the bucket list | charles leclerc

her

ten years ago

October 17th, 2014. I blew out my candle. I was lying in my permanent hospital bed, a view of Paris out the nearby window. My hair was completely gone. My perfect brown, curly hair. My face was so pale, my freckles so faint. I looked like a ghost of myself.

I stared at the cake before me, it was a small, round chocolate thing with one candle placed delicately in the middle. The candle no longer had a flame, and I saw myself reflected within it. Because my spark had died a long time ago. Over the past year of excruciating treatment and heartbreaking longing for the life I had.

"Happy 16th, Elise," My father held my hand tightly, but I couldn't bring myself to look at him. I hated people seeing me like this.

Ten years ago I was wandering into my garage, seeing my first racing kart placed right in the centre. A joy so wide and beautiful filling my heart. Contrast to my present grey and sad misery. The last year had been painful, but I had strived to push through, trying my best to remain hopeful. But so many treatments later and so many surgeries, that ringing pain was still in my head.

I had tried to keep myself busy, and for the first time in my life, I found my days filled with art. My father had brought my notebooks and pens and paints, and I had discovered a love I never knew I had. So I drew and drew and painted. All to distract myself from the harsh situation I was facing. I would watch the races and see Lewis Hamilton close to winning his second championship. And the other distraction was Max.

The door to the hospital room banged open, and I looked up to see Max. He was dressed in his Red Bull merch, and he had the widest smile on his face. Mine quickly matched his.

"Happy Birthday, Elise!" He cheered, revealing a present from behind his back. It was a small, messily wrapped box. Other than my father, Max had been the only other constant in my life. Whenever he could, he would fly to Paris just to visit me in the hospital. I couldn't believe it, that he would do that for me.

He was doing well to uphold his end of his promise because in August that year he had been signed and announced as a driver for the 2015 season with Toro Rosso. I was so excited to see one of us achieving our dreams.

"Hi Max, oh, you didn't have to get me anything." I reluctantly took the box from his hands and opened it quickly. There was a miniature version of his upcoming Toro Rosso car, complete with his number and everything. "What is this?" I said with a playful deadpan. I already loved it, but of course Max, of all people, would give me a gift of his own car.

"What? You can put it on your bedside table for good luck, you know, when I race next year."

"Wow, thanks for this very thoughtful gift." I laughed, and Max joined in.

Whenever he visited me, life was always lighter because, unlike my father, he didn't treat me like the sick, fragile person I am. Max instead treated me like he had always done, and for that I was forever thankful.

My father left us to talk alone, and I immediately asked the question that I always did. I always needed to know.

"How's Charles?" My eyes dropped to my hands. My skinny, pale hands.

"Still racing in F4, but he's graduating to F3 next year to race in the European Championship." Max answered, and I could tell he had the answer prepared. I always asked when he came, just to check in.

"Have you talked to him?"

"Not in a while." Max responded and couldn't look me in the eye. We fell silent, many unspoken words resting between us. Neither of us liked how the 2013 season ended, but Charles recovered fast and got to race again; I didn't. And now I had to be informed from the sidelines about a boy who doesn't even know who I am.