The sweetest lie came from my fiancé.

When I met John, he was my oncologist. He treated me like any other patient, although secretly, I felt that under different circumstances, he would flirt with me.

I liked him more than any other blind date my friends had set me up on. He's always well-groomed and surprisingly fit for a person who works sixty hours a week. Most of all, I loved his voice. Even with the bad news, somehow, he made me feel comforted.

Fast forward three years. I hadn't seen him after being cancer-free. A friend had told me that he had moved to a different hospital. Now and then, I would wonder if he was single and whether I should have asked him to dinner the last time I saw him.

I walk into my local coffee shop early in the morning. I order my usual: a croissant and ginger tea. As I am walking out, I see John jogging in the park across the street. At first, I wondered if I imagined it was him; maybe it was someone who looked like him.

The feeling of being stunned wore off in about two minutes. I suppose I was standing in the middle of the cafe, looking out the window as if daydreaming. When I finally snapped back into reality, I started to walk to my car. I closed the door and turned the key to the ignition. I sat there looking for a playlist to jam on my way home. I wasn’t focused enough because I was thinking about John. Maybe I should have yelled across the street to see if it was him.

There he was again. It was John. I had to make it seem I just bumped into him, so I pulled into the park's parking lot. I knew he would lap around again. I could feel it. Walking with my tea in my hand, I saw him coming back around. When he noticed me, he slowed down and then stopped with a massive smile across his handsome face.

John asked me out to the cafe the following Sunday. Every Sunday for many weeks, we met up at the same spot. We didn't call them dates, but that's what they were.

One day, I asked him to come with me to the museum to see my art displayed to change the pace of our dates. I also wanted his opinion about my art. That night, he asked me on a proper date, and we discussed creating artwork, famous paintings, and their makers. This was the beginning of our relationship.

Six years into our marriage, my father died. After he was gone, my mother did not last long. Their death took a toll on me; I didn’t get that picture-perfect scene where characters in a movie say goodbye to their loved ones. I felt as if I let them down.

A year into my grief, I had a feeling I recognized but never wanted to feel again. John was my doctor, and I didn’t want anyone else to tell me bad news. We did all the tests we needed. I was expecting the worst. I asked John to read the results and wanted to hear from him. I wanted his words to comfort me. Except that is not what happened at all. He explained to me that the symptoms I had were triggered by grief and that I remained cancer-free. I felt floating out of my body when he said those words. I couldn’t believe I was mistaken. I should be grateful.

John lied—a sweet lie, to help me through the moment, to deny what was to come. Nevertheless, a lie is never sweet when it's finally exposed.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but you only have uh, five years left to live."

'Five years?" I gasped.

"I'm so sorry miss. May I suggest that you spend these last years living them to the fullest? I wouldn't want you to waste the last bit of your life."

"Thank you doctor. I'll try." I sniffed.

When I got to the car, I called my best friend and told her to grab her passport, we were going to Europe.

One year later, I am living my best life, sitting with my boyfriend, Jean Paul, under in our favorite cafe, drinking our favorite coffee in Paris. After two weeks of travelling through Europe, my best friend had to go back home, but I couldn't. I decided to stay in Paris, in the cutest little bed and breakfast, run by the sweetest old lady. I met Jean Paul six months into my stay, and I have been the happiest I have been for a very long time. Jean Paul and I have even been talking about getting married one day.

As I am finishing the last of my coffee, I get a call from an American number. I decided to pick up. It was the doctor that had given me the bad news last year.

"Hello, how are you Lisa?"

"Hi Dr. Procter. Why are you calling?"

"Well, I was calling to congratulate you."

"On what?"

"Well, remember our last appointment?"

"Of course, that was kinda what changed my life."

"Well, I wasn't exactly honest with you that day."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you only had about 4-6 months in reality."

"What?!"

"I told you that you had five years left, so you would use what time you had left to be happy. If I told you how long you actually had, you wouldn't have enjoyed it like you have been. And it has seemed to increase your lifespan as well. Thinking that you were supposed to die five years in the future created the placebo effect. The 6 months passed by without you giving it a single thought."

"Wow. I really don't know what to say. Thank you doctor. If I knew that I didn't have that much time, I probably would have moped and not done everything I have so far. I think that I am just going to keep thinking I have 4 years left. I have plans."

"Good for you Lisa, I'm proud of you, and what you have accomplished. I'll let you get back to your life now."

"Thank you." I hung up, flabbergasted. Jean Paul gave me an adorable smile, and my life fell back into place, exactly where I was supposed to be.

“You’re probably anemic.”

“You think so?”

“It fits the symptoms: Lightheadedness; Increased thirst; Fatigue; Shortness of breath.”

Larry sat on the exam bed, tissue paper crinkling under his weight. He felt cold, exposed. That was likely do to the draft from his hospital gown. Why did they always make you take off your clothes? he wondered.

“So what should I do?”

“Iron. And rest. We’ll admit you overnight for observation, but it should clear up quickly. Warning, though,” the beautiful young doctor said with a wink, “the pills are huge!”

He did his best to laugh, to not appear weak, but he felt like garbage.

He got a room to himself, which was a nice bonus. Famished, he tried to eat the lukewarm burger and fries the nurse brought along with instructions that he shouldn’t take the pills on an empty stomach. It was a challenge, though, as he seemed to have lost all craving for food.

He thought about the doctor.

She was stunning.

He had done his best not to be one of “those guys,” the creepers he was sure she had to deal with as a young, attractive physician. But he couldn’t shake it.

He even dreamt about her. Her seemingly glowing green eyes, her long, flaxen hair (was that the word… “flaxen?” It seemed like the word.) He dreamt that she visited him that night, that she wasn’t so much in his hospital room as he was merely in her presence, that she was everything.

He woke up that morning feeling near hypothermic. He wasn’t shivering, just cold. So cold.

Was this part of the anemia?

And how did he even become anemic? He didn’t bleed, ate lots of iron rich foods, and was generally in good health. He’d only come to the hospital originally for a twisted ankle, but that seemed to have heeled already, so why did he still feel so crumby.

Each night, Larry had the same dream that the doctor had visited him, each morning he woke up feeling worse, not better. How long did the meds take? His nurse was confused, they should be working by now. But no, he was getting worse.

By the fifth night he was legitimately worried. Was he dying? Was it something worse, like cancer or one of those nasty viruses that eat brains or something? He asked the nurse to get his doctor, but she was always busy, always a promise that she’d be by soon.

But she only ever visited Larry in his dreams.

On the eighth morning, Larry woke with a start. The sun was coming up and he was in excruciating pain. He jumped out of bed and yanked the curtains closed, darkening the room. Immediately, he started to feel better, but his skin seemed to literally be smoking, bright and swollen with blisters. But it, too, healed almost immediately once the light was gone. Was this a new symptom? Was he allergic to light now? He’d heard of that, a weird birth defect, but he’d never had any issues with direct sunlight in the past.

He leapt from the window to the other side of the bed and hit the “nurse” button. She had to find the doctor!

Wait…

What?

He realized he leapt nearly fifteen feet, and OVER a hospital bed.

What was going on?

The nurse came in, but appeared unsurprised. “Hello, Mr Archer. What can I do for you?”

“The sun, it, like, burned my skin! That can’t be normal, can it? And, you know what else, I just jumped from over there to over here, but, like, over the bed. Like, I jumped completely over it. That’s not something I can do, normally, much less with anemia or whatever. What is going on?”

She no-teeth smiled at me and, in a calm voice, said, “Nothing to worry about, Mr Archer. I’ll let Betty know you’re ready for her.”

Larry was confused. “Who? Who is Betty?”

“You know Betty, silly. …Betty Acula? She’s your physician, Dr. Acula.”

When I heard the doctor’s “news”, my body relaxed as a deep breath of relief escaped me. I was ready to thank him and hop out of the office, ready to continue my life.

I went on life as normal. Spending time with families and friends, writing scripts for a Hollywood big studio, and taking every chance to go out. Well, guess the pains became normal.

Every few hours, my pelvis and organs around my stomach would scream, as if they are shrinking too much. I tried to ignore them as the doctor told me I was fine.

But every week, my body would get tortured more and more. It started spreading around, until I felt like I can’t even breath without lava being poured inside my body.

My closed ones were getting concerned, and suggested I see him again. At first I ignored them. It’s great timing that when I finally considered doing it, my legs fell asleep and my head got a nice purple concealer from the ground.

The next moment, I woke up from a super un confusing sleep to find my family. Huddled around, barely letting go of my hospital bed’s railings.

Then I found you, Fred, hiding behind a door. Oh you were sweating so much, and your eyes were nearly rolling in full circles.

When you told me what caused my sudden sleep, I almost yelled to you, wondering how it could happen when you said I was in good health? Then you told us the truth.

Yes, it was necessary, but there wasn’t a worse time to choose.

I mean, the damage isn’t so much, right? No family and friends feeling betrayed? No ultimate proof to my children that lying is bad? No projects interrupted or being thrown away?

Thank you so much doctor Fred. Don’t worry, I won’t ask my family to file a lawsuit. My death is suppose to be peaceful, right? All about leaving the beautiful earth behind with no regrets?

Thanks a lot.

Not.

"Everything looks normal," Dr. Jameson had said, "Nothing out of the ordinary and nothing to be concerned about."

"Are you sure?" I asked, feeling like she was hiding something.

"Absolutely," she said quickly closing my folder making sure I didn't see anything.

I gently nodded allowing her to exit the exam room. After she'd gone, I took off the hospital gown and put my own clothes back on. I walked out of the hospital that day slightly uneasy but this was a doctor I had known my whole life and completely trusted. She wouldn't lie to me. I hope.

Later that month, my symptoms returned. The nausea, inability to eat, insomnia, paranoia, and shakes. I wanted to go back to Dr. Jameson but with her dismissal of my symptoms last time, I decided on a second opinion.

I scheduled a visit to see another doctor but he told me the same thing. He told me there was nothing wrong with me. No tumors. No abnormal brain waves. Nothing. He also wouldn't allow me to see any of the images or test results.

A few days later, I found a study that proved I wasn't crazy. They proved I was dying. They told me it was cancer. They also said I had a dormant gene. One they could try and activate that might cure me of all my ailments.

The last time I talked to the doctors at the study was a few days ago. I'd asked them to let me think on it and make up my mind. I don't want to die but I don't know what activating this gene will do. My hands are shaking but I take a steadying breath as I dial the number of Dr. Matheson, the lead doctor from the study.

"Hello?" Her voice echoes across the line.

"Dr. Matheson, this is Parker Drake. I came in a few days ago and you gave me a cancer diagnosis," I say between shaky breaths.

"Yes, Parker. How are you?"

"I'm struggling, Doctor."

"Does this mean you've made a decision about joining the study?"

"I don't want to die. I also don't know what activating this gene will do but if I get to live, I'm willing to take that risk."

"Parker, that's wonderful to hear. It really is but I need a definite yes or no before I can bring you in to sign consent forms."

"Yes. I want to join the study," I state.

We discuss a few more details before hanging up.

The next day, I go into the study, sign consent forms, and get settled in. Dr. Matheson walks me through the procedure making sure I know I can opt out at any point right up until they send me into the activation tank. I make the decision to never back out and to see this through.

After undergoing the procedure, I find myself waking up on a hospital gurney. I'm still drowsy and slightly out of it due to the anesthesia.

"You're awake," Dr. Matheson says as she checks my vitals.

"How'd everything go?" I ask.

"It went just as expected. All of your scans look normal."

"You aren't lying to me are you?"

"No, I'm not lying," she chuckles.

"You are leaving something out though. Aren't you?" I ask, seeing the hesitation on her face.

"There was a side effect from activating that particular dormant gene. You, um, you now have what some would call superpowers."

"What?"

"You heal faster now. Faster than normal. It's only been 30 minutes since you came out of the activator. Most don't wake up for several hours."

"Is that it?"

"Maybe. We don't know."

I nod my head trying to understand. My fear and anxiety washes over me as I try to come to terms with my new abilities.

Soon, I notice others around me starting to panic and become afraid, even Dr. Matheson. I calm myself down watching as my emotions effect those around me and everyone else calms down as well.

"I think there was another side effect," I say, looking up at Dr. Matheson.

"I think you're right," she chuckles, taking note of the effect my emotions have on those around me.

In the following days, I've completely healed from the effects of the procedure. I've also taken it upon myself to use my emotional manipulation to help others, even discreetly. Because this is my superpower and I am The Jokester.

I can’t believe I have this horrible condition. I don’t even know the name but it sounds bad. Now I can’t go to college because I only have a few weeks to live. Frick. What am I going to do? I just got a call from the doctor. He made a mistake, I can live. It’s just a minor cold.

04/18

“It’s not good… but it’s not bad either… I think if we continued a set of treatments we could possibly beat this. If not, at least prolong your life expectancy.” He looked so hopeful, his perfect teeth on display in their most dazzling smile. As always I noticed it never reached his eyes. I looked at the purple veins running under my ash colored skin. Another round of experimental treatments, ranging from medicines to radiations. Another round of nausea, losing what little weight I had struggled to maintain. Another round of misery. The choice was easy.

“No.” Dr. Glasgow peered at me closely. I had the distinct feeling of being an insect under observation, the white coated scientist being disappointed at what he saw.

“No? I don’t understand… if you stop taking these treatments… you’ll die in two months… at most!”

“Dying can’t be any worse than living.” I heard the words leave my mouth before my brain had even pieced them together. I felt at peace about dying. I’ve been prolonging my life expectancy for years now, doing all the steps, taking all the treatments, spending money when there was none… if God wanted me dead so badly, who was I to stop him?

“But the pain–“

“Pain is a friend. Has been for the past five years. I want it to end.”

11/23

I opened the mailbox, feeling the cold bite my cheeks while I thought of the warm fire inside my house. I fumbled with the papers, hindered by my black woolen gloves and, without glancing at the senders, stepped inside the foyer. It already smelled like Christmas, the sharp scent of pine trees filling the house. The gas fireplace was running in the living room, unattended for the moment while the sound of bowls clattering together came from the kitchen. Footsteps could be heard on the ceiling as the kids chased each other upstairs, probably fighting over a hairbrush. It was a wonderful symphony of the living.

I pulled the gloves off my hand, revealing a healthy, pink-tinted skin tone. I unraveled myself from the bundle of coats and scarves and searched desperately for an empty hook on the wall. I settled for the floor. The beanie followed, letting hair fall down around my ears and tickle my neck, hair I hadn’t had previously. The brown curls were still foreign and, after four years without it, I suppose I had forgotten my natural hair color. The letters were the usual, junk mail and bills. One was unusual. It looked almost like jury duty at first and then… I was being called to court to testify… a witness… victim… fraud… false…

Yes, I noticed I lived much longer than had been expected. Yes, I felt much better and looked much better than previously. I had hair, a health skin tone, my nails grew, I wasn’t riddled with headaches and joint pain, no nausea or vertigo, I had an appetite, maintained a healthy weight and could actually walk and exercise without having to lay down practically incapacitated by cramps. I thought it was some miracle.

Instead there was a doctor that helped his patients and then lied to them, keeping them on “treatments” telling them how dire their situation was, taking their money to make them sick and using it to pay for his Porsche. I had defeated this sickness already, but was being led on, convinced I was still dying.

I sat down in the foyer, leaning against the wall as I read the letter over and over again. Choosing death saved my life…

Two fingers slid to his pulse, his heart shaking as the nurses watched the doctor. Last chance, they had told him, to get a confirmation of what was happening inside of him. He could nearly taste it. Freedom seemed so strange, even while he was seconds away from it. He clutched his satchel, trying his best to hold still. This was the final check, the last little step and then he was finally done. No more medicine, no more hours in the plain white walls. He had to trust that this was the right thing. He saw her glance up at the figures behind, trying her best to avoid their eyes. When she looked back at him, all he could see was fear. Something had to be wrong. “Well, good job, Mr. Riley.” She laughed dryly, her forehead shining gently in the cold light. “It seems you’ve done quite a good job fighting off the virus. You’re free to go.” The room was silent for a moment, his mind too chaotic for him to notice. There had to be something she was scared of. Something bad. Still, she had said he was fine. Nothing made sense. “Wait, Doctor Johannes, you said I could see the results-“ “C’mon Rosie, the Doctor’s got to have a pretty busy schedule, right?” She swallowed and nodded. “How ‘bout we talk about this at home, Ambrose?” Both of his brothers crowded around him, their hands on his shoulders. When his eyes darted to Johannes, realization struck him. His brothers. Of course. If she wasn’t telling them something, it had to be serious. He had to know. “Oh, uh, sure.” His eyebrows furrowed as he thought. “Could I, um, have a moment before we go?” “Why?” He swallowed hard. With them looking at him like that, he couldn’t find his brothers. All that was left was an angry pack of wolves.

I drove to my family doctor to hear the news.

“Hi Alan, I’ve got great news! The tumor isn’t malignant.” he said excitedly.

“Yay! May I have a copy of the X-ray ?” Alan said as he jumped up and down.

A few days later Alan’s x-ray copy came in the mail. His uncle came over.

“Hey Uncle Jay. Here’s my x-ray I told you about. I’m cancer free !” said Alan sitting at the counter.

“Who told you you’re cancer free?” asked Uncle Jay, an oncologist.

“My family doctor.” Alan said.

“Come over here to the table. Have a seat,”Uncle Jay said soothingly.”Let’s look at this closer. See this gray matter. See this black matter. That’s a malignancy.”

“Why would my family doctor lie to me?” I said with tears.

“I’m guessing he didn’t know how to read an x-ray or the x-ray tech needs additional training,” said Uncle Jay.

“Woah! This is real!” Alan sighed. “Well I can take one day at a time and have friends and family pray. Also I can write up a bucket list of things I want to do.”

He said I was better. He said I would be fine. He lied.

There I was, finally taking the vacation I have always dreamt. The one I promised myself after I got better. Of course fate would turn out to hate me. Almost as soon as I got here, my head started to pound and my body felt like it weighed as much as the sky. And then everything went black.

I woke up in another hospital and was told that I was sick. Sick with a disease that they didn’t know anything about. And I was going to die from it.

I told them that was impossible. I was fine. My doctor said that I was cured.

They tell me he lied. He couldn’t cure me and most likely didn’t want a death in his caseload.

It is unlikely that this review will help anyone before I die, but I want you to know that Doctor Jackson Smith is a liar. Do not go to him! He will result in your death!

-Sally Wood