Chương 10
“No.”
“You didn’t come back from leave and find out they’d moved two meetings you used to lead to someone else.”
“No.”
“You didn’t have people asking whether you were ‘really ready’ for the rollout.”
Christopher said nothing.
I realized I had raised my voice.
A man sitting across the hallway glanced at me and then politely looked away.
I lowered it.
“I felt like I had to be twice as available.”
“I know.”
“And Mom made that possible.”
“Yes.”
“I let her make it possible.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“You could say something comforting.”
“I could.”
“You’re choosing not to.”
“I’m choosing not to tell you that none of this was your responsibility.”
That hurt.
It also helped.
I leaned back against the wall.
“I hate today.”
“I know.”
Hannah shrieked again.
Christopher muttered something about gravity.
Then he said, “I’m calling a childcare agency.”
My eyes opened.
“What?”
“For temporary help.”
“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that.”
“You don’t have to be comfortable.”
I almost laughed.
“You’ve spent too much time with my mother.”
“We need help.”
“I can take leave.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
The practical tone in his voice made my stomach tighten.
“We don’t even know what her treatment is yet.”
“Which is why we need options before we’re desperate.”
I looked through the window at the city.
Six months earlier, I would have heard that suggestion as criticism.
Now it sounded like something we should have done a long time ago.
“Fine.”
“Fine as in actually fine?”
“Fine as in I reserve the right to interview anyone you find like they’re applying for a federal security clearance.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“And references.”
“Obviously.”
“And background checks.”
“Yes.”
“And cameras.”
“We already have cameras.”
“I know.”
That word landed differently now.
Christopher heard it too.
“Claire.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
We went quiet again.
Before hanging up, he said, “Bring her home when they let you.”
The sentence almost broke me.
Not because of home.
Because he had said when.
Not if.
I swallowed.
Mom returned an hour later looking pale but less distended.
The difference in her abdomen was visible immediately.
She noticed me noticing.
“They took nearly three liters.”
My mouth fell open.
“Three?”
“Apparently I was carrying around a very disappointing water balloon.”
“Please never say that again.”
The nurse helping transfer her smiled.
Mom settled back against the pillows.
For the first time since we had arrived, she said the pressure in her abdomen felt slightly better.
The relief lasted perhaps fifteen minutes.
Then a different kind of pain began.
It came in waves.
She would be speaking normally and then stop mid-sentence, close her eyes, and grip the rail.
I pressed the call button twice before the nurse returned.
Medication helped.
Not completely.
By lunchtime, an oncology fellow came in with preliminary lab results.
The abdominal fluid contained abnormal cells.
They needed final pathology, but he said the findings increased concern for cancer involvement.
Mom listened without interruption.
I had begun to recognize her different silences.
There was the annoyed one.
The stubborn one.
The one she used when she thought somebody else was saying something stupid.
This was new.
This silence was subtraction.
As if each sentence removed another piece of the future she had been privately assuming she still owned.
When the fellow left, Mom reached for her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Margaret.”
I nodded.
She hesitated before pressing the button.
Aunt Margaret answered on the second ring.
Mom put the call on speaker without asking me.
“Abby?”
“Hi.”
“Why are you calling at noon?”
“Because apparently phones still function before dinner.”
“You sound strange.”
“I’m in the hospital.”
A pause.
Then Margaret’s voice changed completely.
“What happened?”
“They think the cancer has spread.”
No preparation.
No softened version.
I watched Mom stare at the blanket while silence filled the speaker.
Then Margaret said, “You told me they got it.”
“They got what they could see.”
“You said you were starting treatment.”
Mom shut her eyes.
“I didn’t.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t?”
“I postponed it.”
“For how long?”
“Margaret.”
“How long?”
“Six months.”
Aunt Margaret swore.
Mom flinched.
I almost smiled despite the situation.
“You came to Atlanta instead.”
“Yes.”
“To babysit.”
“To help Claire.”
“For six months?”
“Yes.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Possibly.”
“No, don’t do that.”
Margaret’s voice shook.
“Don’t make a joke.”
Mom looked toward the window.
“I didn’t know how long I’d be there.”
“You knew you had cancer.”
“Yes.”
“You knew you needed chemotherapy.”
“Yes.”
“And you just decided everybody else was too fragile to hear about it?”
Mom’s face hardened.
“This is not helpful.”
“It isn’t supposed to be helpful.”
“Then why are you yelling?”
“Because you scared me.”
That stopped Mom.
Aunt Margaret breathed shakily into the phone.
“Do you think you’re the only person who gets to be scared?”
Mom opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Margaret continued.
“You did this when Daniel died too.”
My father’s name changed the room.
Mom looked at me.
I had never heard that accusation before.
“What are you talking about?”
“You disappeared into logistics.”
“That’s not true.”
“You organized the funeral, sold his truck, canceled his dentist appointment, returned library books, and acted like grief was a paperwork problem.”
Mom’s voice dropped.
“I had things to do.”
“You always have things to do.”
Margaret sounded tired now.
“You take care of everybody until nobody is allowed to take care of you.”
Mom’s eyes filled.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m your sister.”
“You’re my sister who lives two hours away and calls twice a month.”
“Because every time I call, you tell me everything is fine.”
Mom turned the speaker off and pressed the phone to her ear.
I pretended to look at my own phone.
She talked to Margaret for another ten minutes.
May you like
Mostly she listened.
At one point she said, “No, don’t drive down today.”
