I step in, sliding the bag off her wrist. “Come on. Traffic’s gonna be hell if we don’t leave soon.”
Caleb’s jaw flexes, grinding against invisible pressure. “Text me every hour. I mean it. Even if she seems fine, even if nothing’s happening, I want updates.”
“Caleb—” Helen tries, weary.
“Every hour,” he repeats, and now he’s staring straight at me.
I hold his gaze and nod once. “I’ve got her.”
He swallows hard, then pulls his mom into his arms. He holds her like she might vanish if he lets go, his face buried in her hair. She looks small and frail next to him.When he finally releases her, his eyes are glassy, but he doesn’t let the tears fall.
“Go win that tournament,” Helen murmurs, cupping his face in her hands like he’s still her little boy. “Make me proud.”
“You make me so proud every single day,” he whispers back.
I have to turn away and swallow hard, so I don’t fucking start crying at how much this family loves each other.
The cancer centersmells like industrial disinfectant and sick people. The overhead fluorescents are too bright, the kind that buzz just enough to make your teeth ache, and the walls are plastered with motivational posters about “fighting the good fight.”
Whatever ambiance they were aiming for, they missed. Miserably. Soft, peppy jazz trickles from hidden speakers, like we’re in a hotel elevator instead of a place where people come to slowly poison themselves back to life.
Helen checks in at the front desk with practiced ease, smiling at the receptionist like they’ve been girlfriends for years. And maybe they have been. That thought twists something in my stomach hard enough to make me swallow back bile.
“How’s Caleb doing?” the receptionist asks, pulling up Helen’s chart.
“His debate team made it to Regionals,” Helen says,her voice lit with pride so strong it could power the entire damn building. “Area next if they win today, then on to State.”
“That’s wonderful! You must be so proud.”
“I am. He’s extraordinary.”
She says it like she’s naming a fact. The sky is blue. Gravity keeps us grounded. Caleb Graham is extraordinary. No hesitation, no caveat, nobut if only. Just certainty. What’s it like, having someone believe in you like that?
We sit in the waiting area.
Helen flips through a magazine like she’s at the salon, calm and patient, while I can’t stop alternately shifting in my seat, tapping at my phone, and chewing on the inside of my cheek. Around us are patients in every stage of this nightmare—scarves over bald heads, eyes sunken and skin too pale, each face stamped with that same quiet, grim determination.
“Helen Graham?” A nurse with a clipboard appears. “And you’re Helen’s daughter, right?”
My stomach lurches. “I’m?—”
“Yes, she’s family,” Helen says smoothly, linking her arm through mine before I can correct the nurse. “She’s here to keep me company.”
Family. The word sticks in my throat.
The nurse leads us through a maze of beige hallways until we spill into a large room lined with reclining chairs and IV poles, like some dystopian living room. Helen moves to her assigned spot with the ease of routine.
“First time?” the nurse asks me, noticing how I’m just… frozen.
I nod. Words are impossible.
“You can pull that chair over.” She gestures kindly. “It gets easier after the first visit.”
Easier. Like watching someone you care about get pumped full of poison is something you can acclimate to. I’ve seen the aftermath of these sessions—the repeatedly flushing toilet, the muffled retching, Silas’s low voice coaxing Helen back to bed.
The nurse sets the IV with clinical efficiency. Helen doesn’t flinch or make a sound. She just settles back into her chair and pulls out a book, like this is all routine.
“It takes about three hours,” she says conversationally, like we’re grabbing lattes. “I usually read. Sometimes crosswords. The time goes faster than you’d think.”