Chương 7
Mom opened her eyes.
“If this has spread, how much damage did I do by waiting?”
Dr. Patel did not rush to reassure her.
That frightened me more than anything else.
“We don’t have enough information to answer that tonight.”
Mom gave a small nod.
I watched her fold inward by degrees.
She had spent six months insisting she could manage everything.
A baby.
A house.
Pain.
Vomiting.
Fear.
Now two strangers had reduced all that private endurance to words on a chart.
Partial obstruction.
Ascites.
Possible progression.
Admission.
Oncology.
Dr. Patel stood.
“We’ll get you upstairs as soon as a bed opens.”
She turned to leave.
Mom stopped her.
“Doctor.”
Dr. Patel looked back.
“If I’d started chemotherapy when I was supposed to, would this definitely not have happened?”
I held my breath.
“No,” Dr. Patel said.
Mom stared at her.
“No?”
“No one can promise you that.”
Something in Mom’s face loosened.
Not relief.
Something closer to permission to stop punishing herself for one minute.
Dr. Patel added, “But whatever the next step is, we deal with the condition you have now, not the version of it we wish you had.”
After the doctors left, I sat beside Mom again.
She stared at the dark television mounted on the wall.
Finally she said, “I should have gone home in March.”
I looked at her profile.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
Another nod.
“And you should never accuse an old woman of having a secret boyfriend before checking whether she has an ostomy.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Mom laughed too.
It hurt her.
She clutched her abdomen and winced.
I reached for her.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“You started it.”
“I’m medically vulnerable.”
“That’s convenient.”
For several seconds we were both laughing and crying in the ugliest possible way.
Then Mom leaned her forehead against my shoulder.
I wrapped my arms around her carefully.
She felt much smaller than she had six months ago.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
There was no joke after it.
No reassurance.
No motherly correction.
Just the truth.
I closed my eyes and held her tighter.
“So am I.”
By seven that morning, Mom had been moved to a room on the ninth floor, and I had learned that hospital chairs were designed by people who hated daughters.
I had slept maybe twenty minutes with my neck bent against the wall and woke to the sound of a phlebotomist asking Mom to confirm her date of birth.
Mom gave it, then added, “I was younger yesterday.”
The phlebotomist smiled.
“Everybody is.”
When she left, I stood and stretched until my spine cracked.
Mom looked at me.
“You look terrible.”
“You’re in the hospital.”
“That doesn’t improve your hair.”
I touched it automatically.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s standing up.”
“I’m creating volume.”
She closed her eyes again.
The humor disappeared almost as soon as it arrived.
Her nausea medication had helped, but the swelling remained, and every few minutes she shifted as if there were no position her body wanted to occupy.
I texted my manager before I could talk myself out of it.
Family medical emergency.
I won’t be online today.
My thumb hovered over the screen after I sent it.
I had spent months behaving as if one missed meeting could collapse the company.
The reply came six minutes later.
Take care of your family.
We’ve got today covered.
I stared at those five words until they irritated me.
Mom opened one eye.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That means something.”
“My manager said they can manage without me.”
Mom’s mouth twitched.
“Devastating.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“I’m weak from illness.”
“You’ve been saving that excuse all night.”
She smiled faintly.
Then her expression tightened.
Her hand moved toward her abdomen.
I reached for the call button.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re making that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where your lips disappear.”
“My lips are right here.”
She pointed at them.
I pressed the button anyway.
A nurse named Tasha came in and checked the IV, then listened to Mom’s abdomen.
“Any more vomiting?”
“No.”
“Passing anything into the ostomy bag?”
“Not much.”
Tasha nodded without giving anything away.
“We’re still waiting on oncology.”
Mom looked toward the window.
Atlanta had begun brightening into a washed-out August morning.
Traffic moved below in red and white streams.
From this high up, everyone looked efficiently committed to destinations that still made sense.
“Can I have coffee?” Mom asked.
“No.”
“Tea?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“Not yet.”
Mom sighed.
“This place is cruel.”
Tasha grinned.
“I hear that before breakfast a lot.”
After she left, I checked my phone.
Christopher had sent three photographs.
Hannah asleep sideways in her crib.
Hannah awake with both feet through the bars.
Hannah in the kitchen staring suspiciously at a bowl of oatmeal.
Under the last picture he wrote, She knows the competent adult is missing.
I showed Mom.
“She likes my oatmeal better.”
“She likes anything you feed her.”
“She has standards.”
“She ate a receipt yesterday.”
“That was your side of the family.”
I laughed.
Then Mom said, “You should go home for a few hours.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
“Christopher can’t work and watch Hannah all day.”
“He took the day off too.”
Mom’s head turned sharply.
“You both took off?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
“Because there is a medical emergency.”
Her jaw tightened.
I watched the old machinery start again.
Cost.
Trouble.
Obligation.
She looked toward the IV pole rather than at me.
“You have bills.”
“So do you.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“It just is.”
I pulled the chair closer.
“How much do you owe?”
She became completely still.
There it was.
A different kind of silence.
“Mom.”
“I have insurance.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I’m not discussing money.”
“Then I’ll guess.”
“Don’t.”
“Twenty thousand?”
She looked offended.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“More?”
“No.”
“Less?”
“Claire.”
I crossed my arms.
She stared at me for several seconds, then exhaled through her nose.
“About eleven.”
May you like
“Eleven thousand?”
“Some of it is on a payment plan.”
