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He scoffs out a mirthless laugh and looks away. He glances at the watch he still wears on his wrist. It should be somewhere around six p.m. right now. “Wow. Twelve whole hours.”
“I had my last final today,” I explain. But when my eyes meet his, I look away, unable to stomach the hard glint I see. The accusation.
“What about all the other weekends you could’ve come home and didn’t? And don’t tell me it’s because of school. We all know you’re a mediocre student at best. And don’t blame hockey. It’s offseason. Your coaches would have understood if you had to miss a few things.”
I look at the ground because I know he’s right. But how do you tell the toughest guy you know that you couldn’t stomach seeing the sickness eating your mom alive? That you weren’t strong enough. I can’t say the words even though we both know they’re true.
“She needs you,” he grits out.
I can hear the emotion permeating his words, but my attention is still on my feet.
“Your mother …” He pauses when his voice breaks. “You’re everything to her. Her entire world. And she needs you now. She’s stepped up for you, put herself second to always put you first. Carting you to practice and games. Sitting in the stands night after night. Teaching gigs in the summertime so we could afford your hockey leagues. It’s time for you to stop being selfish and be there for her for once.”
I finally look up, but I still don’t like what I see. He forces me to maintain our connection.
“She deserves more than a few phone calls here and there when you find the time.”
His face is red, like he’s trying to maintain control but losing the battle. He removes the tobacco from his mouth and throws it into the mulch before stalking past me. His shoulder knocks into me as he passes to solidify his point that I’m far from Son of the Year right now.
“And don’t tell your mom about the dip.”
I nod but remain silent. The door shuts behind me. I stand there for a few minutes before I pull myself out of the haze. I walk over and crank the mower to finish the job my dad started. Maybe it’s part of my penance for making a bad situation at home worse. Or maybe nothing I do can make things better.
Mom is beyond thrilled that I surprised them with a visit when she wakes. Both Dad and I put smiles on our faces when we eat dinner together as a family later that night and act like our conversation earlier never happened. We dote on her this time, ordering her favorite food, setting the table, and cleaning up afterward. She pretends she isn’t exhausted and that her bones don’t ache. I pretend that she hasn’t lost fifteen more pounds that she never needed to lose. She talks about how pale she looks. I lie and say she’s never glowed brighter, just to bring a smile to her face.
I spend the evening on the couch with my mom while my dad disappears into his shop. I’m not sure if he leaves so we can have time alone together or if he can’t stand the sight of me right now. Mom and I talk about school and camp and life. I ask about her treatments, but she says she doesn’t want to talk about it. She’d rather hear about me. Her entire focus is on me, like usual. And I realize that my dad is right. Our family has always revolved around me. What I wanted. What I needed. I’ve taken it and them for granted all these years. And when it was time for me to step up, I disappeared. Just like I’m about to vanish again. Mom doesn’t hold it against me, but she should.
Mom rises early to see me off in the morning. My dad stays in bed. She kisses my cheek, hugs me tightly, and leaves me with a reassuring smile, always trying to make me feel better, like I’m the one going through cancer treatments. Then, she goes back to her room to rest. And I leave in a rideshare that transports me to the airport, where I board a plane that takes me miles away for the summer, where I won’t be around to support her. Where I won’t be around at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMERSON
SEPTEMBER
SOPHOMORE YEAR OF COLLEGE
The pungent odor of freshly ground coffee beans permeates the air. I take a deep inhale to breathe it in.
“You’ll get sick of it soon,” Ashley my coworker, says dryly as she walks by.
“I haven’t so far,” I counter with a smile.
I got a job at my favorite coffee shop, Caffeine Corner, on the edge of campus this summer. I worked here part-time when I wasn’t painting my mural. I kept the gig to help fund my living expenses when the weeks drifted into the start of my sophomore year. Money is tight, but I’m making it. And I’m proud of that.
“Excuse me, miss,” a familiar voice rings out.
I turn to see Suki leaning across the counter.
“Can I please have a triple shot, one pump caramel, two pumps vanilla, half oat milk, half coconut milk, light foam, extra-hot latte?” She flutters her eyelashes after finishing that complicated order.
“No,” I answer, placing the coffee I was working on onto the counter for the next customer, “but I will make your normal iced vanilla latte.” I smile sweetly.
Suki laughs. We’ve joked about the ridiculous coffee orders I’ve gotten since working here many times now.
“Sold,” she says. “I’ll be sitting right over there.” She points to a small table across the room, where her bag is already resting in a chair.
“I’ll bring it to you.”
