She comes out into the living room looking rail thin under the velour sweatpants that I bought her, also from Malcolm’s money. “I made some dinner tonight.”
“You look great, Mom. I’m glad to see you’re up.”
“I went to church today. Louise picked me up.”
“I’m so glad.” I give her a hug, careful not to squeeze too tight. In the kitchen I see her homemade pot pie. “You must be feeling better. I prescribe church every night.”
“Yes, it’s good to get out.”
The words are an unintentional dagger.
“Dear, I’ve been thinking that perhaps I won’t go to treatment tomorrow.”
I nearly drop the plate of pot pie I’m about to place in the microwave. “What are you talking about?” I ask pretending as if I don’t understand.
She pushes my lax hands away and starts the reheat cycle on the microwave. The overhead fluorescent light illuminates everything in the tiny room and I can see how tissue-thin her skin is.
“I’m just tired of it.” She sighs and looks out the window at the brick wall. “I’m tired of being sick all the time.”
“I have some grass for you—“ I start to offer but she cuts me off.
“Don’t you think I know what you’re doing?”
That’s such a loaded question. It’s one of those trick questions moms ask to wring out confessions to wrongdoing—like the time I was fifteen and had given my V card up to Jimmy Hostedder after the senior prom. I’d drunk liquor that night, smoked some weed, and had sex, all for the first time. When I came home the next morning, Mom was waiting up and the first thing she asked me was essentially the same thing. I’d spilled out the sex thing and the drinking thing and the weed thing and when I was done vomiting my sins, she’d merely replied, “I was asking about why you didn’t call me last night like you promised, but now that I know you’ve done all that, I think it’s time for the pill.”
Funny thing was that after I got on birth control, I had no desire to have sex with Jimmy or anyone else for a year. I’d felt so guilty about keeping Mom up all night.
“Working hard?” I ask weakly, trying to feel her out so I can confess to the sin she knows instead of the one she’s fishing for.
“I know you’re making ends meet by working for Malcolm, and I don’t want that. You could get hurt.”
“Malcolm won’t hurt me,” I protest. Yeah, he’s got a temper, but he wouldn’t lay a hand on me. Throw a fork in my direction? Mash my nose against some papers? Yes. Actually do me harm, no way.
“It’s not Malcolm I’m worried about.”
The microwave dings and Mom turns to pull the food out. Picking up a napkin and fork, she leads me to the small table sitting next to the sofa. I follow with a large glass of milk.
“Eat,” she orders. “And just listen. I’m the one who foolishly let my insurance lapse, but even if I hadn’t, I don’t want to go out like this, Victoria. These drugs they inject into me are designed to kill my bad cells, but they kill good cells too. I’m weak and sick five days out of seven. It’s no way to live. I don’t want to go through this again.”
I want to put my fingers in my ears and pretend like I can’t hear her. “You’re going to beat this. A round of chemo. A stem cell transplant. It’s all going to work out.” The pot pie that I love so much tastes like dust, really dirty, awful dust and it’s coating everything inside my mouth. I take a huge gulp of milk, but even that threatens to come right back up.
“There’s a one in five chance of surviving more than three years. The odds go down dramatically with reemergence.”
“Dr. Chen wouldn’t have recommended all that treatment if he didn’t think you would have a chance. You beat it the first time. No doubt in my mind you’ll do it again.” I give her a big smile.
She looks at me sadly. “Alright, dear. We won’t talk about it again.”
I don’t know what to say so I just squeeze her hand, afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll start crying. “You just wait and see. You’ll be the survivor that everyone looks to for inspiration.” You have to because you’re all I have left.
I give her a quick peck on the cheek and then pick up my nearly full plate. Dumping the contents of the pie into the trash, I pretend like the conversation never happened. Mom retreats into her room, and I make up a new playlist for tomorrow’s ride.
I’ve got courier jobs for my real employer and then maybe a late end of the day run for Malcolm. After I make my playlist and make sure my phone is charging, I pull out the sofa bed and prepare for the night. I kick the box to the side and the cardboard wall gives way, making it look crushed and kind of pathetic. Like how I feel right now. I’m not opening that box though.