by Shirley Jump
“Your own restaurant? But—” Ma cut off the objection, slid a smile onto her face. “I think you’d be great at that.”
“You were just about to tell me what a crazy idea it was.”
“I was not—” Ma bit her lip. “Okay, yes I was. But I’d be wrong. You’ve done a good job with Ernie’s, and I bet you’d do a great job with your own place, too.”
I rose and went to the window. The heater at my knees blasted hot air straight up, giving me a desert-worthy facial. “Ma, you don’t know that. You only know what I’ve told you.”
“I’ve been to Ernie’s. Several times.”
I dropped to the corner of the heater, perched on the closed control panel. “You’ve eaten at Ernie’s? When?”
She nodded. “The girls and I go there almost every Tuesday night before we go to Betty’s house to play cards. And it’s not a bad place at all. I was wrong for ever calling it a strip joint and for giving you a hard time for working there. The girls and I enjoy our Tuesday night nachos and margaritas.”
Tuesdays were the nights I spent mainly in the office, paying bills, placing orders for the next week, filling out the schedule. Ernie generally handled the floor, because it was one of our least busy nights. She’d been there, what’s more enjoyed it, and never come to see me? Never mentioned the visit? “Why didn’t Ernie ever tell me?”
“I told him not to.” My mother smoothed the blanket in front of her, creasing a fold that didn’t need to be creased. “I was afraid that if you knew I was coming to the restaurant, you’d…”
“What?”
She shook her head and reached for the foam cup of ice water on her table. “Never mind, it’s not important.”
I leaned my elbows on my knees, pressing forward, closer. “No, it is. Tell me.”
She hesitated, just as I had done a hundred times when confronting difficult subjects.
Okay, started confronting the difficult subjects. I hadn’t actually tackled too many until this trip. For more than thirty years, I’d done my best to avoid them.
When I was three, maybe four, I’d put my fingers into the flame on the gas stove, fascinated by the way the dancing colors shifted from orange to blue, to nearly white. I wanted to capture some of that, hold it in my palm, play with the beauty.
The burn had seemed to sear all the way to my toes. I remember my father scooping me up, rushing me to the sink, turning on the cold water with one hand, while he opened the fridge with his toe, grabbed the butter out with his other hand and smoothed it all over my red, throbbing fingers. My mother had called the ambulance, coordinating their arrival and the subsequent medical treatment like a general on the battlefield.
Ever since, I’d stayed away from stoves. I didn’t cook, ever. In fact, I couldn’t cook for beans, and left everything kitchen related up to Nick, who wasn’t much better at it than me, which was why we both kept a slew of take-out menus near the phone. I could manage Ernie’s Bar & Grille, could taste a dish and tell if it would be a hit or a flop, but stayed far away from anything potentially flambé.
Heart-wise, I’d touched the emotional stove one too many times and been burned, too. It had made me skittish around Nick, around any man. Just as I’d learned to stay away from the kitchen stove, I’d learned to avoid confrontation, discussion and debate of topics that tread too close to teary eyes and broken hearts.
Now, in a too-warm Utah hospital room, I watched my mother—a woman I’d always thought of as cold and distant, unfeeling, an emotional stone—fold and refold the edge of a blanket. What if she had simply been burned once too often, too? And was only holding her fingers back from the flame? What if that was what made her hesitate about opening up to me, too?
Could we really be that similar?
“Tell me why, Ma,” I said, softer now. As if I held the burn balm in my hand, and was trying to coax her back into the kitchen.
She met my gaze finally, her face pale in the overhead light, wan from the ordeal of the trip, the surgery. The cup went back to her end table, and she went back to folding the blanket’s edge. “I…I didn’t want you to be embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed? Why would I…” But then I realized that a week ago I probably would have been. I thought back to who we’d been before this trip, to the relationship we used to have.
If my mother had shown up with her friends in Ernie’s back then, I’d have braced myself for the worst. For her complaints, for her nitpicking, and not seen it as interest in my life, but as her taking an opportunity to complain. Again. Hadn’t that been my exact attitude on the sidewalk outside her house a few days ago?
And I’d have been embarrassed, yes. I would have stood there in Ernie’s, feeling awkward and unsure of what to say to her, to her friends.
I looked at her now. I wasn’t sure things had entirely changed, or whether this rush of empathy came from seeing her in a weakened state, a temporary bond forged out of her illness, and a truce called by our trip. Either way, she had wiped the slate clean with me earlier; I could do the same.
“Next time you’re at Ernie’s,” I said, “let me know and I’ll be sure you get the best table.”
Ma arched a brow. “There’s a best table at Ernie’s?”
“Sure there is, Ma. The one with me.”
She bit her lip, then released it. A smile wobbled on her face, then took hold. “I’ll do that, Hilary. I promise.”
When Rosemary Delaney made someone a promise, she kept it. I may have been old enough to have a five-year-old of my own, but the joy of a child who’d been given a gift by a parent rose inside me. I ducked my head, nodded, emotion clogging my voice. “That’d be nice, Ma. Really nice.”
The moment extended between us, that bridge being built as fast as the one on the River Kwai. Neither of us said anything, probably afraid of dislodging any of the newly laid timbers.
After a while, my mother cleared her throat, then released the blanket’s edge. “Tell me how you would do a restaurant different, Hilary.”
So I told her, sharing my dream of a place that offered more than Ernie’s, or any other restaurant, did, that created an environment like home, with sofas and coffee tables, cookies instead of cheesecake after dinner, a warm and friendly place, not so much a restaurant as an environment. As I did, it made me think invariably of Nick, who had loved the idea, too. He’d gone as far as sketching up some furniture for my dream restaurant, helping me create some on-paper plans. But that was as far as it had ever gotten, until now. A piece of paper and an idea he and I had tossed like a verbal football. He was the first and only man I’d ever shared my dreams with. I knew that meant something, but right now, I wasn’t going to visit that. “I guess that psychology degree came in handy after all, because I’ve heard enough people’s problems at Ernie’s to want to design a place that offers some sense of community, of a home away from home. A place where people can gather, laugh, talk. Sort of taking the coffee-shop concept up several notches.”
“I think it’s a great idea.” In my mother’s eyes, I read true support. Belief in me. I had never seen that before, and it hit me out of left field. But her next words came with an even stronger punch of surprise. “And if you want a backer, I have a nest egg that’s not going anywhere.”
I started waving it off. “Ma, you don’t have to—”
She grabbed my arm. “Yes, I do. Let me do this for you, Hilary.”
“But, Ma, you’re going to need that money for your retirement. You should hold on to it, pay for a condo in Florida or all those wild Bingo days ahead of you.” I grinned, but she didn’t return the smile.
“I’m really tired now.” She pressed the button on her bed. The top half lowered with a whine, and a slightly jerky movement. “I think I’ll take a nap, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, okay. Sure thing. I think I’ll go back to the hotel and take a shower.”
But as I left the room, a feeling nagged at me that had nothing to do with restaurants, nest eggs or surgical procedur
es. I thought back to what Dr. Gifford had said to me in the hall earlier and wondered what had just gone unsaid in that hospital room.
And what secrets my mother was still keeping to herself.
“I haven’t seen him,” Karen told me when I called her after I’d showered, changed and tried again to reach Nick. No answer on his cell phone, no answer at his apartment. I didn’t leave a voice mail—I was not going to make that mistake a second time, just hung up, and tried not to picture all the worst-case scenarios.
“What do you mean, you haven’t seen him?”
On the other end, I could hear Karen shopping. Hangers screeched against metal racks as she searched aimlessly through Macy’s for clothes she didn’t need. “He played at Ernie’s last night, but he hasn’t come over to our house; he hasn’t been down at any of the regular haunts. It’s like he just disappeared. He must be hanging out somewhere new now.”
Or with someone new. Man, when I screwed up, I did it royally big. I paced the hotel room my mother and I were sharing. Ran a hand through my wet hair, trying not to imagine Nick with another woman. Not doing too well in that department. “Do you think he’s seeing someone else?”
Karen didn’t say anything for a moment. The hangers stopped moving. She let out a sigh. “He loves you, Hilary.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“When are you coming home?” She went back to shopping. I heard the faint ring of cash registers.
“I don’t know. My mother just had surgery. She probably can’t travel for a while.”
“Don’t stay gone much more. You leave a man alone too long and he tends to forget.”
“You are not reassuring me here. You’re supposed to be my friend. This is not making me feel better.”
Karen laughed. “You’re right. Okay, I’ll go over to Nick’s place and plaster the walls with your picture. Is that better?”
“Yeah. And while you’re at it, get a life-size cardboard cutout of me and leave it on his doorstep.”
The hangers stopped moving again. “A life-size cardboard cutout?”
“Just kidding.” Even I knew that wouldn’t be enough. It was either me or nothing. Nick wanted the whole package. The problem was this package came with way too many ties to make it work, even with a man like him. And even if I could find a way back, his heart clearly had already been lost.
Or, had Nick simply gotten scared again and decided he didn’t want a commitment? Men did that every day, and he had done it once before, albeit four years ago.
I hated being this far away and not knowing.
I said goodbye and hung up the cell phone, then started pacing again. I looked up at the ceiling, but didn’t find any answers there. Instead, I ended up colliding with my mother’s open suitcase, knocking it off the edge of the second double bed and onto the floor, spilling the contents across the dark mauve carpet.
I cursed, then sighed, bent down and began refolding my mother’s clothes and putting them back into the Samsonite. Pajamas, underwear, blouses, slippers—
And a book.
My mother liked to read before she went to sleep, so the book wasn’t a surprise. I flipped it over, giving the cover a quick glance before laying it on top of the pile of clothes. The bright yellow-and-red cover caught my eye again, though, and I glanced at it a second time.
FIGHTING CANCER: MEDICAL AND NATURAL METHODS
My hand froze, fingers tracing over the raised letters in the title. “Cancer?”
The title didn’t change to a Stephen King or a Nora Roberts novel, just because I pronounced the words aloud.
I opened the book. Dozens of pages had been dog-eared. Passages highlighted. Yellow Post-it Notes stuck along the edges, marked with my mother’s tight scrawl. Notes marked in the margins about things to eat, alternative treatments to try.
And more notes about alternative treatments that had been tried—
And hadn’t worked.
I swallowed hard, betrayal slamming into me with a tidal force, knocking me from my knees and onto the floor. How could she have kept this from me? This wasn’t some simple blood clot, this was a major disease.
A life-threatening, life-ending disease.
I scrambled to my feet, clutching the book to my chest, leaving the rest of the clothes where they were, no longer seeing that mess, only this new, much bigger, much worse one.
My steps faltered, knees knocking together. I could barely see to get out of the room, the words on the pages still swirling in my vision as I hurried back to the hospital.
This time to find out the truth, the whole truth—
And nothing less.
eighteen
“You know.” My mother pushed her dinner tray to the side when I entered her room.
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I wasn’t.”
“What?” I glanced at her roommate, a woman maybe ten years younger than my mother, who was watching soap operas on her TV with a set of headphones, and lowered my voice anyway. “What do you mean, never? How could you do that to me?”
A heavy sigh escaped her, seeming to weigh down the very air, the room. “I didn’t want you to do exactly what you’re doing right now.”
“And what am I doing right now?” My words were a whispered shout.
“Worrying.”
“I’m your daughter, Ma. That comes with the territory.” I tossed the book onto the foot of her bed, then turned to pace and run my fingers through my hair, still damp, now a mess, like me. Worrying didn’t even begin to describe what I was doing, feeling right now. “Did you want to go through this alone? What was your plan? To run down to Mexico and try out some alternative treatment? Head to Canada and score some illegal drugs? Or maybe call up some faith healer and order some holy water over the Internet? Or were you going to actually go home, listen to some real doctors, and take their advice?”
She shook her head. “It’s too late for that.”
“What the hell do you mean, too late for that?”
“I have stage four lung cancer. Inoperable.”
The wind left me in a whoosh, sucked out by a giant vacuum. I rocked on my heels, unsteady now, looking for a compass, finding none, nothing to hang on to that would help me through this, hold me secure as I absorbed news I didn’t want to hear.
The second hand on the wall clock ticked along on its journey, a long skinny line marking time. Beside it hung a calendar, most of May marked off with big black X’s, as if the nurse had wanted her patients to see the days pass, one after another. What kind of masochist did that to people? Here, watch your life pass you by while you lie here, powerless to stop it?
And yet, even as I watched that second hand move, it seemed nothing else in the room moved. Not the air, not my lungs. I forced myself to turn back to my mother. To the truth I still couldn’t hear. “Did you…did you get a second opinion?”
She nodded. “A second. And a third. In two other states at that.”
“In Indiana and Utah,” I finished. My feet started moving again, taking me from one end of her bed to the other, trying to work off the frantic energy now running through my veins, my mind. Too late. How could it be?
Every step only seemed to make it worse, to multiply anxiety atop of panic, twisting my stomach into a tight, confused knot. I wanted to run out of the room, scream at her, and hug her, all at the same time.
But mostly I wanted to run. To get back in that minivan and be anywhere but here, to pretend this wasn’t happening, that I hadn’t just found that book, hadn’t just heard the words, “Stage Four. Inoperable.”
That I could go back to my life, to working at Ernie’s and living in limbo with Nick and everything would be as it was. That I wasn’t going to have to grow up really fast in some strange city in one of those square, in-the-middle states I couldn’t have picked out on a map of the country if you paid me.
My gaze strayed to the book, to the reality blared in red across its cover, then to my mother’s fa
ce, looking the same as it had last week. Last month. Last year. “But…but that’s impossible. You aren’t that sick.”
“Yet.”
One word, hanging in the air between us, ticking like a bomb. Only no hero was going to rush in and defuse it, no Bruce Willis type saving the day with a clever deadpan delivery and last-minute miracle. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, and averted her gaze, as if even she didn’t want to accept the truth.
And then, my legs went out from beneath me. I collapsed onto her bed, still not believing what I’d heard. The information refused to stick, as if its glue had no staying power. But somewhere deep inside me, the whisper had already begun. My. Mother. Is. Dying.
My mother.
Is dying.
Dying.
Our eyes met and held for one long, pointed moment, both of us mute. Inside my chest, the whisper gained in volume, tangling with my heart, and the disbelief I’d held on to so stubbornly began to crumble, broken down by the simplest of all weapons—
Tears.
No, no, no. Not now. Not yet. Not my mother.
One tear slipped down my cheek, then another, and then I was surging forward, gathering her into my arms, no longer separated by past arguments and frustrations, all of that set aside in the clarity of time’s shortened fuse.
“Oh, God, Ma,” I cried, my heart tearing in two, breaking in a way I had never thought it could break again.
She clutched at me, her hands fisted on my back at first, then one at a time, their tight grips released and her fingers sought strength in my back, in me. She sobbed into my shoulder, her tears mixing with mine, mingling together, shared grief for an invisible thief who was stealing her at the very moment when she had finally found me—and I had found her.