Chương 4
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Her voice sharpened.
“For once, listen instead of deciding what everything means before I finish saying it.”
I shut my mouth.
Mom leaned back against the pillows.
Her breathing had become shallow.
“I had surgery in January.”
She touched the side of her abdomen through the robe.
“They thought they got everything they could see, but pathology showed the cancer had spread to several nearby nodes.”
“Stage three?”
She nodded.
“I was supposed to start chemotherapy after I recovered.”
“Then I called.”
“Yes.”
The memory returned with disgusting clarity.
I had been crying in our pantry because Hannah had not slept more than two consecutive hours in days.
I remembered Mom answering on the third ring.
I remembered saying, “I can’t do this.”
I remembered her saying, “Of course you can.”
Then I had said, “I need you.”
Three words.
I need you.
I had always thought of them as an expression of love.
Now they sounded like an order.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mom looked almost offended.
“You had just had a baby.”
“So?”
“So you were barely sleeping.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“I’m your mother.”
“I’m forty-two.”
“You’re still my daughter.”
“And you’re still a person.”
She blinked.
The anger left her face.
I hated myself for feeling relieved that I had finally said something true.
She lowered her eyes.
“I thought I would come for two weeks.”
“You came for six months.”
“You were struggling.”
“So were you.”
“I’m better at hiding it.”
“That isn’t something to be proud of.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“I know.”
The door opened behind me.
Christopher stood there with Hannah against his chest.
Our daughter was awake, her hair flattened on one side.
She reached for Mom immediately.
Mom’s entire face changed.
“Hey, peanut.”
Hannah stretched both arms toward her.
Christopher did not move.
Mom noticed.
“You can give her to me.”
“No.”
He said it gently.
That made it worse.
Mom’s arms lowered.
Christopher shifted Hannah higher against his shoulder.
“I called Emory.”
I turned toward him.
“You what?”
“I spoke to the nurse line and described the symptoms.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Christopher.”
“They said abdominal swelling, vomiting, weakness, and recent surgery need evaluation tonight.”
“I’m not going to an emergency room for gas.”
“Great.”
He nodded.
“Then we’ll all enjoy being told it’s gas.”
“I have an oncologist.”
“In Ohio.”
“I can call him tomorrow.”
Christopher’s jaw tightened.
“You could also have called him three months ago.”
“Chris,” I said.
He looked at me.
I shook my head.
Mom saw it.
“Oh, wonderful.”
She pushed herself upright.
“Now the two of you are coordinating facial expressions.”
“I’m getting your shoes,” Christopher said.
“You are not.”
He picked them up from beside the dresser.
“Christopher Miller, I am old enough to decide whether I go to a hospital.”
He paused at the door.
“You absolutely are.”
His voice stayed calm.
“And I’m old enough to decide whether I participate in pretending this is normal.”
He left with her shoes.
Mom stared after him.
“I used to like him.”
“You still do.”
“He’s bossy.”
“You trained him.”
“I did no such thing.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped me.
It turned into a sob so abruptly that I covered my face.
Mom shifted toward me.
“Claire.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t comfort me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I yelled at you for being pregnant.”
“That was certainly creative.”
“I accused you of hiding a man.”
“You have always had an active imagination.”
“Mom.”
She stopped.
I lowered my hands.
“I watched you on that floor.”
Her expression changed.
“I saw you whisper that you couldn’t cause me trouble.”
She looked toward the window.
“I didn’t know those cameras had sound.”
“That’s what you care about?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“How sick are you?”
Her shoulders sank.
“I don’t know anymore.”
The room became very quiet.
“I’ve been having trouble keeping food down.”
“How long?”
“A few weeks.”
“The swelling?”
“Getting worse.”
“The pain?”
She did not answer.
I moved beside her on the bed.
“Does the ostomy work normally?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Less output lately.”
I had no idea what normal output from an ostomy meant, but the word less sounded bad.
“Any fever?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“Blood?”
She looked irritated.
“Can we save this charming conversation for somebody with a medical degree?”
I stood.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t agree.”
“You don’t have to agree.”
“Oh, so now we’re kidnapping senior citizens.”
“You’re fifty-three.”
“Exactly.”
“You spent the last six months calling yourself old whenever you didn’t want to do something.”
“I reserve the right to redefine old age according to circumstances.”
Christopher appeared again with Mom’s handbag and a jacket.
“Car’s running.”
She glared at him.
“I hope it runs out of gas.”
“It’s electric.”
“That seems smug.”
For one second we were almost ourselves again.
Then Mom tried to stand.
Her knees buckled.
I caught her under one arm.
Christopher reached her from the other side.
She did not protest after that.
At the hospital entrance, an orderly brought a wheelchair.
Mom refused until she took three steps and had to grip the side of our car.
The orderly was a young man with bright green glasses.
He waited without embarrassing her.
“Chair’s comfortable,” he said.
Mom looked at him.
“You work on commission?”
“Unfortunately not.”
She sat.
Christopher stayed home with Hannah after dropping us off.
Inside, the emergency department was bright, cold, and crowded with people whose private disasters had all happened on the same night.
A teenager held an ice pack against his jaw.
An older man coughed into a folded towel.
A woman in pajama pants argued softly with an insurance representative on her phone.
Mom filled out the intake form until the line asking for current medications.
Then she handed me the clipboard.
“You do it.”
“I don’t know what you take.”
“I wrote the bottles in my phone.”
May you like
She gave me her passcode.
It was Hannah’s birthday.
