Chương 13
Mom grew visibly tense at the mention of assistance.
Janice noticed.
“It’s information,” she said.
“You’re not signing away your house.”
Mom looked suspicious.
“People only say that when paperwork is about to become expensive.”
Janice smiled.
“I’ve worked here fourteen years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That wasn’t an apology.”
“It was sympathy.”
Janice sat down.
“Do you know where you’ll be living during treatment?”
Three voices answered.
“Ohio,” Mom said.
“With me,” Margaret said.
“Atlanta,” I said.
Janice stared at us.
Then she closed the folder.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t ask.”
Mom looked pleased.
Janice continued, “You don’t need the final address today, but someone will need to coordinate appointments.”
“I can do that,” I said.
Mom immediately said, “No.”
Margaret said, “I can.”
Mom said, “Also no.”
Janice looked at her.
“Who would you like to do it?”
“Myself.”
Janice nodded.
“That’s fine if you’re well enough.”
Mom sat straighter.
“I am.”
Janice glanced at the IV pole.
She did not say anything.
Mom noticed.
“I dislike you.”
“I get that a lot.”
Janice reopened the folder.
“Then you’ll need a backup person.”
Mom looked between Margaret and me.
“I’ll choose Christopher.”
I laughed.
Margaret looked insulted.
“He isn’t even here.”
“That is one of his strengths.”
I pulled out my phone.
“I’m telling him.”
“Don’t.”
I already had.
His response arrived seconds later.
I accept this solemn responsibility and will abuse it immediately.
Mom read the message and sighed.
“See?”
By afternoon, she was allowed clear liquids.
The first thing she received was a cup of broth she described as “warm salt with aspirations.”
She drank all of it anyway.
Two hours later, she kept down gelatin.
The nursing staff treated this as a major victory.
Mom treated it as an insult to cuisine.
Her obstruction continued improving.
The surgical team said that if she tolerated a soft diet and remained stable overnight, discharge the following day was possible.
That should have felt like good news.
Instead it introduced a problem none of us had solved.
Where would she go?
Margaret wanted to take her back to Ohio immediately.
I wanted her in Atlanta until treatment began.
Mom wanted her own house and everyone else to stop discussing her as if she were furniture.
Christopher joined the argument by video call that evening.
He had Hannah on his lap.
Our daughter kept trying to slap the phone.
“Abigail,” he said, “what do you actually want?”
Mom folded her arms.
“My bed.”
“Besides the bed.”
“My shower.”
“Besides the shower.”
“My kitchen.”
“Besides household fixtures.”
Mom thought.
“To know what happens next before everybody reorganizes their lives around guesses.”
That silenced us.
Christopher nodded.
“Okay.”
Margaret looked dissatisfied.
I said, “So what does that mean?”
“It means,” Mom said, “I stay in Atlanta long enough to meet with oncology and understand the treatment plan.”
My pulse eased slightly.
“Then?”
“If I can receive treatment in Ohio, I go home.”
Margaret opened her mouth.
Mom raised a hand.
“With help.”
Margaret closed it.
I stared at Mom.
“What kind of help?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It’s called progress.”
Christopher smiled from the phone screen.
“I support suspicious progress.”
Mom pointed at him.
“You stay out of this.”
“You made me backup coordinator.”
“A clerical error.”
Hannah suddenly squealed and slapped both hands against Christopher’s chest.
Mom’s face softened immediately.
“Bring her tomorrow.”
I hesitated.
“To the hospital?”
“If they allow it.”
“Are you sure?”
Mom looked at me.
“Yes.”
The next morning, Christopher brought Hannah after confirming the visitor rules.
She entered Mom’s room in his arms wearing a yellow romper and one sock.
“What happened to the other sock?” I asked.
Christopher looked down.
“There were two when we left.”
Mom held out her arms.
Hannah leaned toward her.
I stepped forward automatically.
Then I stopped.
Mom saw me stop.
For six months, I had handed my daughter over without thinking.
Now every part of my body was calculating IV tubing, weakness, balance, infection, distance from the bed rail.
Mom saw all of it.
Her arms lowered a little.
“It’s okay,” she said.
The hurt in her voice was small but unmistakable.
I hated that I had caused it.
I also knew I could not pretend nothing had changed.
“Sit back,” I said.
She did.
I arranged a pillow against her side.
Christopher placed Hannah carefully in her lap.
Mom curled one arm around her granddaughter.
I stayed close.
Not hovering, I told myself.
Definitely hovering, Christopher’s face told me.
Hannah stared at the hospital bracelet on Mom’s wrist.
Then she grabbed it.
Mom laughed.
“There she is.”
Hannah tried to eat the bracelet.
“Still a refined palate,” I said.
Mom kissed the top of her head.
For several minutes nobody talked about cancer.
Margaret drank bad coffee by the window.
Christopher complained that hospital parking required a graduate degree.
Hannah discovered the adjustable bed control and nearly folded Mom upright before I took it away.
Mom laughed until tears came.
Then she grew tired.
I saw it happen before she admitted it.
Her arm loosened around Hannah.
Her eyelids lowered.
I lifted my daughter from her lap.
This time Mom did not protest.
She leaned back against the pillow and watched Hannah settle against my shoulder.
“You’re good at that,” she said.
“At what?”
“Knowing when she’s done.”
I almost made a joke.
Instead I said, “I’m learning.”
Mom nodded.
“So am I.”
That afternoon, Dr. Ruiz returned with an outpatient appointment scheduled for three days after discharge.
She said the oncology team could use the visit to discuss treatment options, review molecular testing plans, and decide whether Mom wanted to continue care in Atlanta or transfer back to Ohio.
Mom agreed.
No argument.
No joke.
Just agreement.
Afterward, Margaret went downstairs for coffee.
Christopher took Hannah home for her nap.
For the first time all day, Mom and I were alone.
She was staring at the visitor chair.
“What?”
I asked.
May you like
“Nothing.”
“That means something.”
