Chương 11
A few seconds later she said, “Margaret.”
Then, after another pause, “Fine.”
When she ended the call, I asked, “She’s coming?”
“Tomorrow.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s unnecessary.”
“That’s why it’s good.”
Mom gave me a look.
Then she started crying.
Not loudly.
She simply turned her face away and tears moved down her cheeks.
I sat beside her.
She wiped at them angrily.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate everybody rearranging their lives.”
“I know.”
“I hate being the reason.”
I waited.
Her breathing shook.
Then she said, “I thought if I waited long enough, none of you would have to see me sick.”
The sentence was so simple that for a moment I did not know what to do with it.
I had assumed she hid the illness because she thought I needed her.
That was true.
But it wasn’t the whole truth.
“You thought the treatment would happen after you left?”
She nodded.
“I thought I’d go home, do the chemotherapy, lose my hair, feel awful for a while, and then tell you when it was mostly over.”
“Why?”
“Because you had already seen enough.”
My throat tightened.
“Dad.”
She stared at the wall.
The last year of my father’s life had been ugly.
Pancreatic cancer had reduced him with astonishing speed.
I remembered the smell of antiseptic in their house.
The plastic basin beside his recliner.
The way Mom slept on the couch because he could not make it upstairs.
I had visited when I could, but I was living in Atlanta by then.
Mom had been there for every hour.
“You didn’t want me to see that again.”
“No.”
“Mom, colon cancer treatment isn’t Dad’s cancer.”
“I know that intellectually.”
She pressed the heel of her hand beneath one eye.
“That doesn’t mean my body believes it.”
There it was.
The thing underneath everything else.
Not money.
Not pride.
Not even me.
Fear.
Specific and old.
I moved closer.
“Did Dad know you were scared?”
She gave me a tired smile.
“Your father thought I was scared of spiders because I made him kill them.”
“You are scared of spiders.”
“I dislike their management style.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
She looked down.
“He knew.”
“How?”
“One night near the end, I was helping him back into bed.”
Her voice thinned.
“He looked at me and said, ‘You don’t have to make this look easy for Claire.’”
I had to look away.
“He knew you were pretending?”
“He knew me.”
She gave a tiny shrug.
“That was his most irritating quality.”
A nurse entered and interrupted us to check Mom’s vitals.
Real life did not care that my dead father had just walked into the room through one sentence.
The blood pressure cuff inflated.
The thermometer beeped.
Mom complained that the adhesive from the IV tape was pulling her arm hair.
The nurse promised to find gentler tape.
After she left, Mom said, “I should have listened to him.”
“Yes.”
She looked offended.
“You could hesitate.”
“I’m done pretending bad decisions become noble because they come from love.”
Mom stared at me for a second.
Then she nodded.
“Fair.”
That afternoon, the obstruction began improving.
Her ostomy started producing again, which led to a surprisingly enthusiastic reaction from three medical professionals and the least dignified celebration of my mother’s life.
Mom looked at the nurse.
“I would prefer that nobody applaud my intestines.”
The nurse laughed.
“I’ve celebrated stranger things.”
The improvement meant surgery was less likely.
It did not change the oncology problem.
Dr. Ruiz returned near five with more information from Mom’s old pathology report.
She sat down again.
That was becoming a bad sign.
“We have enough now to start talking about what comes next.”
Mom folded her hands.
I pulled my chair closer.
Dr. Ruiz explained that they would need tissue confirmation and updated molecular testing before choosing the exact regimen.
She said treatment could begin in Atlanta if Mom wanted to stay, or they could coordinate with her oncology team in Ohio.
Mom immediately said, “Ohio.”
I immediately said, “Atlanta.”
Dr. Ruiz looked between us.
Mom frowned at me.
“My doctors are there.”
“You ignored your doctors there.”
“That does not make them incompetent.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“I have a house there.”
“You also have a house full of stairs.”
“So do you.”
“Our guest room is downstairs.”
“My bathroom is downstairs.”
“You live alone.”
“I have neighbors.”
“You have a neighbor who steals your newspaper.”
“Only on Sundays.”
Dr. Ruiz waited.
I became aware that we were arguing like no one else was in the room.
Mom sighed.
“I don’t want to live in your house while I’m doing chemotherapy.”
“Why?”
“You have Hannah.”
“So?”
“And work.”
“So?”
“And a husband who needs to occasionally remember what his wife looks like.”
“That seems optional.”
Dr. Ruiz coughed into her fist.
I suspected she was hiding a smile.
Mom crossed her arms.
“I want my own bed.”
That was harder to argue with.
I leaned back.
Dr. Ruiz said, “You do not have to decide today.”
Mom and I both looked at her.
She smiled slightly.
“Sometimes that sentence is actually useful.”
After she left, Mom said, “I’m going home.”
I watched her.
“Eventually.”
“Claire.”
“Not alone.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“What are you planning?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
She studied my face and seemed to recognize something there.
Perhaps herself.
For the first time since the hospital, she looked genuinely worried about me.
I smiled.
“You taught me how to be impossible.”
Mom leaned back against the pillow.
“That may be the first medical complication here that is entirely my fault.”
May you like
Aunt Margaret arrived the next morning carrying a canvas tote bag, a travel mug, and the expression of a woman who had spent the entire drive composing arguments.
She walked into Mom’s room, looked at the IV pole, the ostomy supplies on the counter, and the hollow places beneath Mom’s eyes.
