A Mother's Lie

by Jo Crow

  “Oh my god.” Amanda shook her head. “That poor boy. That’s why he… God. I didn’t know.”

  “Not many people do.” I looked at her, observing the pooled tears in her eyes and the sympathy that softened her features. “We’ve been struggling to keep going, and I don’t want James to feel like he’s any different than normal kids. I want him to feel like everything is fine. I don’t want him to know how close he is to… to, you know.”

  “I understand.” Amanda frowned. “Are you going for more chemo, then, or is this it?”

  “This isn’t it. I’m going to keep fighting until—” James’s footsteps interrupted me, and I turned my head to watch as he bounded down the stairs, a basketball-sized playground ball clutched in both of his hands. He threw it at the grass and shrieked with laughter as it bounced sky-high. “There’s an experimental procedure they’re testing on DIPG at Boston Children’s Hospital that’s apparently cured two other little boys of their gliomas, but my insurance won’t cover experimental procedures.”

  “What if you called and asked if they could take him on as a test subject? Like a trial run?” Amanda crossed her arms over her chest and leaned forward, speaking in hushed tones so James didn’t overhear. “You might be able to get them to do it for free if you volunteer as a test subject, right?”

  “I already tried, and that’s not how it works, apparently. The doctors there talked me through the expenses and heavily discounted the procedure for me but, even then, it’s very expensive.”

  “Can’t you get a loan?”

  “I keep trying, but nothing yet. I’m afraid the more I push for one, the more my credit score will sink until it’s shot to pieces. I’m already struggling to make payments on my student line of credit.” Everything was stacked against me—against us—but I refused to give up hope. “I looked into selling the McNair estate, but since the factory closed down, real estate value has plummeted—as you know. Houses are on the market well below their appraised value for years before they’re sold—if they’re sold. And besides that, when my grandfather set up the trust to care for the home in perpetuity, he added a clause in his will that prevents anyone from selling it or accessing any of the money in the trust.”

  Amanda whistled and shook her head. “Not even for this? A life-or-death emergency is a little more important than keeping an old house maintained, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve tried.” I sighed. It was all I could do. “I’ve tried everything I could think of, but the trustees won’t budge, and I have nothing to show for it. So I did what I had to do… I signed on to host a documentary about the disappearance, and the mysteries surrounding it. I didn’t want to come back, but the money I get from filming will pay for the treatment James needs; I have to be strong for him.”

  The ball hit the ground behind Amanda’s back, bounced over her shoulder, and hit the ground between us. I caught it on its way up, leaving my glass on the ground between my legs. James, panting, came to a stop by Amanda’s side. Sheepish, he lowered his gaze and scuffed his foot on the ground.

  “I know you’re excited to be outside and playing, but you need to be careful of what you’re doing.” There was no malice in my tone, but it served repeating. Not only was I worried about James hitting Amanda with the ball, but I was worried that, if he played too hard, he might worsen his condition. The line we walked was perilous, and I was nervous that a single push might knock him over the edge. “Can you play a little more gently, James?”

  “Yes.” He nodded quickly.

  “Thank you.” I handed him the ball, and he took off at an awkward jog rather than a run. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best I was going to get.

  When I was sure James wasn’t going to cause anymore trouble, I picked up my glass and drained the rest of the water. The ice had melted away, the water cold in its memory.

  “It sounds like you have your life under control.” Amanda took the empty glass from me and rose to her feet. She pinched her glass and mine together with one hand, then brushed off the back of her pants. “I don’t think I could deal with what you’re going through. You operate with such tact it’s unbelievable.”

  “I don’t think so.” I followed her to my feet and picked up the garden shears. “Everything is spinning out of control. I can’t catch a break. I thought coming here would solve my problems, but now, with everything happening, I feel less in control than ever. I know I can’t, but I’ve been thinking about leaving.”

  “Leaving?” Amanda arched an eyebrow. “You just got here. What do you mean?”

  “Leaving Hickory Hills.” The truth was hard to speak, but necessary. Amanda would help me come to my senses. “I thought ten years would have cooled tensions—that people would have forgotten by now… but I was wrong. I’m worried about what all this negative attention is doing to James, and I’m worried whoever kidnapped and killed my parents is out to get me, too. I can find other ways to make the money. I don’t care what it takes. But this? This environment isn’t healthy for either of us. I don’t want to endanger our lives.”

  I hefted the shears and rolled my shoulders back. Speaking so frankly was liberating, but it also left me hollow with guilt. Did I really want to put my son’s well-being at risk for selfish purposes? James was too young to understand what was happening, and although he was old enough to understand the way people treated us wasn’t right, he couldn’t string the “why” to the experiences we’d had so far.

  “You know…” Amanda paused, pushing her lips to the side thoughtfully. While she reflected, we moved toward the house. It looked like the small, screened-in porch served as a makeshift shed. From it, we could watch James while putting her gardening tools away. “I think it might be a good idea if you got out of town. I know you’re strapped for cash, but there’s just so much happening I’m worried about you. You know how people here can be.”

  Small towns. Small, insular towns, where people stuck by their own and shunned those who weren’t a part of their fold. I was an outcast, a degenerate, and a suspicious person. Even if my name was cleared, I doubted I’d ever be accepted.

  I knew the rough ride I was in for, but if James was healthy enough to play and run around, then maybe his health would hold up while I found another way to afford his treatment. It had to. I had to.

  There were empty pegs on the wall where the shears belonged, and I set them back and brushed off my hands. Hearing Amanda’s concern cemented my own—Hickory Hills was no place for my son.

  “Whatever you decide, I’m going to be here with you every step of the way,” she promised. “If you ever need me to look after James again, let me know. Since they cut my hours to part-time, I’ve got plenty of availability. And it’s so good to see you again.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  If I spoke the words, there would be no going back on them—the feeling in my bones told me I was making the right choice. “James and I aren’t going to be staying. With his health, I can’t keep him somewhere so hostile. It’s not safe and it’s not healthy.”

  Amanda smiled. She pulled me into a hug, and I found myself hugging back, clinging to her for comfort.

  “I’m proud of you,” she whispered as she held me. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “I know,” I whispered back. “Thank you for your help today. Nothing ever changes between us, does it?”

  “Never.”

  They were words I could live by. Amanda had never let me down.

  6

  Samuel wasn’t picking up his phone. I paced the living room while James occupied himself with an episode of VeggieTales preloaded on my tablet. After this morning’s excitement with Amanda, he’d quieted down. Shirt stripped off, lying flat on the old couch, he yawned. I’d spent the rest of the day packing up and making sure our possessions were in order, but I couldn’t skip town without letting Samuel know what was happening. I’d signed a contract, and I needed to make sure he knew
I was terminating it before I went too far, in case there were complications.

  And knowing Samuel, there would be.

  “Pick up the phone,” I mumbled. With one last look to James to make sure he was absorbed in his show, I slipped into the kitchen and pushed my back against the fridge. The door was cold, but the fridge wasn’t running. The house had been empty, and the power turned off for so long, the inside of the fridge had grown a layer of clear slime, and I didn’t have time to try to clean and sanitize it. James and I had been living off microwaveable meals and stove-top specials since we’d arrived. “Samuel, damn it, pick up the phone…”

  The call went to voicemail.

  Samuel’s voicemail inbox was full.

  I jammed the end call button and summoned the number again, hoping this time it would go through. The back of my head gently impacted the freezer door as I waited, doing my best to stay calm when I felt anything but. The sooner I told Samuel I was leaving, the quicker I could get out of town and plan my next move. There had to be a bank out there that would help me—some small, customer-friendly chain that would pull some strings and see to it I had the funding I needed for James’s treatment.

  There had to be.

  The call went to voicemail, and the automated voice informed me in a mockingly cheerful, robotic voice that I was unable to leave a message until the recipient of the call deleted prior voicemails. I winced and hung up, thinning my lips as I counted down from ten in my head.

  One more night wouldn’t hurt us. One more night wasn’t a big deal. I’d get in touch with Samuel in the morning—meet him on set, maybe, and tell him what was happening. It was regretful he had to waste another day without recording any new footage, but it couldn’t be helped. I needed to think of James first.

  I set my phone on the kitchen table and snagged a can of chicken noodle soup from the cabinet over the stove. The pull tab separated the top from the can with a satisfying tear, and I dumped the contents into one of the pots left behind by the past tenants. I’d washed the salvageable pots and pans thoroughly after we’d moved in.

  The burner clicked on, its flame catching quickly. I set the pot down to cook, then added a cup of water to the concentrate and went to sit by James as the soup cooked.

  “You hungry for some chicken noodle soup tonight?” I ran my fingers up the back of his leg like a spider, much to James’s delight. He laughed and rolled over, no longer interested in his cartoon. “I’ve got some cooking right now. You have an appetite?”

  “Mmhm.” James smiled. The corner of his mouth was still crooked, but his temperature felt normal. “Yes, please.”

  “It’ll be a couple minutes. Can you wash your hands and get ready to sit at the table, please?”

  “Yes.” James scrambled into a sitting position, then pushed himself off the couch and made his way to the bathroom. The light flicked on, illuminating the dreary hallway. The sunny morning had bled into an overcast afternoon, and it had only darkened since then.

  While he washed, I returned to the kitchen to stir the soup and fix our bowls—running water from the sink combined with the clack of my wooden spoon meeting the bottom of the soup pot. By the time the water stopped, I’d moved our filled bowls to the small kitchen table. By the time James had seated himself, I was on the way back to the table with spoons.

  “Thank you,” James announced. He grinned, the adoration in his eyes impossible to miss. The house may have been in shambles, and our lives tumultuous, but my little boy was happy wherever he went. No struggle kept him down for long.

  James took the spoon, his small fingers curling around it awkwardly. I watched the tiny oval disappear into the soup, then emerge loaded with noodles. He ate voraciously, and I allowed myself to relax. Just for tonight, we could be mother and son without the Big C getting in the way.

  “Slow down there, little man. You’re going to upset your tummy if you go too fast.” A suspicion crept through me, niggling. James hadn’t been so hungry in a long time.

  He looked up at me and slid a loaded spoonful of soup between his lips. Confusion crossed his face, like he was suddenly uncertain of where he was. His wide eyes narrowed. His cheeks grew red.

  Then his neck convulsed.

  The sight was ghastly—one I was familiar with. The muscles grew taut and thin, straining unnaturally. Soup dribbled from his lips, and a pale noodle adhered to his chin, dangling and wiggling as he shook and gurgled. He lurched forward, slamming his head. Soup burst from between his lips, splattering across the table.

  I jumped up from my seat and ran to him, grabbing him by the shoulder, but there was nothing I could do. When his muscles seized, I couldn’t help him. I could only pray the soup wouldn’t flood his lungs.

  “You’re okay, baby.” My hand found his back, and I rubbed and patted it as James shook his head wildly and spat soup. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he made strangled, chirping cries that broke my heart. “You’re going to be okay. Don’t panic. Just work to get it out. You’re okay. I’m here for you. It’s going to be okay.”

  The choking subsided. James sat back heavily in his chair and sobbed; the noise was flat and static. The muscles of his throat strained against his skin.

  He’d been doing so well. So well. Why was this happening again? He didn’t deserve this. My little boy was a fighter—one of the bravest people I knew. It broke me to think this was what he had to look forward to the rest of his short life.

  No. No. James’s life would not be short. I rubbed his back in soothing circular motions and stood by him as his body started to shut down. Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. I only knew how to run. I’d run from my dark past, from responsibility, and from the woman I once was. How could I help James when I couldn’t even help myself?

  “Mommy,” James rasped. He reached for me, seizing my wrist and squeezing so hard I knew I’d bruise. “Hurts.”

  “I know, baby.” I kissed the top of his head, doing everything in my power to hold back my tears. “You’re doing a good job. You’re a good boy. You need to push through. I know you can do it. You’re so strong.”

  “Hurts,” James uttered. The tiny rounds of his fingernails dug into my skin. “Stop it.”

  “It’s going to go away soon. I promise.” I lifted my shirt and wiped the noodles from his face. There were paper towels hanging from the rack across the kitchen, but I refused to leave his side. “Just a little longer, baby. Just wait a little longer.”

  Silent tears ran in glossy tracks down James’s chubby cheeks. His eyes were bright red, and his cheeks were quickly darkening to match. He coughed again, his whole body shaking as he fought against his own body—against the tumors growing back on his brainstem.

  “Ma?” James’s voice was broken from the trauma he’d been through just a few hours before, but he spoke regardless.

  “Yes, baby?” I sat on the edge of his bed, tucking the blankets around him firmly. The muscles in his throat had started to relax, but there was no telling when another spasm might hit. From now until I got James in for his next treatment, it was going to be a rocky road.

  “Tired.”

  The exhaustion wearing him down wasn’t the result of a long, trying day—he was tired from months of struggling.

  I ran my hand over his head, caressing the soft stubble. “I know, baby, but you’re doing a great job.”

  “Tired.” James sighed. He wormed beneath the sheets, shifting his hips back and forth as he settled.

  “Do you want me to read you a story tonight?” We hadn’t been doing much reading since we’d come to Hickory Hills—entirely my fault, since I’d been so busy with the filming schedule—but I wanted to fix that. There were few other things I could offer James for comfort. We didn’t have a permanent home to call our own, or a routine to fall back on that would restore normalcy to our situation. All we had was each other. No matter how exhausted I was, I had to give him however much of my time he wanted. “We can read anything you like. I have my tablet. We
can download any book, and—”

  “No.” James frowned, but only half of his face obeyed. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his side. “Night night.”

  “Night, sweetheart.” I stroked his head a final time, then rose and left the room. I flicked off the light behind me, leaving just the nightlight to shine through the dark.

  That night, I planned to take my bedding into James’s room and sleep on the floor. The purpose was twofold. First, I needed to be close in case his muscles spasmed and he started to choke… but deep down, my real intention was selfish.

  I was afraid.

  Hate made sensible people do terrible things. I’d seen it after my parents’ disappearance, and I saw it every time I left the house. Cold stares. Harsh words. Rejection after rejection.

  If someone came to kill us in the dead of night, no one in town would come to help. No one here believed I was innocent.

  I was on my own against the man who’d killed my parents.

  Room by room, I flicked off the lights and shut down for the night. The door was locked, the windows were closed, and today’s clutter was already cleaned up and put away. For a while, I lingered in the kitchen, looking at the empty kitchen table, lit only by the hood light over the stove. In its pale orange glow, I imagined James, his body tense and his mouth gushing noodles and soup as his body betrayed him. It was a sight I’d hoped to never see again.

  Tomorrow, I decided, when James woke up, I’d start him on his anti-seizure medication again. The pills were hell on his body but, after an episode like that, I couldn’t sit by and do nothing. The little boy who loved to play and who laughed at everything and anything would succumb to his treatment. His eyes would deaden, and he’d sleep his life away.