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I shuffle to the front door and consider shuffling right back out when the smell of steak and potatoes wallops me. My lack of appetite has rivaled Mom’s lately. I think Evelyn is starting to take it personally.
“Honey, is that you?” Mom calls from the kitchen.
She’s at the center island while Evelyn busies herself at the stove. I drop into the stool next to her and kiss her cheek. “How was chemo?”
“A regular chuckle fest,” Mom says. “Wish I could go every day.”
“That bad?”
She pats my hand. “I’m just being a baby. It was fine. I’ve even made a few chemo friends.”
Evelyn pops the lid on her pan and turns to us. “She’s Miss Popularity at the hospital. She’s even got herself a new nickname.”
“Come on now, don’t leave me in suspense. What is it?”
Mom looks a little embarrassed. “Oh, it’s no big deal?—”
“Scarface,” Evelyn announces.
My mouth drops, my eyes veering to the scarred side of Mom’s face. I’m so used to it now that I hardly even notice.
Until some asshole has the audacity to bring it up.
“Who the hell calls you that?” I demand, jumping off my stool. “This hospital is supposed to be the best! It’s why I agreed to have your treatment transferred?—”
“Oh, honey, you’re blowing this out of proportion.” Mom glares at Evelyn. “There’s a little boy in chemo with me. He’s twelve years old, and he likes gangster movies. It’s sweet.”
“‘Sweet’?”
“Being a big, bad gangster beats being a sick, old woman. He meant it as a compliment.”
For a long time, I didn’t think anyone could look at my scars or Mom’s with anything but horror. Until Arsen.
I hear his voice in the back of my head.These scars aren’t ugly; they’re proof that I was strong enough to heal. To survive.
Mom has survived a lot in her life. The irony isn’t lost on me that the one battle that didn’t give her a single scar is the one she might lose.
“Scarface,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Ridiculous.”
She chuckles and pats me on the hand. “How was your doctor’s appointment?”
“Fine.”
There’s a beat of silence before she elbows me in the side. “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna give me? You’re twenty weeks now. Didn’t you find out the gender?”
Gritting my teeth, I rip off the Band-Aid. “It’s a girl.”
She gasps. “Oh, honey?—!”
“Mom, please. There’s no sense getting all excited. I’m not keeping the baby.”
She folds her hands in her lap. Her mouth twists, and I know she’s trying to keep herself from speaking.
I decide to make it easier on her. “So, what’s for din?—”
“Are you sure?” she blurts.
“Mom!”
