But don't they see? Prom night-my perfect prom night-doesn't matter at all compared to this. Why do they think I've stayed home every Friday of high school for our family movie night? Because I swore-to myself and to God-I'd never take this for granted, and I meant it.
"How long have you known?"
My parents exchange guilty glances, and for the first time in my life, I wonder if they've lied to me before. If protecting your child trumps the ninth commandment. It's my dad who speaks this time. "They found a lump at a checkup two weeks ago, and the biopsy came back pretty quickly."
Maybe it would be different if I had a sibling, but it's the three of us. I'm the only one who's been going on her merry way while the rest of this family worried, suffered, planned ahead without her.
"And when were you going to tell me?"
My dad answers more steadily this time. "Tomorrow morning. Before I tell the congregation. We didn't want you to worry for any longer than you had to."
I understand their good intentions-I do. But understanding doesn't make me feel any less lied to.
"Oh, Luce," my mom says. "I'm sorry it happened like this."
"I'm sorry it's happening at all." Yes, I feel burned by their secrecy. We're supposed to be a team, and I'm old enough to handle this. But mostly, I wish there was no awful diagnosis to keep secret in the first place.
"You should head up to bed," my mom suggests gently. "Change out of that pretty gown. It's been a long night. We can talk about it more tomorrow, okay?"
I acquiesce, but mostly so I can react in private. Clutching the stair rails with both hands, I feel the air thin; I feel my vision tunnel. And behind the bedroom door, my dress closes around me, squeezing like a fist. The crystals feel too hard, rock fragments trapping me in this too-tight casing. I contort my arms to reach the zipper, bending in a way that should hurt. But I feel nothing.
The dress drops from my body as I reach for my inhaler. The last time I glanced in the vanity mirror, I was zipped-up and sparkling-the very picture of prom night. Now, I am freckled skin squeezed into nude spandex, hands on my knees as I gasp for breath. My perfect hair coming loose, gown pooled on the floor. Behind me, a bookcase full of stories my mother read to me, full of swimming trophies and jewel-toned ribbons, full of certificates from childhood piano recitals. What is any of it worth? What is any of it without my mom?
Without her, who would call me Bird because of the way I squawked as a baby? Who would listen to every detail of my dates with Lukas? Who would have movie nights in and girls' nights out with me? Who would make faces at me from the choir loft when no one was looking?
Don't cry , I command as I peel the spandex off my body. Do not.
In the bathroom, I scrub the makeup from my face. I scrub until it hurts, until my skin is pink and clean. And when the warm water hits my hands, I think up at God: We had a deal. How could you?
How could you?
CHAPTER TWO
The morning after bad news is the cruelest of them all. In the first, still-sleepy moments, I think of prom and smile dreamily. My mind lingers on the memory of Lukas's arm around me as we posed in the garden. As my mom beamed, teary-eyed.
And, like that, last night comes back over me like a collapsing roof-shards of slate and plaster dust crumbling down on my bed.
Taking a shower does nothing to wash the grime of dread away. As the water hits me, my brain starts reciting a gratitude prayer: Dear God, thank you for Mom and Dad, Lukas and Aunt Rachel, for-. It's automatic, and I stop myself. No. Not today. It's a childish and possibly blasphemous impulse, to give God the cold shoulder out of anger. But I'm just too mad-too betrayed-to pretend like nothing has changed between us.
I tense up, waiting for the lightning to hit me. There is nothing but the sound like falling rain.
Being a Christian kid and slightly neurotic besides, I used to worry I wasn't praying enough. Somewhere around second grade, I decided I'd thank God every time I washed my hands-that would be my reminder, the cold water on my hands. Then I found myself praying at the drinking fountain. When I got into the bath. It became habit, this ritual: water touches my skin and I send up a prayer of gratitude. But not today. Not now.
My mom is in the kitchen, pushing a spatula across the griddle. She's wrapped in her flannel robe, humming to herself. Could the doctors be wrong? It's a dangerous thought, and I know better. She just looks so healthy.
"Scrambled eggs sound good?" she asks, even though she's already piling them onto a plate for me.