Chương 5
I looked away before she could see my face.
A nurse called her name forty minutes later.
When she asked about Mom’s medical history, I expected another fight.
Mom surprised me.
“Stage three colon cancer,” she said.
The nurse’s pen stopped.
“When was your last oncology appointment?”
Mom stared at the wall.
“March.”
It was August.
The nurse looked at me.
I had the irrational urge to explain myself.
To say I hadn’t known.
To say my mother could be impossible.
To say I had been working.
Instead I said nothing.
The nurse took Mom’s blood pressure again.
Then she left the room much faster than she had entered.
Mom watched the closed door.
“That didn’t seem encouraging.”
“No.”
She leaned her head back.
After a moment, she reached for my hand.
I took hers.
Neither of us apologized.
We sat there holding on to each other while footsteps hurried past outside, and for the first time all night I stopped trying to guess what had happened and became afraid of what we were about to be told.
A doctor came in ten minutes later carrying a tablet and wearing the expression of someone who had already read enough to dislike what he was about to say.
“Ms. Miller, I’m Dr. Shah.”
Mom gave him a tired nod.
He pulled the rolling stool closer.
“I want to ask you a few questions before we talk about the tests we’re ordering.”
Mom looked at me.
“Do I get to send her out?”
“You can if you want privacy.”
“No,” I said too quickly.
Dr. Shah glanced between us.
Mom sighed.
“She stays.”
He asked about the surgery, the pathology, the ostomy, the missed oncology appointments, the vomiting, the swelling, and the back pain.
Mom answered each question with fewer words than the one before.
When he asked whether she had lost weight, she said, “Some.”
I said, “A lot.”
Mom shot me a look.
Dr. Shah ignored the friction.
“How much would you estimate?”
“I don’t know.”
“She was around one-forty when she came to Atlanta.”
Mom frowned.
“You remember that?”
“You complained about the airline scale.”
“I said it was dishonest.”
“You weighed yourself at home afterward.”
Dr. Shah looked at Mom.
“And now?”
“Maybe one-twenty-five.”
The nurse had weighed her at one hundred eighteen.
Nobody said anything for a moment.
Dr. Shah rested the tablet on his knee.
“With your history and your current symptoms, I’m concerned about a bowel obstruction.”
My fingers tightened around Mom’s.
She went very still.
“From the ostomy?”
“Possibly from adhesions after surgery.”
He paused.
“Possibly from something else.”
Mom knew what he meant.
So did I.
She asked, “What happens now?”
“Bloodwork, fluids, medication for nausea, and a CT scan with contrast.”
“If it’s an obstruction?”
“Then it depends on the cause and severity.”
“Would I need surgery?”
“Maybe.”
Mom stared at the floor.
I could feel her hand cooling inside mine.
Dr. Shah stood.
“We’ll take this one step at a time.”
After he left, Mom said, “I hate that sentence.”
“What sentence?”
“One step at a time.”
“You use it constantly.”
“That’s why I know it’s useless.”
I smiled despite myself.
A nurse started an IV in Mom’s arm.
Mom looked away from the needle, which surprised me because she had once removed a splinter from my heel with sewing tweezers while I screamed like I was being amputated.
“You’re afraid of needles?”
“No.”
“You’re looking at the ceiling.”
“The ceiling is interesting.”
“It has a water stain.”
“Very compelling stain.”
The nurse smiled.
“Everybody’s brave until the IV cart comes out.”
Mom pointed at her.
“Exactly.”
When the nurse left, I texted Christopher.
Possible obstruction.
CT next.
He replied almost immediately.
Hannah awake again.
She keeps looking toward guest room.
Tell Abigail I remain bossy.
I showed Mom.
She rolled her eyes.
“Tell him I remain unconvinced by electric cars.”
I typed it.
Christopher sent back a photograph of Hannah sitting in our bed in a sleep sack, holding one of Mom’s reading glasses by a temple.
Mom stared at the picture longer than she needed to.
Then she turned my phone face down.
I watched her.
“Why didn’t you tell Dad’s sister?”
That question had been sitting somewhere in me since the waiting room.
Aunt Margaret lived two hours from Mom in Ohio.
They weren’t especially close, but they spoke at Christmas and occasionally argued on Facebook about recipes.
Mom shifted against the pillow.
“She knew about the surgery.”
“And the cancer?”
“Yes.”
“And she let you come here?”
“She didn’t let me do anything.”
“Did she know you postponed chemo?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“My oncologist.”
“No one else?”
She shook her head.
I felt a fresh flare of anger.
“You really did all of this alone.”
“I had nurses.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“I know.”
The CT transport technician arrived before I could say more.
He unlocked the bed and started rolling Mom toward the hall.
I stood.
“You can wait here,” he told me.
Mom looked back at me.
For the first time since we arrived, I saw panic rise clearly in her face.
Not dramatic panic.
Something quieter.
Her mouth opened, then closed.
I stepped beside the bed.
“I’ll be right here when you come back.”
She nodded once.
The doors swung shut behind her.
I sat in the empty room and called Christopher.
He answered in a whisper.
“Hey.”
“What’s Hannah doing?”
“Trying to eat your mother’s glasses.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course she is.”
“How’s Abigail?”
“They took her for the scan.”
There was a pause.
Then he asked, “How are you?”
I hated the question.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s fair.”
“I keep thinking about every time she said she was tired.”
“Claire.”
“I told her to take vitamins.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Those are different things.”
“Are they?”
“Yes.”
I opened my eyes and stared at the hospital curtain.
May you like
“I accused her of sleeping with someone.”
“You also brought her here.”
