Paper Cranes Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Nicole Hite does not own the rights to any music, or movies.

  Paper Cranes

  Copyright © 2016 by Kathryn H. Lee

  Editing by

  TCB EDITING SERVICES

  Cover design and art: Pink Ink Designs, Copyright © 2016

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  Paper Cranes© 2016 by Nicole Hite

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language, which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be access by minors.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Copyright © 2016 Nicole Hite

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 – You are beautiful

  Chapter 2 – You are stronger than you think

  Chapter 3 – You are worthy

  Chapter 4 – You are a hopeless romantic

  Chapter 5 – You are a ray of sunshine

  Chapter 6 – You are trustworthy

  Chapter 7 – You are understanding

  Chapter 8 – You are a horrible dancer

  Chapter 9 – You are sexy

  Chapter 10 – You are hypnotizing

  Chapter 11 – You are a rebel

  Chapter 12 – You are compassionate

  Chapter 13 – You are daring

  Chapter 14 – You are stunning

  Chapter 15 – You are the moon of my life

  Chapter 16 – You are generous

  Chapter 17 – You are everlasting

  Chapter 18 – You are an exhibitionist

  Chapter 19 – You are exceptional

  Chapter 20 – You are selfless

  Chapter 21 – You are loved

  Chapter 22 – You were loved

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Playlist

  Nicole’s Books

  “It takes a remarkable human being to look into your future, see the hurt and devastation yet to come and instead of running, lifts you up and carries you into battle. That’s love.” – Kat Dove

  To my warrior husband,

  Thank you for hearing my battle cry.

  I know what you’re thinking. This is one of those sad, pathetic stories of how boy meets girl with a terminal illness, they fall madly in love and she dies just like Mandy Moore in a Walk to Remember. Well, you’re only partly wrong. Not all stories have happy endings, but what constitutes as a happy ending?

  Conventional love probably consists of girl gazing across the room as she locks eyes with mystery boy. They play cat and mouse until one day one of them caves. Confessing their undying love for one another and riding off into the sunset as he proposes on a beautiful beach.

  But that’s conventional love.

  Here’s what would happen in my world. Girl’s car breaks down just as she gets life altering news. He tries to help, but girl blows off hot guy because she has a terminal illness. There are no declarations of undying love and certainly no riding off into the sunset. For starters, horses smell and she’d look ridiculous trying to ride a beast such as that. Secondly, it is inevitable that it will be high tide sweeping her away into a bed of seaweed. Call me crazy, but that doesn’t exactly seem like a swell time.

  Screw conventional love.

  Give me dancing on Mardi Gras floats, three am breakfast sessions and swimming with pigs in the Bahamas. That’s my kind of love, and it all started with a stupid paper crane.

  This is my story, my life and my love. I can’t guarantee I’ll be alive by the end of the book, but at least I can promise you this – there will be love. Unimaginable love. A love that doesn’t require rules, stipulations or expectations.

  This isn’t the story about how I died, but how I lived.

  On January 20th, at approximately 10:20 a.m., my life came to a screeching halt. As I sat on the cold examination table, waiting for Doctor Mather, my knees and teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The incessant buzzing from the overhead fluorescent lighting made my eyelashes flutter to the point where it was almost unbearable to keep them open.

  Where was he? I’ve been sitting here for almost twenty minutes now.

  At least, that’s what it felt like. Time crept along, as the second hand on the hanging clock seemed to sputter. I started to wonder if it had gotten stuck on the five-minute mark.

  I looked down at my wristwatch to make sure the wall clock wasn’t entirely incompetent. Nope. I was just being impatient like I always was. A trait I clearly must have picked up from my father, unlike my mother who was incredibly patient. Too bad I couldn’t find out for myself what sort of traits I took from either one of them. I could only assume I knew the type of people they were.

  The spasms were back, although they were accompanied by weakness this time.

  “Carpel Tunnel,” they said. “No, no, parathyroid for sure. But what about Focal Dystonia?”

  Will someone please make up his or her mind so we can move forward?

  “I’m sorry Ms. Dove, but we need to do a few more tests. Yes, I know you have already had two other EMG’s. Yes, I’m sorry we need to schedule MRI’s the day after Christmas. Yes, I need to take more blood. We’re just trying to rule out all possibilities.”

  Possibilities for what?

  They should know something by now. I was an idiot for looking at my charts that one day. Trying to coddle my emotions before someone else could give me bad news. That was two months since their diagnosis of an “abnormal EMG.”

  What does that even fucking mean - abnormal EMG? Kat, do not Google search. Do. Not. Search.

  I had a feeling it couldn’t be good when my scheduled exam for one appendage turned into two hours of poking and prodding. Needles the size of middle fingers, stabbed into my spine without warning. The electrical current thrust through my muscles forcing me to curl into the fetal position.

  I clutched and clawed at my knees as the air in my lungs caught in my throat. The pain ripped through me like a thousand daggers. My face practically turned blue from the lack of oxygen. That’s what I did when I experienced pain - held my breath like a petulant child who couldn’t have her way. Call it a reflex or just plain anxiety, but it calmed me for some reason. The doctors and even my best friend, JoJo, scolded me for it.

  “You’re going to pass out if you keep that up, Kat.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. It’s involuntary.”

  “Hold my hand,” she would say. Looking into her eyes she would mouth the encouragement I needed to hear. “Breathe
, Kat. In. Out. Just like this,” she would coach as she inhaled and exhaled her cigarette breath.

  “When are you going to quit that shit? I thought we were in this together?” I would joke, forcing myself to breathe and communicate at the same time.

  “I’m just not ready, Kat. You know the hell I have to deal with concerning my boss. He drives me crazy. I need to find some way to take the edge off. Would you rather I had an addiction to alcohol like him?”

  “No, never. I just wish you wouldn’t do it anymore. Perhaps you need to find a man as an addiction?” I laugh as my breathing begins to regulate. She brushes her thumb across the back of my hand, giving me her empathetic grin I’ve come to notice when she is nervous for me.

  “We already know I’m addicted to men. How could I not be? Then again, who else could tolerate my ass like you?” she joked.

  “Great point. Too bad you’re not my type. I’d go lesbian for you,” I chuckle as my heartbeats begin tapering off into a rhythmic chord of comfort.

  Unlike my chocolate curls with streaks of red, JoJo had a beautiful mane of blonde locks. She was, by far, better looking than myself with her hourglass body and perfectly pouty lips. I was a little heavier than she was with typical features – full lips, nice rack, and average build. Just, ordinary I suppose. Not like Jo who came across as an amazonian goddess.

  “J, I’m scared.”

  “There is nothing to be scared about, babe. You’re going to be just fine. Watch, they’ll come in here and tell you, you have a severe case of carpel tunnel or a pinched nerve for fuck’s sake.” Although I could hear the encouragement within her voice, the trembling in her hands gave her away. She was just as terrified as I was.

  So here I sit, alone, on my sixth appointment, hoping for a solid answer; hoping for some shred or insight as to why I’m going through this. It has to be something ridiculously simply and easy to fix. Quick, easy surgery and I’ll be good to go. I can’t imagine they would allow me to come here alone if it were something detrimental. Surely they can’t be that cruel.

  “Ms. Dove, lovely to see you again,” Dr. Mather states as he knocks while opening the door all at once.

  “Hello,” I drag out each syllable. That’s all I could muster with my teeth chattering so loudly, even I thought it was making the table shake.

  “Cold?”

  “A little,” I half lie knowing that the real reason for my banging teeth lies within his charts propped neatly in his arms.

  “I’m sorry I have to do this, but can I examine you for a moment?” he doesn’t wait for a response, as his cold, wrinkled hands take my own. Flipping my palms over in his, he tests each fingers elasticity and reflexes one by one. The delayed reactions or lack thereof painted a disturbing grimace across his brow.

  Brow lifting, yes, not a good sign.

  “Place your palms against mine and push really hard,” he instructs me.

  Straining to flex my fingers out flat, I place my clammy palms on top of his. Pushing with all my might, my right arm and shoulder collapse easier than I had anticipated. My mind is telling me, “You know how to do this, Kat, so do it!” But I couldn’t.

  Why couldn’t I?

  “Okay. Okay. Now, with each hand, I want you to make an “OK” sign with each finger.”

  Easy enough, right?

  I fly through the exercise with my left hand with ease.

  Easy enough.

  I spoke too soon.

  As I lifted my right hand, my digits began to shake uncontrollably. How is it I just flew through it with one hand and now it feels like my other is rebelling from my subconscious? Mentally I know what I am supposed to do and yet my hands are telling me to go fuck myself. The frustration and anguish singed across my face giving away my emotional struggle.

  Why couldn’t I do this? This should be so easy, right?

  “That’s good enough,” he clutched my hands, placing them into my lap as he patted them as if I were a child. “Hop down and get dressed while I go get your MRI charts from the other doctors.”

  “Okay,” I mumble, hoping there will be some, small shred, of hope still left to be had. I wait again.

  Will someone just tell me what the hell is going on already?

  Slight tapping interrupts my thought as I now cradle my sweater, sitting in a chair opposite my doctor.

  His expression. Oh, God, his expression.

  I knew something was wrong the instant he sat down. Sheepishly avoiding eye contact, he flipped through my files purposely dragging out my fate. The tell tell signs that my life was about to be flipped upside down.

  “Ms. Dove, what is your understanding of what is going on here?”

  “Well, I’ve been told it could be Carpel Tunnel, Focal Dystonia, parathyroid disease…” I trail off because the next prognosis is the hardest to articulate.

  “Are you familiar with Lou Gerig’s Disease?”

  In that very moment, time stopped. He continued to speak as my mind tried to wrap itself around the magnitude of what he was saying. ALS. I have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Me, I’m the one he’s speaking to, not some pour schmuck behind me. I was going to die. I was going to wither away as the world around me continued. While the rest of the world debated over frivolous things such as the latest iPhone to get, or arguing with their parents about how “Bobby’s parents” let him go to that concert.

  I was dying.

  I will be gone in three-five years, maybe longer if I’m lucky. I quickly start to pray for any other disease, how pathetic is that? It’s horrible wishing for a brain tumor or even a thyroid problem compared to this. I was dying. There was no cure for ALS. There was no physical therapy or even transplant to save me.

  I was dying.

  Dr. Mather’s voice tunneled and buried itself deep within my unconscious as I thought of everything and everyone this could affect. I’m so young. Oh, God, I had so many things I wanted to do first. How was I going to tell my boss? How was I going to tell…?

  “Ms. Dove, can I get you anything? Water? I know this is a lot to take in.”

  “My best friend, JoJo. I need Jo. Now!” I screamed as the hot tears raced down my face, landing in my open palms. Riffling through my handbag to retrieve my phone, I unlocked my screen. Scrolling down the contact list, I immediately found “My Bitch”. Hearing the drawn out rings, only made my already impatient legs shake underneath me. Come on, come on, come on. Answer the fucking phone!

  “Hey, Babe. How did the appointment go?” she answers cheerfully. How can she be so cheery when my life just crumbled before me?

  I am dying.

  Under shaky breath, my throat gave way and tears began to fall freely. “I need you here. Now. Please come quick.”

  “What’s going on? What’s wrong? Where are you?” the panic escalated in her voice as the urgency of the conversation quickly turned.

  Barely choking out my sentences, I stumbled as I tried to respond, “Dr. Office. Come. Now. Please!”

  “I’m on my way,” she screeched as you could audibly hear her racing to her car.

  As I hung up the phone, I looked at the screen watching the “End Call” pulse red on the display.

  “Can I get you anything?” the nurse asked as I turned in her direction. Dr. Mather must have slipped out during my call in order to give me some privacy.

  “No. Thank you,” I hummed as I reached for the box of tissues. Dabbing my face free of makeup, my poor skin felt sensitive and raw. As I disposed of the tissue, I sat and waited. I was alone, scared, frightened and the only person I wanted and needed by my side just then was my best friend; she would make it better, she always made it better.

  I sat in the cold, hard chair, trying to calm myself down when the examination door flies open. Standing before me was my childhood friend, partner in crime and sister for life. I jumped to my feet and ran into her warm embrace. Not saying one word she let me cry into her dress shirt, possibly smearing any remaining make-up on it while rubbing my back.
/>   How was I supposed to tell my best friend I was dying?

  “Honey, I need you to take a seat and tell me what’s going on. I can’t understand you right now.” Her expression was pained as I withdraw myself from her embrace.

  “I. Have. ALS.” Now it was my turn to divert my eyes from her. The pain of seeing her reaction was far too much to bear. I was hardly keeping it together myself. My head and heart couldn’t take seeing her face drop with heaviness. The overwhelming burden and devastation would be smeared across her face. She was never one to hold back her facial expressions. I always gave her hell for her, “Resting Bitch Face.”

  “We’re okay. We’re going to get through this.” Jo drew me into her arms as I began to weep again. Drawing circles into my back, we just sat. We weren’t being escorted out to fend for ourselves, or disregarded for our emotions, but left alone for a while to digest the news.

  “Are we, because I do not see a silver lining here?” My words came across as callous as the anger started to fester inside my belly. “I’m sorry, I just can’t understand this right now. Why? Why me?”

  “Ms. Dove… Ms. Clare, I’m so glad you made it,” Dr. Mather stated with a somber expression laced across his face.

  “Hey, Doc. Can you explain this to me, please?” Jo stated in a calm voice, as she continued to stroke my back.

  “Your friend has what we call amyotrophic lateral sclerosis or Lou Gerig’s disease.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Well, when we did the initial E.M.G. we noticed extensive abnormalities within her muscular tissue. Their reactions to the electrical simulations were off the charts. We were pretty confident then that she had it.”

  “Why the hell would you let her come here alone then? She needed support and you essentially baited her like a lion. You know what; I don’t even want to know the answer. What are we up against?”