by PJ Sharon
“With your help, I’m sure I’ll manage.” She sucked in a breath and winced as her shirt caught on the spot where a shunt had recently been removed from her chest. The portal for her chemo had gotten infected twice and was now an angry red ringed scar, ironically resembling a cigarette burn. When the last CT scan came back, it showed that the cancer had spread to her bones. More chemo wouldn’t help, and there was no surgery to be done. Now it was simply a matter of time. Months at most, the doctor had said. Simply pulling up her pants had her panting for breath.
I sat her down on the edge of the bed, holding her by the elbow, my other hand locked in a white knuckled death grip with hers. I helped her adjust her oxygen lead and felt her relax as she inhaled deeply through her nose. “I don’t know, Mom. I’ve been so busy with summer camp and work, I don’t think I’ll be able to help all that much.”
“We’ll manage.”
Those famous last words were her anthem for every crisis in life she’d ever faced. If there were money problems, “we’d manage”, if the car broke down, “we’d manage”. I didn’t doubt that if the house fell down around us, “we’d manage.” Unfortunately, with Dad emotionally MIA, the ‘we’ had come to mean ‘me’, and I was seriously struggling to ‘manage’ anything and everything. But saying no to her had become nearly impossible.
“Do you want to wear your wig?”
“No. It’s too hot for that.” She grinned up at me, her face pale and gaunt, her eyelashes short and dark against red rimmed eyes. Her hair, lashes, and brows had grown back in soft, dark fuzz that barely covered her baldness. “It’s like wearing a raccoon fur on my head. Just give me that scarf over there.” She pointed to a long silk scarf that hung on the bed post like an orange and green tie you’d see on a clown, as if her radical color choices were her way of thumbing her nose at cancer. Mom was nothing if not bold.
I remembered the time she and Dad fought over the Christmas tree one year. He wanted a fake one and she would have none of that. Since he wouldn’t buy a real one, she went out on Christmas Eve and cut the top six feet off of one of his prize spruces. Christmas morning she sat in the kitchen smoking a butt and drinking coffee, smiling as Dad rounded the corner into the living room and saw the tree. You could hear the sound of his head turning to look out the window and the sharp inhale when he saw the remaining three foot stub of tree standing bleakly at the front corner of our driveway. I think the entire neighborhood heard the scream. I thought Mom had tried to give him a heart attack for Christmas that year.
I wrapped her head and tied the scarf at the base of her neck, letting the tails fall down her back, imagining a coon skin cap on her head, and trying not to cry.
∞∞∞
I spent the month of July juggling early morning training sessions with George and the snoot squad, working the snack bar a few nights a week in exchange for ice time, and afternoons making out and hanging with Carter. We snuck in as much playtime as possible before he had to dash off to work, but a lot of afternoons were spent helping him work on his car. The old 427 Corvette engine that Carter had rebuilt and installed in the Nova shone like polished silver, fascinating me with its beauty, simplicity, and power. I hadn’t seen much of Katie, and Sami was either with Bull or working crazy hours at Panera. She was desperately saving for her own car.
Mom’s memory, coordination, and speech deteriorated as the days progressed and Dad and I had been forced to bring in more help. She needed more than either of us had left to give. I had no idea how my parents could afford it, but a crew of round the clock nurses, home health aides and hospice people took over most of my duties. I hadn’t realized how much being needed was a part of who I had become. As I watched well-meaning caregivers take over, my connection to my mother grew more distant. It was like I sensed the end coming and my heart knew enough to detach from the pain of inevitable loss. Mom didn’t seem to notice my absence. Either that or she understood better than I did that letting go came in stages and she wanted to protect me from the worst.
Life was only perfectly happy when Carter wrapped me in his arms and held me close enough to hear his heartbeat. That thud-ump, thud-ump over and over again, letting me know that he was there, living and breathing—and mine. Carter was solid ground. In his arms, death and fear took a back seat to life and love. He didn’t say the words I love you and I wasn’t about to say it first, but he reminded me daily that I was the best part of his life, and just being with him was enough to take the edge off my fear and pain. He always asked about my mom, and then held me, knowing there wasn’t much either of us could say. No words could change the inevitable. But having him there made all the difference.
Carter helped me tune up the Honda, clearly impressed by my auto maintenance skills. We held hands and hiked along the river, and went to the lake when we could. We did normal things that for a few moments made me feel normal, not like the girl whose mother was dying. I clung to those moments and I clung to Carter, who was rapidly becoming the center of my world, the sun around which I revolved.
I didn’t think about what would happen when Carter found out my age. I couldn’t, when every look and touch seemed to heal something inside me. Lies and anger seemed like such a waste of energy when being with him felt so satisfying. Even if he didn’t know my age, he knew me. He seemed to understand me in a way that no one else ever had. He treated me like I was a delicate flower, beautiful and special. Yet he trusted me to be capable on my own, like he believed in my ability to overcome any circumstance that was thrown my way. For whatever reason, he saw me as someone who possessed strength and courage which he reminded me of frequently. He helped me to see myself in a new way—a better way. Being with him helped me understand the order of things—how strong and yet how fragile humans could be, and how most of the time, we are both.
The pieces of himself that he shared with me drew me closer still. It seemed that he had been carrying secrets of his own.
∞∞∞
“I’m sorry I have to work so much overtime.” He apologized as he was dressing for work on Saturday afternoon. “I’m trying to save for school and I have to send money home to help out my mom and my sister.”
“I thought your mom was a school teacher.”
“She’s a teacher’s assistant, but my sister Meg goes to a special school and it costs more than my mom can afford by herself.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sure what else to say. I was surprised he hadn’t mentioned it before. My curiosity wouldn’t let it go. “What kind of special school?”
He’d stopped pulling on his work boots and peered up at me. “I don’t tell people about my family because I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.” He tied his boots and hung his head, resting his elbows on his thighs. “My father left my mom when he found out she was pregnant with my sister.” He hesitated. “Meg has Down Syndrome.” I stroked his back hoping to ease the pain in his voice. He let out a sigh and then the corner of his mouth turned up. “Meg’s awesome. She’s the best little sister anyone could ask for.” The smile faded and his eyes held a sadness I’d never seen there before. “I haven’t seen my father since I was six, and the only thing he left behind was that old Nova. It’s not much of a legacy, but it’s all I’ve got.”
“That’s a crappy thing for a father to do. That must have been really hard.” I thought about my own father and his emotional distance and wondered if Carter and I had more in common than I’d imagined.
Carter shrugged. “We were better off without him. He was pretty much a jerk from what I remember.”
His honesty made my lie all that much worse. I wanted to tell him the truth, but there never seemed to be a right time and he had never asked me outright how old I was.
With each passing day, I was falling madly, deeply in love, with Carter McCray. I was in no hurry to fill him in on the one small detail that might end in heartbreak for both of us.
He did ask me if I had taken the day after pill and I told him not to worry. I had eve
rything under control. I told him I would try to get on birth control as soon as possible.
That was, of course, all another lie. I had thought about the day after pill for another day and half before I realized it was then too late. And I couldn’t ask my Irish Catholic mother to put me on birth control when I was pretty sure if she knew I was engaging in premarital sex, she’d keel over and die right there, and Dad would immediately send me off to a convent for my own protection—no questions asked. Since they hadn’t shared a bedroom in years, and safe sex was a topic of conversation left for health class in school, they had made it clear with their silence that abstinence was the only acceptable form of birth control in their book. I was pretty sure there would be no compromising on the matter. I might ask Sarah what I should do the next time she came home.
Plans for the family picnic were coming along. Mom seemed determined to hang on to say her final good-byes to the family. I think having a goal kept her going. She had helped me send out all the invitations and we had already heard back from the looniest of the tunes. Crazy Aunt Dorothy and her creepy husband Frank from my dad’s side always sent their RSVP first. They loved a good party with free food and booze and were the first to point out if we were running low on either.
Dad just had the one sister left and Mom had already lost her parents and two brothers, both of whom died before they were fifty, one from cancer, the other from a heart attack at forty-nine. Other than Grampa Fred, longevity didn’t seem genetically predisposed for the Giordano clan. But Mom seemed satisfied that a slew of second and third cousins from both sides would likely rain down on us from as far away as Maine and Virginia. With friends and neighbors included, if we had less than fifty people, I’d be surprised. I was dreading it already.
Dad was as reclusive and distant as ever, leaving for work early, coming home late, and spending every spare minute in his garden, painting the fence, mowing the lawn or otherwise disengaging from the trauma of watching the woman he loved dying a slow and painful death. He took time off to take her to doctors’ appointments, but I could see the helpless, shell shocked look of a man unable to battle an unseen enemy. A part of him, what little was left, was dying with her. Dad and I had never been close—that being an understatement—but I hated seeing him in pain, and I felt helpless to stop it.
At least my sisters had plans to come home for the reunion. Sarah would drive in from the city next weekend to help me with last minute plans and Rachael and Marie would be here the week of the party. That would cheer up Dad since Marie was clearly his favorite—her being a nun and all. Rachael was flying in from Germany where her husband was stationed in the Army. He was currently deployed and she was leaving her two kids with friends so she could come home for a few days. Neither had attended the family picnic in recent years, but Mom had made it clear that this would be her last and that attendance was mandatory.
Celia, the home health aide, came daily now and a nurse stopped in every couple of days to check Mom’s meds and bring new oxygen tanks. I wondered again how much the insurance paid for, or how my parents could afford it, but Dad wouldn’t talk about it and I was grateful for all the help. The people from Hospice came and stayed with her whenever Dad or I couldn’t be there, and Mrs. Russell and a few other neighbors had started taking turns sending meals over.
Dad and I were determined to keep her at home rather than the alternative, which was a nursing home, which was the last place she wanted to be after having worked in one for the past twenty years. It was the one thing we all agreed on. With everyone pitching in and helping out, the burden of responsibility had been lifted from my shoulders. Instead of relief, however, it all made me feel more sad and helpless. Nothing I could say or do would change the fact that she was dying.
Journal entry for Wednesday, July 29th
I wake up afraid every day that this will be her last. I feel her pain as if it’s my own and I want to run screaming from my life or hide in a closet until it’s all over. I don’t know how much longer I can keep the brave face I put on for her. I am haunted and tortured by visions of her shrinking body, her bones standing out, and her disintegrating before my eyes. I feel like I am dying too, and wonder if I will eventually cease to exist one day. I know that this is an inevitability that none of us can escape, but I think I am too young to have to worry about it. Death should be far from me at this point in my life. Instead, it is lurking around the next corner, seeking to devour me.
Chapter 10
“I’m pregnant,” Sami whispered to me across the table, her face tight and pale.
“Oh, my God, Are you sure? What are you going to do?” This was not the kind of news you shared sitting at a booth in Friendly’s, so I kept my voice low, despite my shock. We’d just sat down and Katie was headed for our table with menus.
“Yes, I’m sure. I took a test.” Sami gaped at me like I was stupid for asking and added, “I can’t have a kid.” Her scowl increased as Katie set the menus down, smiling. “And let’s leave God out of this.” Sami glared up at Katie, who instantly lost her perky grin.
“What?” Katie looked back and forth between us. She worked the afternoon shift three days a week, her uniform clean, tidy, and pressed as usual, not an ice cream stain or spot of grease to be seen. “What’s wrong?”
I glanced at Sami. “Do you want to tell her, or should I?”
Sami closed her eyes and shook her head. “It’s not like she won’t find out. Go on and spill.” She rested her face in her hands, elbows on the table. I hadn’t seen her look this defeated since her mouse, Socrates, had been eaten by her cat, Aristotle, names we’d picked out of a book about Greek philosophers when we were twelve and thought we were cool. Sami was usually tough. Now, she looked scared and miserable.
“Sami’s pregnant,” I whispered.
Katie’s eyes went wide and she darted a glance around the restaurant. It was mid-afternoon on a Thursday and the place was nearly empty, except for a couple of soccer moms with a troop of kids downing sundaes and making a big mess three tables over, and an elderly couple having a late lunch or a very early dinner. Katie slid into the booth next to Sami and put an arm around her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” She glanced at me and then back at Sami. “It’ll be okay. Your mom will help. She might be mad at first, but she’ll understand.”
Sami pulled away and snapped at Katie. “Are you kidding? I can’t tell my mother. And before you say another word, Katherine Marie Gallagher, I’m having an abortion, and nothing you can say will stop me, so save your breath.”
Katie’s freckled face paled. She looked as though Sami had slapped her. “You can’t...”
“Yes. I can.” Sami bit out. “This is my decision, Kat.”
“Look, you two. This isn’t really the time or place to argue. Katie, why don’t you get us some drinks and we’ll talk about it later?” Two sets of steely blue eyes turned on me.
Katie slid out of the booth, visibly shaken by Sami’s verbal assault. When it came to religion, I couldn’t have picked two friends on further ends of the spectrum. As usual, I stood squarely in the middle. Sami’s mom wasn’t what you’d call a “church-goer,” and Katie’s mom was a woman who attended Mass daily. For my part, Dad was the one who pushed us to attend church on Sundays and holidays. Mom had had enough religion shoved down her throat by Grandma Duggan to have had her fill and to take a “Do as I say, not as I do” stance on the morality and sin issue. Mom took her faith seriously, but church law was a touchy subject in our house. Since she’d gotten too sick to go to church on Sundays, Father O’Connell came out to the house every couple of weeks to give her communion. She and I shared a disdain for confession that irritated Dad like we were personally spitting on the Pope’s shoes or something.
When Katie’s squeaky sneakers disappeared around the corner, I focused on Sami, who sat nervously shredding her napkin into tiny pieces. “So, are you really going to do it?” I asked.
She looked up at me with a determined set to her lips. Un
derneath the cool blue of darkly lined eyes, there lay a sadness that came from somewhere deep inside. “I don’t really have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
One corner of her mouth turned up and she shrugged. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“That’s why you keep me around. I’m the smart one, remember?”
She ignored my jab and frowned. “I can’t see ruining some kid’s life by bringing them into this screwed up world and saddling them with a mother who doesn’t really want them. Besides, my mother doesn’t need this kind of aggravation. She definitely doesn’t want to be raising another kid, and I can’t...” She let out a frustrated sigh. “I just can’t.”
“What about adoption?” I asked.
“I don’t want to put myself through it. I know it sounds selfish, but...it would be too hard.”
I wanted to argue, but now wasn’t the time. She needed me to be on her side, to listen, to be a friend. “What can I do to help?”
“I already made an appointment at the clinic. Can you drive me?”
My shoulders tensed and I looked down at her hands busily tearing and ripping. “When’s your appointment?”
“Next Monday morning.” She’d successfully shredded the napkin into a thousand pieces and was reaching for another one.
“Does Bull know about this?” I asked. She didn’t answer, but stared at the scattered white bits on the table. “He’s the father, isn’t he?” I asked.
Sami shot me a harsh look. “Of course he is. But I’m not going to tell him. He’s in no position to have a kid either, and I don’t need to make this harder than it has to be.” Her eyes lost the coolness and filled with tears.
“I’m so sorry, Sami.” I felt completely useless. This wasn’t like holding her hand when her brother moved out and left her behind, or rubbing her back when she cracked her front tooth skateboarding. I couldn’t fix this with any amount of wise words or hugs.