Mr. Jennings smiled at her. He was old-looking for his thirty-seven years; his dark hair had grayed since he found out about Corey’s cancer. “No, Sweetheart. No mail,” he told her.
Corey made a face and repositioned the blue bandanna on her head. She had been wearing bandannas since her hair had started falling out due to chemotherapy. Her hair had once been long, wavy, and dark brown. However, now, she was completely bald. “Oh, well,” she sighed.
Her father walked over to her and ran a strong finger over her cheek. “Don’t sound so down,” he said. “I’m sure the letter’s on it’s way.”
She forced a smile. “That’s what you’ve been saying since I sent the letter out,” she said. “That was a month ago.”
He kissed her forehead. “Mail is slow, Dear. And you have to remember how much mail they must get . . .” He sighed. “Are you sure you don’t want to make another wish?”
“No, Dad. This is all I want,” she told him. Again. “And it’s too late to make another wish anyway -”
“Corey, don’t say that,” Mr. Jennings said quickly, cutting her off. “The doctors say you’re doing extremely well. They’re even thinking that you might live another few months -”
“Dad,” Corey sighed. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“But it’s good news,” he insisted.
“I don’t care,” she said stubbornly. “Don’t tell me what the doctors say, Dad. I’ve told you that before. I don’t want to hear it.”
He nodded. “Okay, Corey. You win.” He smiled. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Well,” she began, “did you bring it? What I asked for?”
Mr. Jennings nodded. “Yes, I did. Can I ask why you wanted it?” he inquired.
Corey held her small hands out toward her father. “Could I have it, please?” she asked, purposely not answering his question. “Please?” she prompted.
With a sigh, her father took out a paper bag from behind his back and handed it to her. “You still didn’t answer my question,” he told her, knowing fully that his daughter wasn’t going to answer him.
She took the bag from him and dug through it happily. In the bottom of it, she found a dark blue, single subject notebook. When she took it out, she found a set of three floral-printed pens. She smiled and held her arms out to her father. He leaned forward and gave her a hug. “Thank you,” she told him.
“You’re welcome,” he told her. “Now, what did you want it for?” he asked as he pulled away.
“The pens were a nice thought,” she told him, again avoiding his question. “I didn’t ask for new pens. I was planning on using those Bic ones I have all over the room. But, I like these much better.”
“Corey,” her father began.
She cut him off. “Do you think I could get a little time alone?” she asked. “Please? You can come back after a while, but I want to be alone for now.”
He nodded. “Okay, Sweetheart.” With a final smile toward his daughter, he exited the room.
Corey flipped open the notebook and uncapped the pen with light blue flowers scrawling across it. She regarded the piece of paper thoughtfully for a minute before starting to write.
I, Corey Misae Jennings, being of sound mind and body, do solemnly declare my last will and testament. I’m not sure if that’s exactly how I’m supposed to write it, but it’s legal anyway; I know, I looked it up.
Anyway, I have decided that all of my worldly possessions will go back to my parents for them to do with what they wish, except for my Barbie doll collection, which will go to my little cousin, Tina Jennings, and my CD collection, which will go to my older cousin, Barry Jennings.
To Mom and Dad: Don’t cry when I’m gone. You loved me as much as a child has ever been loved in the world while I was here. Just, do me a favor - well, actually, two - one, stop smoking (and try and get Grandma, Grandpa, and Aunt Jeannie, Aunt Marie, Aunt Angela, Uncle Alex, Uncle Ed, and Uncle Matt to quit too), and two, don’t have my death make you not want to have any more children. I know that when you found out I was sick, you put your dreams of a younger brother or sister for me on hold, but when I’m gone, I want you to have more children - as many as you can handle! And, name one of them Misae, to remember me.
Peace and life
Eternal love,
Corey Jennings
She looked over the paper. Her will. It was satisfactory. After a moment, she made a line beneath her name and wrote, Witness underneath it. She’d worry about a witness later. She didn’t want her parents to know she had written the will - she didn’t want to upset them.
Corey turned to the next page in the notebook.
Monday, 9-28-98
Well, I’m still waiting on my “wish” to come true. I doubt it will. Sure, the Make-a-Wish people mean well, but they just can’t do everything. It doesn’t bother me. I’m used to being let down. I’m used to not getting to do the things I always thought I’d be able to do.
She sighed. Somehow, writing out her thoughts made her feel better.
Corey tucked her notebook safely beneath her mattress and laid back against her pillows. If only the hospital room wasn’t so plain - off-white walls, white linens, white Venetian blinds. If only she was in her own room. If only she wasn’t sick.
If only . . .
