Kennedy Claire’s smile freezes. “Has she?” she says, but the honey has slid from her voice. She turns to her daughter. “Did you know that?”
Sarah Lynn shakes her head, and something silent passes between them—an exchange I can’t quite read, but one that has me wondering if I’ve said too much. One that sends a wriggle of warning inching up my spine.
CHAPTER EIGHTINGRID
Back in Colorado, I had called Joel to tell him about my mother’s cancer diagnosis.
Oh, Iggy.I could picture him sitting down wherever he was, the way he’d run a hand through his hair, knew the expression on his face, even though I couldn’t see him.I’m sorry to hear that.And I knew he meant it.
I have to go down there. She’s having surgery, and I want to be able to help out once she’s home. Dad can’t do it all by himself, not at his age.
I figured Joel would come with me. I guess that’s why I was calling, really, though I didn’t say it.
Instead, at the end of the conversation, he asked,Have you told them about us yet?
Joel moved out two months ago. When Mom asks about him now, I just say,Oh, Joel’s fine. Because I don’t want to burden her. Not now. But also because I didn’t think it was permanent. Joel was going through some kind of midlife crisis, and a few months from now, he’d be crawling back with his tail between his legs. I didn’t want to taint everyone’s opinion of him, of our relationship, of my life.
But then Joel didn’t offer to come with me on this trip. Not even as a friend. Didn’t bother to give me an excuse as to why he couldn’t.Like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. Because you show up for the big things when you love someone.
Mom is sitting up in the hospital bed, and bars of sunlight spill through the blinds and wrap around the knitted blanket on her lap. She has her makeup on, her gold hoop earrings in, but she looks frail—the hospital gown, the large purple bruises at her wrists. If I try to say anything meaningful, tears will choke my words.
The nurse drops playing cards across the floor. I go to help pick them up, thankful for the distraction. Putting things back in order settles me.
“Well, hello, honey.” Mom peers down at me.
“Hi, Mom.” I look up and lock eyes with her. She looks tired, older, but somehow exactly the same. I rise up and give her a kiss on her dry cheek. Her White Diamonds perfume almost masks the smell of hospital.
“Where’s Joel?” she says, looking to the open doorway behind me.
“He couldn’t get away.”
She tsks. “That’s too bad. Did you see my flowers?” She points to a bright bouquet in a vase on her bedside table, three miniature sunflowers like happy faces. “Kennedy Claire brought them by for me earlier. Isn’t that sweet? She was wanting to know when you’d be coming into town. She sure is eager to see you.”
I think of all those bouquets piled up along the construction site at Sherman Ranch. I’ve always hated flowers. The ratio of sentiments is all wrong, like an equation that doesn’t balance:Hey, I know you’re devastated right now, so here’s some pointless, pretty dead things.
“I’ll give her a call,” I say, reaching past the flowers to grab the oversized Styrofoam cup from the table. “Are you drinking enough water? You need to stay hydrated.”
“Iggy,” Mom admonishes.
“Is she eating the food?” I ask the nurse, who is up from her hands and knees, having gathered the rest of the playing cards. I pull a binder from my purse, organized into tabbed sections, and flip toa research paper I’d found on diet in preparation for chemo. “You need lots of protein, Mom. Now, before you lose your appetite.”
“Iggy, for heaven’s sake,” Mom says. “Sit down. Can’t we just visit?”
Six weeks ago, the doctors found a lump in Mom’s right breast. Cancerous cells had spread to nearby lymph nodes. A few days ago, she underwent surgery to have the mass removed.
I check my watch. “I’m meeting with your doctor in ten minutes. Then I’m going to the house to start setting things up.”
Mom tugs a wrinkle out of her blanket.
You cannot prevent bad things from happening, Sheryl, my therapist, has told me time and time again.No matter how prepared you are.Sheryl owns a cardigan sweater in every color and speaks in a voice so measured it’s as if her cadence were calibrated down to being paid by the minute. Which it is.
I, of all people, understand that bad things cannot be avoided in life. But risks can be mitigated.
I’m the one who kept a reminder on my calendar for Mom’s routine mammogram, who called to nag her to make the appointment. When they found the cancer, it was still regional. It hadn’t yet spread to the distant parts of her body—her bones, her blood, her brain. Her chance of survival is better because I’m a nag. The risk, hopefully, mitigated.
When I brought this up to Sheryl, I felt it was a strong piece of evidence in my favor. But she was more interested in whether Mom’s cancer diagnosis had stirred up old grief.
Stirred up.