I Hate to Stand Alone

by Casey Winter

  “Oh, that sounds lovely.” She beams. “But I can’t promise not to fall asleep.”

  I scoff. “That’s fine. Sleep as much as you want. But I can’t promise that your ice cream will be there when you wake up.”

  “Because it would melt?”

  “No, silly, because I’ll eat it.”

  “Oh,” she laughs. “Yes, of course. I don’t mind. You need more meat on your bones, anyway. You’re skating yourself into a skeleton.”

  “A skeleton,” I exclaim.

  “That’s right,” she teases. “A skinny, bony skeleton.”

  “You’re lucky you’ve got cancer,” I say, jokingly. “Or I’d wrestle you to the ground for saying that.”

  “Why don’t we watch that horrible movie you love so much, hmm? The rollerskating one with all the murder?”

  “Rollerball?” I say in disbelief. “But you hate that movie.”

  “No, I don’t,” she lies. “You love it, and I love everything you love. Come on, let’s see if we have the DVD.”

  “I think it might be on Netflix, Mom. Or on Amazon.”

  She tilts her head at me. “Ahh, so we're going to Netflix and relax, as the kids say?”

  I leap to my feet. “Ew,” I cry, laughing. “Mom, never say that again. Do you even know what it means?”

  “Well …” She narrows her eyes. “Yes, just sort of get comfortable and watch movies, no?”

  “No,” I say. “Definitely, one-hundred percent no. It’s Netflix and chill, anyway.”

  “Netflix and chill, Netflix and relax, what difference does it make?”

  I’m laughing so hard I’m crying again now, but these are good tears. “Trust me, Mom, it makes a big difference.”

  “Well, fine. You go and get the movie set up, and I’ll make us some nice hot cocoa and some eggs for breakfast.”

  “No, I’ll do the breakfast—”

  But Mom’s already on her feet. Even bleary-eyed and without her bandana on, showing her patchy scalp, she looks fierce. She shoots me the sort of withering look that stopped me stone-dead when I was a kid. “Let me do this,” she says, with a pleading note in her voice that breaks my heart a little. “For once, just let me be a mother: the woman I used to be.”

  I go to her, putting my hand on her shoulder. She needs this, I can tell. This small gesture means the world to her. “Cocoa sounds lovely,” I say. “And my eggs … can I have them scrambled, the special way you do it?”

  “With the chili flakes?” she says. “Brave girl, and so early. But yes, sweetness, you can have them just the way you want.”

  —

  Mom falls asleep about halfway through Rollerball, curled up on the couch next to me. I sit with her, my hand on her hand, and then, once the movie is over, I pull a blanket over her and go into the kitchen. I stand at the table, looking at the flowers Luke sent me.

  It’s not easy, but it’s not impossible.

  The words hit me hard, far harder than any blind declaration or over-the-top statement could. They’re true, that’s why. They’re so true, I read them over and over again, trying to puzzle them out. What’s not easy, though? And what’s not impossible? A relationship?

  That confuses me, because, although this past week has been absolutely incredible, I’m not at all sure that he’s looking for anything serious. But I have to remember he sent me these after I told him about the abortion. Does that mean anything?

  I feel tired, and part of me wants to take a nap. But another part of me wants to capture these flowers before they wilt and fade and die. I get a pad of paper and a sketching pencil from Mom’s art supplies, sit at the table, and begin working.

  I lose myself in the work, in the way the rain pattering against the window distorts the light, creating new and interesting perspectives. I think about Luke as I wisp the pencil over the page, silent except for the constant tap-tap-tap of the rain.

  I think about the first time I saw him, when I was skating, which was only a few weeks ago. It feels like a lifetime, we’ve come so far. We hated each other then, or, at least, we pretended to. But now we don’t hate each other … do we?

  Or, if there are pieces of us that still hate each other—or are pretending to—they’re all tangled up with other pieces of us that feel the exact opposite. Just like this pink, fresh collection of flowers, all tangled together, hard to tell where one petal starts and another begins. And yet there’s contrast in there, too.

  About halfway through, I grab my phone and go to mine and Luke’s text conversation. It’s full of casual banter, of arrangements to meet. I read over some of them.

  You might have to let me use that collar at some point, Hannah, he texted me a couple of days ago.

  That was a joke, I texted, lying.

  You shouldn’t joke about things like that. You’ll give me indecent ideas.

  But I love when your ideas are indecent, bad boy. Haven’t you figured that out yet?

  I smile, scrolling to the day before.

  I just want you to know, Luke, that if you ever want to talk about that SEAL stuff, I’m here for you. And yeah, maybe I’m with Penny and, yeah, maybe we’ve had a couple of glasses of wine xoxoxoxoxo

  Extra kisses and hugs, twinkle toes? I’m a lucky man xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

  Hey. You avoided the question. Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox (there. Beat that.)

  Oh, that’s easy …. xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

  You SO copy and pasted that.

  What, how can you tell?

  You left spaces between them, genius.

  Ah, dammit.

  But you’re still avoiding my question … ??

  I know, Hannah. It’s just hard for me. I’m not that sort of man.

  But you could be. If you tried.

  I know. Maybe. I’ll think about it, okay?

  Okay, Luke. I don’t mean to bother you about it, or dredge stuff up xoxo

  Oh, so only a couple of kisses and hugs now, huh? I guess you didn’t like my answer x

  Ooooh, so that’s the game you want to play. Fine, take this. Minus-x

  You can’t do that, twinkle toes. That’s cheating.

  Na-uh.......

  LOL. But seriously, Hannah, you’re not bothering me. I just find it difficult.

  I know. I do too. I think everybody does.

  Not everybody has been the places I’ve been, seen the stuff I have.

  I know, Luke. I care about you, though. I just want you to know that. And now I’m gonna shove my phone in a drawer so I don’t do any more drunk texting...........

  LOL. Fair enough, twinkle toes. Have a good night xoxoxoxo

  A warm glow moves through me as I read, but I can’t help but note he didn’t say he cared about me, too. I wonder if I’m being needy. I wonder if every woman lives in perpetual fear of being seen like that: the needy, nagging not-really-girlfriend. I lay my phone down and keep sketching.

  About an hour later, I hear Mom standing behind me, her chest raspy. I glance at the clock, seeing that it’s gone midday. “Oh, this is wonderful,” Mom croaks, walking into the room on shaky legs. “Look how pretty it is. You’re so talented, monkey. So, so talented.”

  “Here, Mom, sit down,” I say, pulling a chair for her. “Let me get you some water. Are you hungry?”

  “Not hungry, no. But water—yes, that would be nice. Or maybe some tea?”

  “Of course.”

  She sits down and I brew the tea, and then I say as lightly as I can, “You barely touched your eggs, Mom. You should eat something.”

  “I know.” She sighs. “It just makes me feel so sick. Even with this course of chemo done, it still makes me feel so sick. I just want it to end.”

  I’m glad my back is turned to her, so she can’t see the horror that must touch my features. “The cancer, right? You want the cancer t
o end?”

  “Of course,” she says quietly. “What else?”

  “I was just … checking.”

  “I don’t want to die, Hannah,” she snaps irritably.

  “I know, Mom. I’m sorry.”

  I brew her the tea, doing a mug for myself, and we sit together at the table. She studies my drawing, nodding in approval. “They are beautiful flowers,” she murmurs. “Just lovely. Do you think he picked them out himself?”

  I laugh nervously. She never normally likes talking about Luke, and now this is twice in one day. “I doubt it,” I say. “I don’t think he’s much of a flower man. I mean, he likes nature. Sometimes he goes running in the forest, and last week he took me to this cabin he used to have. Only now there’s this mysterious British man living there. Well, half-British, I think.”

  “That’s Zakary Clinton,” Mom says. “Yes, mysterious is what he is. The ladies at the salon are all agog with talk of him. At least, they were, but I haven’t been to the salon for a while …” She touches her scalp, flinching. “My bandana.”

  “Mom, you don’t need it, you look—”

  “Please, little monkey, will you get it for me? I feel hideous.”

  “Mom, you’re not—”

  “Please,” she snaps.

  I sigh, defeated. “Of course. Which one?”

  “The pink one. I like that one.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  I go into the living room, to her bandanas piled next to her painting gear, and get the pink one. When I come back, she’s picked up the pencil, leaning over my drawing. “Here you go,” I say, handing it to her. “Do you want to finish it? You can, if you like.”

  “Oh, no, it’s yours,” she exclaims. “There was just a touch here. You see? A little shading, a nice way to play with the light. But, of course, the perspective and the light will have changed, now. It’ll be a monstrosity.”

  I laugh, touching her shoulder. “It’s just for fun, Mom. Do it however you want. If inspiration has struck, have at it.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks, nervously, cutely.

  I love her so fricking much. “Yes,” I say. “I insist, okay?”

  “Well …” She smiles like a naughty teenager. “If you insist …”

  —

  Later, I fall asleep on the couch. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a lazy day like this. I think my body is desperate for the chance to rest, since I don’t normally give it much opportunity. It takes it with a vengeance. I feel like I’m being tugged into a deep, endless sleep. I wake up throughout the day only to roll over again and bury myself further into the embracing cushions.

  I’m not sure what time it is when I wake to Mom standing over me, hands clawing at her neck, but it’s still light outside. The shadows are deeper, and the light is sort of reddish, and basically I’m just listing things about the weather so I don’t have to face the fact that Mom is gasping and choking in front of me.

  Please, let this be a dream.

  “H-Hannah—”

  I jolt into full wakefulness, annoyed with myself for my slow response. Jumping to my feet, I try to avoid panic. “Mom, what is it?”

  “I just … ah … breathing—it hurts. It’s hard.”

  “Okay, let me call the hospital … no, no, just let me drive you there. It’ll be quicker. Okay? Mom, can you walk?”

  She nods, wheezing. I hate the rattle-like noise it makes, like her throat is just going to burst open.

  “Let’s go, then. It’s all going to be okay.”

  I take her by the arm and lead her out to the car. The urge to cry is real. Plus, I still feel like there’s a dreamy haze draped over me, as though any second now I’ll wake up on the couch. But I don’t have the good luck I’m desperately wishing for. This whole mess is crushingly, depressingly real.

  I drive to the hospital as fast as I can while being safe, shooting Mom looks every so often. She’s not making a fuss about it, but I can tell she’s suffering. She has her hands clutched to her throat, and she keeps closing her eyes and opening them a few minutes later, as though wanting to just magic her way to Little Fall Medical Care.

  “Almost there,” I tell her.

  “H-Hannah,” she wheezes. “I want you to know, if I die—”

  “Hush, Mom. You’re not dying. Stop being stupid.”

  “If I’m no longer here, you have to be strong. You can’t let yourself be broken again.”

  “Just rest your voice,” I whisper. “You’re fine. Stop talking so crazy.”

  “You’ve had your fun,” she says, voice hollow. “But don’t get too c-close. Those Nelsons, they’re mean, mean down to the core. Russel and his sons: all bad news. D-don’t …”

  I bite my lip, wondering why she’s bringing this up now. Maybe she thinks that, if she dies, this is the most important thing she could tell me. To stay away from Luke. But earlier, she said she liked Luke. This is horrible, the biggest entangled mess in the universe.

  I’m glad when we arrive at the hospital, the big gleaming building shining like a fricking beacon we can’t reach soon enough. I help Mom out of the car and rush her into the lobby.

  Then, everything happens really fast.

  Mom is taken in for a bronchoscopy procedure, which is a way to clear airflow to her lungs, because she has something called dyspnea. That’s what’s causing her tight chest and her shortness of breath. There’s nothing I can do but pace around the waiting room like a madwoman.

  I call Penny, knowing she’ll want to know about this, but also knowing that she won’t come to the hospital. Penny absolutely hates hospitals. It’s one of her biggest phobias. “Oh, eff it,” she says, her voice dropping. “But they said it’s routine, right? They said she’ll be okay?”

  “Yeah,” I assure her. “They want to keep her overnight, to be on the safe side, but yeah, she’s going to be fine. The operation should be over anytime now. Quick and easy, no fuss.”

  “You know I’d come,” Penny whispers. “Oh, God. I’m coming. That’s it.”

  “Penny,” I whisper lightly. “Don’t do this.”

  She makes a heartbreaking sobbing noise. “I hate myself right now, Banana. I’m here for you, whatever you need. Do you need me to run any errands? Any chores or anything? Maybe I could clean the house?”

  “I didn’t lock up,” I tell her. “So you could do that, if you wanted? But please don’t beat yourself up about this.”

  “Okay, yeah, sure. But I can’t promise not to absolutely hate myself. Tell Teresa I love her. As soon as you’re out of the hospital, I’m visiting every second of every day and there’s nothing either of you can do about it.”

  I smile. “Promise, Lennie?”

  I can hear her smiling, too. “Promise, Banana. But, seriously, you’ve gotta stop with this Lennie stuff. It’s so pretentious and la-de-da, and that’s coming from an English teacher. Why not something simpler like, I dunno, Beanpole?”

  I know she’s trying to cheer my spirits, and it feels good to laugh. “But you’re not a beanpole. You’re a tall, beautiful, amazing friend.”

  “I love you, Banana,” Penny whispers. “And I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” I snap.

  “I do,” she says grimly. “My crippling, annoying-as-eff mental issues. Go and be with Teresa … when they let you, anyway. I’ll lock the house up. Do you mind if I sleep there tonight, too? I feel like that’s the next best thing, you know, instead of coming down there.”

  “Of course, that’d be nice. We’ll see you tomorrow if you’re still around.”

  “Okay, bye-bye.”

  “Bye, hon.”

  I sit down, feeling agitated, and then stand up … feeling agitated. I pace around—yep, agitated. And I pour myself a huge cup of agitated coffee, downing it so fast it scalds my agitated-as-frick throat. That’s pretty much my life until the operation is done and they tell me I can go and see mom: waiiiiiiiitttiiing.

  —

  But, eventu
ally, I’m sitting in Mom’s hospital room with her hand in mine. She feels humid, almost like she’s burning up. The doctor said that the operation was a success, but that she has also caught a bug, which is the main reason they want to keep her overnight, just to make sure she’s doing okay. Her throat is raw, and she sounds tired. But she’s alive. That’s all that matters.

  “All this fuss,” she whispers, voice weak. She stares dreamily up at the ceiling, probably from the medication they’ve given her. “And no husband to comfort me. Ha. I bet your daddy is having a whale of a time tonight with his little Floridian friends.”

  I give her hand a squeeze. “I’m here, Mom,” I say, the only thing I can think to.

  “I know, little monkey,” she mutters. “That’s why I love you a million times more than I ever loved that pathetic little man.”

  I sigh, knowing there’s not much I can do about Mom’s hatred for Dad. Maybe there’s not much I want to do, honestly, since he ran out on us when I was still a kid.

  I sit with Mom, her hand in mine, until she falls asleep.

  Then I go to the chair and drop down, feeling exhausted despite the fact that I slept all day. The sun has set now, but it’s not completely dark. It’s that eerie in-between light, the stars and moon giving some illumination, which is pretty fricking fitting, considering I feel eerily stuck in-between.

  In-between Mom and Luke. In-between the past and the present. In-between common sense and … and what?

  Love?

  No, that’s so OTT. Affection, then? But that sounds too underwhelming.

  I’m jolted from my overthinking when Alejandra comes barreling into the room, striding right over to Mom’s bed. She glances at me. A surge of guilt moves through me. “I’m sorry, Alejandra. I completely spaced. I should’ve called you. I feel terrible.”

  “Hush,” she says, taking out her knitting and glancing briefly at Mom, as if to make sure she’s sleeping soundly. “You have nothing to apologize for. We’re both here, and that’s all that matters.”

  I frown. “Still, I’m sorry.”

  Her needles click quietly. She returns my frown, but with a playful twist to her lips. “If you apologize one more time, you’re not going to like what I do with this needle.”