No.
I’m seventeen, and my mom might be dying.
Again.
“Multiple nodules don’t necessarily mean—” Mom starts.
“Yes it does. You know it does.” My voice is too loud now. Too sharp. I can hear myself losing control, but I can’t stop it. “Multiple nodules in both lungs after lung cancer mean it’s metastasized. It means stage four. It means?—”
“Caleb.” Mom’s voice cuts through my spiral. Firm. “We don’t know that yet.”
“But you suspect.” I’m standing now, though I don’t remember getting up.
When did I stand? How many seconds ago?
Count backward. Can’t. Lost track.
My hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets.
Can’t do the finger pattern. Hands shaking too hard.
Try anyway. Thumb to—can’t. Won’t work.
“That’s why you didn’t want to tell us. That’s why you’ve been so tired.”
Count the times she’s been tired this week: three times. Odd number.
She skipped dinner one night last week to nap. Wednesday. Four days ago.
Why wasn’t I fuckingpaying attention? Why wasn’t I counting? Why wasn’t I?—
“That’s why you haven’t been eating. That’s why you?—”
I can’t finish.
Can’t say the words that are crowding behind my teeth.
That’s why you’ve been saying goodbye.
All those little moments. The extra hugs. The way she squeezed my hand too tight last week when we were watching TV.
Monday: Three hugs instead of two.
Tuesday: She watched me leave for school from the window.
Wednesday: Extra-long hug before bed. Twelve seconds instead of four.
Thursday: She made my favorite dinner.
Friday: Told me she was proud of me. Four times in one day.
Saturday: Took a photo of me and Harper decorating the tree.
Sunday: Kept staring at me during the movie.
Seven days of goodbyes. Seven days, I didn’t understand.
She knew.