday was a whole week before. Why didn’t he tell me? “You’re lying!” I yelled, “You’re lying to me! He’s fine. He has to be fine!” Tears streamed from an endless well of denial hidden deep within me.

“He hasn’t been getting the rest he needs. We’re not exactly sure why but…oh wait…” She said it all so sarcastically, I was about to burst. And I did. I called her names I would never have called anyone else. She said then exactly what I was thinking, “You’re the reason John hasn’t gotten better! Why in the hell are you yelling at me?”

It was then that I cracked. She was absolutely right. I was the reason John wasn’t getting any better. I was keeping him up late at night and he wasn’t sleeping right. I could feel my throat tightening. I had no air left in my lungs after all this crying and I couldn`t seem to stop. How could I have been so selfish; keeping him from having the sleep he needed? What kind of monster was I? And yet, here I was trying to put the blame on his mother. I sobbed and sobbed until I had alerted my parents. I had to go see him, I just had to.

My parents wouldn’t buy it. I cried as I begged them to let me visit John, but they didn’t believe me. No matter how much I tried to explain it all, they just wouldn’t budge. That was it! I wasn’t going to waste time arguing with them. I stole money from my mom’s purse, went up to my room, and snuck out my bedroom window. I jumped from our roof and the moment I hit the ground a sharp pain shot through my left leg. I shook it off and ran. Physical pain didn’t matter; my parents’ reproach didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but seeing John.

I took the bus to the hospital. It was only 8:30pm and I still had one hour before they would kick me out. Running through the familiar halls, I ran to John’s room. It was empty. ‘Don’t panic’, I said to myself, ‘They just moved him to a different section.’ Finally after half an hour of searching, I found his new room.

A woman was sitting on a chair in front of his room. The moment she saw me she stood up and blocked the door. “Don’t tell me you’re Ronnie.” I recognized the ugly voice and the negative tone. That was John’s mother alright.

“Let me talk to him,” I started crying all over again, “please. He’ll want to see me.”

She then put the ugliest smirk on her face, “Yeah sure, he didn’t even wanna see his own mother. What makes you so special?” She looked into the room; I’m assuming she looked at John. “And by the way,” she began, pointing her fat sausage-like finger at me, “What did you do to make him so against me?”

Now I was mad. How dare she blame me when clearly it was her own fault. “What did I do?” I said it in disbelief, “What did you do? He was like this way before I even met him.” The swearing fest had begun. The two of us went off like there was no tomorrow. We both screamed out names and words that one would never dare say in church.

A nurse came out of John’s room and tapped John’s mother on the back, trying to calm her down. “Ma’am, why don’t you go on downstairs to the cafeteria while I deal with this young lady,” the nurse said it quietly enough to calm the monster. John’s mother nodded. She glared at me on her way.

“Just one thing,” she said making her way to the stairwell, “Don’t let this hooligan get anywhere near my son. If I can’t see him, no one can.” She said the last words and smiled at me. Her smile was nothing like John’s warm smile, though. It was the most evil, sarcastic, ugly smile I had ever seen.

Once she descended completely down the stairs until we couldn’t hear her whines anymore, the nurse turned to look at me. “I’m sorry miss, but if the mother says you can’t see him I’m afraid I can’t allow you in.”

I was beginning to lose it. I had just stolen money from my own mother, run out of my house like a mad woman, frantically searched every inch of this hospital looking for John’s room, and I was not about to let some nurse stand in my way. “Look,” I was losing my patience, “Just tell John that Ronnie’s here to see him.”
“Look yourself,” she replied stupidly, “He’s just recovering, and he needs his sleep. Just as his mother said earlier, it’s not like he was getting much of it before.”

The guilt had returned. She was right, they were all right, and I just had to accept it. I collapsed into a chair across from his room. I cried once again and it seemed like this time I would never stop. I took out a piece of paper and my mom’s stolen pen and began to write:

Dear John,
I’m so sorry I couldn’t see you today. You’re mother says that if she can’t see you then no one can. I’m so sorry I haven’t seen you in over a month. I’m so sorry that I kept you awake every night for this past month when I should have let you sleep. But more than anything, I’m sorry that I can’t find a cure and I’m sorry I can’t take your place. If only I could give up my soul instead…maybe God would let you be free. You have so much more to give to the world than I do. John, please get better. I know the doctors say it’s impossible, I know they think it’ll take a miracle, but nothing’s impossible…I’ll be back tomorrow, John. I PROMISE I’ll be here tomorrow whether your mother lets me in or not!
Yours always,
Ronnie.


I folded up the letter and gave it to the stubborn nurse. “Here, take this and make sure John gets this.”

She looked at me blankly, “He probably won’t be able to read this and-"

I cut her off, “Then you can read it to him!” Sensing the anger in my voice, she took the letter and promised to do so.

“Now if I was you, I’d leave before that very angry mother gets back,” the nurse said, “I don’t know what y’all were yelling about but I can’t let none of it happen again. People are sleeping around here you know.”

I went back the very next day just as I promised. I went early in the morning this time, 9am. The same stubborn nurse from the night before walked out of the room and immediately saw me. She opened her mouth as if to speak but remained mute. I looked her in the eye and said it, “You’re going to let me in this time, right? Or did John’s scary mother say I can’t go in?” I said this last part so sarcastically I began to feel a little bad, but I had to stay firm.

Again she opened her mouth but paused. Then she began to speak, “Miss, I’m so sorry but-”

Once again I cut her off, “But nothing. Just turn around and tell John that Ronnie’s here to see him.” She stood there with a certain amount of sadness in her eyes. She stared at the wall behind me, as though hoping to find her words written somewhere. Finally, her gaze returned to me. She shook her head as though I just asked her to do the impossible; which I soon discovered, I had.

She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and finally told me, “Miss, I’m so sorry,” she began, “but John passed away this morning.”

I felt the world crash on my soul. I failed him. I had failed John and now it was too late to do anything; too late to find a cure and too late to say a proper goodbye. No, I refused to believe it. He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have. I had come as early as I could, how could I still be too late?

The nurse answered my silent question, “He passed about six this morning...but not before reading your letter and in turn, dictating his reply to me.” She handed me the paper she was holding, which held the very last words John would have ever said to me. “I promised him I would get it to you.” Every part of me froze. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t read it. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even cry.

The nurse I once referred to as stubborn and annoying, asked me if I wanted her to read it to me. I nodded. It was the only movement I was capable of. She began to read but the only voice I heard was John’s:

Ronnie,
Thank you. Thank you for making me happy. Thank you for calling me every night. Whenever you called, I felt like you were right there with me. Thank you for trying so hard to be with me. I know I haven’t seen you in a while, but I didn’t need to; just the thought of you has lightened every day. Most of all, thank you for sharing your hope with me. Before I met you, I was scared; scared of going out of existence and into nothingness. Now I know there must be a God and a heaven…because He sent me an angel. Now I know that once I leave here, I won’t just disappear. I’ll be somewhere wonderful. You’re right, it’s not impossible for me to get better, because if you’re reading this…then I am better. I’m free again, like I could never be on Earth. You’re wrong about one thing, though. You have just as much to give to the world as I do. You gave me hope, Ronnie; you are my hope. If you could do so much for one person, imagine what you could do for the world. Imagine how you could change the world. And you can. And you will! All you have to do…is believe!

Hope to see you again one day,
John


Hearing that letter almost made me forget why I was sad. It was like John was still there with me, still talking to me. Hearing it made me think about the last time I’d actually spoken to him in person as well as the first time I’d ever spoken to him. It reminded me of his dog-like shaggy hair as he would flick it back and forth, and it reminded me of his eyes; his mysteriously mischievous hazel eyes. The letter made me think about how we connected; how the very first moment we met, I knew we were soul mates. The best times were the ones that had no significance at all; the times where we just laughed for no reason or talked until ten in the morning. He was my soul mate and I, his.

John was right. I can change the world; and I will. One day I’ll start my own foundation, in honour of John’s memory. One day I’ll finally find a cure for leukemia. All I have to do…is believe.