by Brooks, Abby
Mom waved my statement away. “I’m not trying to diminish your feelings. You’re caught. You’re confused. I understand. Here’s my advice, and it’s fantastic as usual. If things are to go any farther with either of these men, you need to pick one and let the other fall to the wayside. But, dear, sweet daughter, life is too fragile to waste time feeling this bad about a thing that hasn’t happened yet. You’re not involved with either man. Make a choice before you are.” She smiled, pleased with the simplicity of her advice, while her statement caught my attention and ran away with it.
Life is too fragile…
The thought had me off-guard, my subconscious connecting dots I hadn’t made sense of yet, but I shook my head and refocused on our conversation. “So, what should I do?” I asked. “Who should I pick?”
Mom sighed and her features softened. “I can’t tell you what to do, Katydid. You’re the only one who knows the answer to that question.” It was such a typical answer from her, I should have known better than to ask in the first place.
I studied her, the familiar lines of her face bringing me some measure of peace. There’s nothing quite as comforting as knowing, without a doubt, that you are loved. “Fine, what would you do?”
“I would spend my energy on the sure thing.” Mom nodded with conviction.
“So…Lucas?”
Mom eyed me. “Is he the sure thing?”
Was Lucas the sure thing? His name was the first that came to mind, but the moment I spoke, I wondered about my mystery man.
“He’s the one I see every day.”
“You went years without seeing me and that didn’t affect us one little bit.” Again, her statement caught my attention. More dots were connected and still, I couldn’t make sense of what my subconscious had already figured out.
“Yeah, but you’re my mom. We’ll always be good, you know?”
She bit the inside of her lip and looked at me so strangely, my breath caught in my chest.
“Hey Mom?” I started, not sure what I was going to ask until the words left me lips. “Are you okay?”
I expected her to brush off my worry. To smile and tell me she was more than okay, she was fabulous. That’s what Mom did. She woke each morning with a smile on her face and gratitude falling from her lips. She called challenges ‘learning experiences’ and sent God a silent thank you for every obstacle he set in her path because getting up when you fall down only made you stronger.
Instead, her face fell. “You know what, Catherine? I’m not okay.” I couldn’t remember the last time she used my full name. The hairs on the back of my neck and arms stood on end. My blood froze in my veins. My stomach dropped to my feet.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” I asked, even though that still-small voice was screaming the answer in my head.
“I’m sick.” She shifted in her seat and gave her focus to the ocean. Her face went slack and her skin looked gray and sallow in the morning light. Her hair was thin and colorless.
“How sick?”
“Very sick.” She turned to me, sadness softening her gaze. “I have cancer.”
The words were a whisper, but I wanted to cover my ears against the sound.
“How bad?” I asked, though I already knew. If we were talking about it, it was bad.
“That’s the thing. I’ve had cancer. It’s the reason I bought this damn RV in the first place.”
She explained about the diagnosis that came the year I turned twelve. Doctors throwing around words like ‘terminal’ as if they weren’t talking about her life, about our life, about my life. She hadn’t been able to make peace with telling me. The thought of me having to watch her grow sick and whither and die just as my own life was supposed to be starting sickened her. And so, instead of making me live through her death, she decided to take off. See the country. Spend her last years doing the things she wanted, sending me postcards with happy thoughts and hiding her tragedy behind phone calls so I couldn’t see the illness etched into her face.
Mom smiled sadly. “I didn’t want their poison in my veins, making my last years miserable. I wanted to go off and die with dignity. Funny thing. Instead of getting sicker, I got better.”
Her words pushed into my head and banged against the inside of my skull. They made an awful kind of sense, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around her story. “Didn’t you think it would have been easier for me to handle your death if I’d had time to get right with it? Instead of it coming as a surprise and ripping the rug right out from underneath me?”
“Believe me, I agonized over what was right. But I wanted you to remember me as I was, not as an invalid…” She choked on the rest of the sentence and trailed off. My mind followed hers, out of the past and into the present, then…the future.
“It’s back?” I asked and the answer was written all over her body, the dots my subconscious mind connected the first time I saw her six weeks ago.
She nodded. “And there’s no running away from it this time. I don’t expect God doles out more than one miracle per lifetime.”
“Oh, Mom.” I stood, only to drop to my knees in front of her. “I’m so sorry. I’m here. You’re not alone.” I offered a million platitudes and asked as many questions as I could, trying to understand everything all at once. Her answers led to more questions and we talked all morning. I added her doctor’s appointments into my calendar and made the decision to move out of The Hut. I’d sleep on a damn table for the rest of my life if it meant my mom wouldn’t have to go through this alone.
I’d explain to the Huttons on Monday, but the rest of this weekend belonged to my mom.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lucas
God, I was such an asshole. When we first met, I swore to Katydid that she was special, that any man who would take without giving was a fool. Yet here I was, slowly falling for Cat, while Katydid gave me her soul.
Her last email challenged me to ask her to meet, and I couldn’t rise to the challenge. Still reeling from her email about cheating, I couldn’t even find the strength to respond and tell her I was in Florida. I shut down my phone and went dark. Just another jerk who turned his back on her.
And the moment I saw Cat on the balcony, I ran away from her, too.
Sleep was a pipedream, so I stole down the stairs, unsure as to what I would do once I got there, and found Harlow at the kitchen table, fingers flying over the keys of her laptop. Her long blonde hair blocked her face from view, but I knew her brows were scrunched up, her tongue caught between her teeth. It was her writing face, the one she wore when the words were flowing freely and she existed more in her story world than this one. Not wanting to interrupt her, I froze in the doorway.
“It’s okay, Luc” my sister said from behind her wall of hair. “You’re not bothering me.”
“How’d you know it was me?” I crossed the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat.
Harlow finished typing, then closed her laptop and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You limp.”
My jaw dropped and I let out a short cough of a laugh. “I do not.” And I was damn proud of the fact. I worked hard to keep my gait natural and even. Sometimes it took constant conscious effort to keep the pain out of my face and my steps rhythmic, but I put in the effort. Every day, I fought my body.
Harlow rested her elbow on the table and her cheek in her hand. “You do. It’s small. You fool everyone else, but you can’t fool me.” She shrugged and opened her laptop, eyes scanning the screen. “I don’t know why you fight your scars. They’re part of what makes you interesting.”
“Remind me not to sit down with you while you’re writing ever again. You’re looking for depth that isn’t here.”
“Oh, come on. It’s the stories we have to tell that makes life worth living. I dare you tell me a story worth hearing that doesn’t leave a scar or two and I’ll stop trying to get published this instant and get a job as a waitress.”
I exhaled deeply and leaned my head against the back of my chair. “
I don’t want to argue with you.” I didn’t have it in me. I came downstairs for peace, for a chance to clear my head. The last thing I needed was for Harlow to fill it back up again with something new to worry about.
“Who said we’re arguing? I just think you should stop trying to hide all the parts that make you worth knowing and you’re busy trying to prove to me that you’re perfectly normal.” She pounded on the backspace button a few times then glanced at me. “Perfect is boring, by the way.”
“And how, pray tell, is what you just described not arguing?”
“It’s called having a discussion, dumbass. You should try it sometime. Or did all those years of blatantly following orders without having to think for yourself erase that part of you, too?”
I sat forward. “Excuse me?”
“Hey. Sorry.” She closed her laptop and held up her hands. “I crossed a line. You’re right. I’m too far into my story right now and am looking for mind-blowing epiphanies where they don’t belong. You know I respect the hell out of your Marine ass.”
“You mean my bionic ass.” I smirked.
Harlow smiled. “Whatever.” She knew I could never be mad at her for long. As the oldest, I always stood up for my younger sister, even against myself. Her honesty, while sometimes annoying, was refreshing. “Now,” she began with concern in her eyes, “what has you wandering this late while the rest of the house is sleeping?”
I almost shrugged off her question, but since I was in the market for a mind-blowing epiphany and she seemed in the perfect mood to give one, I told her everything. I opened my heart and bled for her, talking without thinking, chasing down thoughts only to find they led to more questions. I explained Katydid and Cat. I told her about the nightmares I was still having. I told her I had no idea where I was going and wondered how in the world I could keep moving forward when it was like navigating a thick jungle. Alone. No path. No guide.
Harlow listened to it all and when I ran out of words she smiled. “How do you keep moving forward? The answer is simple. You limp.”
I rolled my eyes. “Harlow…”
“I’m being serious here. When you got to the hospital in Germany, the doctors told us you probably wouldn’t survive the night. But you did. Then, when they decided to send you back to the States, they told us there was a chance you might not survive the flight. But you did. And then they told us you might never walk again…” She raised an eyebrow.
“But I did.”
“And it sucked at first, didn’t it?”
I nodded.
“And it hurt and you hated it and you wanted to stop but you kept going. And at first, your limp was so pronounced, you looked like an old man, hobbling down the hallway. But you kept going and it kept getting better and now you barely limp at all.”
“I don’t limp.”
“You do. But if you keep fighting the way you do, I’m sure that limp will go away completely.”
I stared at her with narrowed eyes. Somewhere in there, my sister had a point, but I couldn’t find it for the life of me. “You lost me, Harlow…”
“What I’m saying is that you can’t ignore your problems. You can’t whitewash them away, saying you don’t limp when you do, ignoring your scars and expecting the rest of us to ignore them, too. But you can fight through them enough to see what’s on the other side. You keep walking long enough, you’re going to get somewhere.”
“How is any of this supposed to help me with Cat and Katydid?”
“Explain the problem to me again.”
“I met Katydid’s soul and she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, but I don’t know anything about her. And Cat? I can’t think straight when I’m around her. Hours pass and they feel like minutes and we talk and we laugh, but she’s holding her soul back from me. She’s keeping part of herself separate and I need all of her. Besides, I met Katydid first. I can’t be another man who takes from her without giving in return. I can’t be someone else who stares at all of her and then walks right into another woman’s arms. I can’t be that man.”
“Then don’t be that man. Get your ass to Galveston and find your mystery woman.”
“But what about Cat?”
“You can’t live in between decisions, big brother. Sooner or later, it’ll all come crumbling down and you’ll get caught in the wreckage.” Harlow smiled. “Now, go away because I need to write all of that down so I can use it later.”
She smirked but didn’t say anything else. I stood as her fingers flew over keys.
“At least promise you won’t kill me off this time?”
“Can’t promise anything,” she said, shooing me off without looking up.
* * *
The next day I woke early and got my run, analyzing my gait for the limp Harlow swore she saw while I let our conversation replay through my head. While I didn’t find the limp, I did discover her point. I had to make good on my promise to Katydid before I could do anything with Cat. I went upstairs, showered, and then knocked on Cat’s door.
I wanted to apologize for walking away from her last night on the balcony, for leading her on when I was already partially involved with someone else. I wanted to explain everything. She deserved it, even though I knew things wouldn’t go well.
At best, she’d be confused.
At worst, she’d be mad.
But at least she’d have the truth.
But Cat never answered her door and when I walked downstairs and looked outside, her Jeep wasn’t in the parking lot. She was gone and she rarely left without letting me know her plans.
Something was wrong. I could feel it. I headed off in search of something to occupy my time, worrying and worrying and worrying.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cat
My mom had decades to come to terms with her diagnosis, but I needed more than a day and a half to make peace with her mortality. I spent the rest of the weekend with her, fluttering around like a nervous hen, as if I could cure her cancer by keeping her quiet and cared for. I brought her drinks. Cooked the meals. Did the dishes. Tucked her into bed. And was waiting with fresh coffee the minute she opened her eyes in the morning, all the while wondering if the caffeine would be more helpful or harmful. By the time I had to leave for work on Monday morning, I imagined she was almost glad for a bit of quiet sanity.
I arrived at the Hut with just enough time to shower and change my clothes before I had to meet my first client. The rush of hot water beat at my shoulders, matting my hair to my back. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I brushed them away. To give in to the tears would open the floodgates of anger, betrayal, bitterness, and loss—and I didn’t have time to indulge my emotions right now. I needed to keep going. For my clients. For my mom. For me.
I turned the knob on the faucet, making the water so cold it felt like needles pricking my skin. The only thing I could focus on was getting clean as fast as I could and all I could feel was cold, cold, cold. The frigid water obliterated the worry and the fear. For a moment, anyway. As soon as I stepped out of the shower, shivering as I toweled off, it all came rushing back.
Saturday night, after a slew of concerned texts from Lucas, I finally responded, explaining that I’d be gone all weekend. Told him I was spending the time with my mom, but avoided the details. He seemed to sense there was something I wasn’t saying, but respected my silence.
I couldn’t tell him I planned on moving out of The Hut. Not yet. That conversation needed to happen face to face, so I could properly express my gratitude. And, because it was also a conversation I didn’t think I could get through without breaking down, I grabbed a granola bar from a box I kept in my room and skipped having breakfast in the kitchen. He would wonder. And he would worry. But he would understand soon enough.
The sun shone and I breathed in the constant rhythm of the sea on my way to the massage tables. My schedule was full today and I distracted myself with my work, focusing on muscles and tendons and skin. I couldn’t change what was happening to my m
om, but I could impact the people on my table. I poured my energy into them, and for a brief period of time, felt peaceful. During a break in the afternoon, I sat down on the beach and called my dad.
He greeted me with concern in his voice. It was a Monday after all, and that meant Dad was hard at work doing God knew what in an office in Houston. Personal calls were a distinct no-no during the week. Always had been. Always would be.
I cut right to the point. “Did you know?”
“Did I know what?” he asked on a heavy sigh. Dad was never one for emotional outbursts and I could hear the warning in his voice. I was five seconds away from his favorite admonishment. Why don’t we table this discussion until you can talk to me like a rational adult? I heard it my whole life, even when I was an irrational child.
This, however, wasn’t a discussion I was willing to table. “About Mom.” The words were a weapon. “Did you know about Mom?”
Dad made a sound I’d never heard him make before, a sharp exhalation that sounded like shock, like pain. “Cat…”
“Did you know Mom had cancer?” I was relentless, pushing through the warning in his voice, the clear cues that meant he didn’t want to talk about this now. This was a time for me to take care of my needs. I’d bowed to his for far too long.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone and then, quietly, and with much resignation, he said, “Yes. I knew.”
I closed my eyes. His answer felt like betrayal. “Now? Or then?”
“What do you mean?”
I heard the answer in his confusion. He didn’t know Mom was sick again, but I pushed forward anyway. “I mean, did you know about the cancer she has now? Or only about the cancer she had then?”
“My God. It’s back?” Shock. Disbelief. All the feelings I battled all weekend.
“Yeah. It’s back.” I explained what I knew in clipped sentences. “And don’t you dare tell me to table this conversation until I’m not emotional because I have a damn good reason to be emotional right now. How could you hide this from me?”