by Leia Stone
My dad is a puzzle I don't know how to solve. He's supposed to be a parent. Why am I the one parenting him? It's amazing how a person can get older but always expect their parent to stay in their role. I never expected my dad to lose his shit and completely give up at adulting.
He's called me four times since Autumn and I started back up. He never calls unless he's drunk, and I'm so afraid each time is going to be the time—the time he has crashed his car and needs help—the time he's in the hospital because he got hurt. The possibilities are endless for someone who gets as drunk as he does.
I just don’t want to deal with it.
"Just in a good mood," I tell Ace, who's sitting there, waiting for me to answer.
He raises one eyebrow. "And a person whose name rhymes with bottom but is spelled totally different doesn't have anything to do with it?"
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. "It's possible," I concede, pushing away my nearly empty container.
"That's what I thought." He smirks and sticks his pointer finger into a circle he’s made with his hand in a crude gesture.
“Knock it off,” I growl playfully.
Ace can only go so long without thinking of sex.
I don't want to keep talking about it, mostly because I don't want to have to tell him that I don't know what's really going on between me and Autumn. It's hard enough admitting that to myself every day.
"Grow a pair and ask her to be your girlfriend,” he mumbles through his food.
I blink, surprised.
He swallows and takes a swig of seltzer water. "I've been your best friend for a long time, Owen. I don't need to know why you look all doe-eyed at the mention of Autumn, and then dopey when you think too hard." He finishes off his sandwich, sucking leftover sauce from the pad of his thumb.
"I don’t want to rush her."
Ace shrugs. "Just calling it like I see it. You need to have the talk with her before she thinks this is just some temporary fling and moves back to New York to marry some rich stockbroker."
At the mention of her moving back to New York and marrying someone else, my entire body clenches.
"This advice coming from a guy whose bed is a revolving door?"
"I wouldn't say revolving. More like an open-door policy." He winks.
I snatch my balled-up napkin and toss it at his chest. It doesn’t reach, falling ineffectually near the edge of my desk.
“You’ll change your mind one day. One day, a woman will come along and tame Ace Drakos, and I hope I’m there to see it."
Ace shakes his head, a sliver of sadness creeping into his voice. "No way, man. I learned my lesson. The hard way, remember?"
Unfortunately, I do.
Ace still hasn't recovered from the lashing his heart took at the hands of his college sweetheart. His open-door policy is proof. Miranda was a cheating whore and we don’t speak her name.
There's a knock and we both swivel toward my door.
"Come in," I call.
Nurse Theresa steps in, papers clutched to her chest. When I see that her eyes hold fear and anguish, my face falls.
"What is it?" I ask, my stomach knotting, the chicken threatening reentry. Theresa doesn't get affected by much and she never bothers me during my lunch.
"The lab sent over Faith Cummings' latest bloodwork. I emailed them to you, but…" She hurries forward, thrusting the papers in her hand at me. "I printed them out too."
I don't look at the papers first. I look to Ace. My best friend's gaze is on me, his lips pursed, eyes wide. His chin dips slightly, urging me on, telling me I can do this.
When I read the results, something inside me breaks.
With a shaky hand, I pick up the phone and call Faith.
This moment has been coming for hours, and now that it's here, I don't know if I can do it.
I don't know if I can open the door and invite Faith into my office. How can I tell her I've failed her? Failed Autumn? Myself, even?
Wooden feet carry me across the tiled floor and to my office door, where a soft, hesitant knock comes through.
Breathe, just fucking breathe.
I take a deep breath and open the door. Faith stands there, her face arranged into a peaceful expression. She is resigned and it guts me like a fish.
She knows.
"Hello, Faith," I say, listening to my voice as if it is not my own. It's clunky, stilted.
"Owen," she greets me. Her voice is the opposite of mine. Serene, accepting.
I step back from the door, ushering her in with an open arm. She strides, head high, to the seat Ace sat in just hours ago. I choose the chair beside her, needing to be closer to her as I deliver the bad news. I haven’t told her why she needs to come in, just that it’s to discuss some bloodwork.
She ducks her head a fraction. "So, is it as bad as I think? You're sitting on this side of the desk."
I exhale loudly, heavily. Gathering her hand in mine, I open my mouth to speak but find there are no words. Faith started out a long time ago as my girlfriend's mom but she has become so much more than that: a friend, a mentor, an ear to listen, a giver of advice when my dad began down his destructive path—a mother of my own.
Reaching out, she cups my cheek. “It’s okay, Owen. Just tell me.”
Something inside me gathers, growing like a tornado, extracting all my strength from the furthest corners of my body. Faith deserves a doctor who can be strong for her. I should be consoling her.
I level my gaze on hers, throat tight. "Faith, your most recent blood test results showed an increase in white blood cells. Chemo actually works to lower your white blood cell count in its effort to attack the cancer cells, so an increase as drastic as yours tells me we need to get you in for a CT scan. The cancer is … growing."
Her face remains passive. I'm waiting for the breakdown, but I don't think it's coming. Not yet at least.
"Alright," she says, stoic. "Just tell me when."
I grab for my appointment book and open it. Despite all the technology surrounding me, I'm old school. I like writing down my appointments. I’m booked solid tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll work late to squeeze her in. Javier is the best radiologist we have and a good friend. He will squeeze her in too. That way, I can see if it’s spreading to her lymph nodes or surrounding organs.
My mind calculates all of the treatments we can try if this looks bad. Bone marrow, blood transfusions, even stem cells. I know of a great clinic in Scottsdale. I will pull every fucking favor I have to save this woman.
"How is tomorrow at two?"
"That works." Faith straightens her shoulders. I can't believe it was only a few nights ago that I sat at her kitchen table, eating a meal cooked by her hands, while something new, possibly another cancer, spread and grew inside her. It was a typical Monday evening, or so we thought.
Her eyes search mine, beseeching. "Can I ask something of you, Owen?"
I nod, afraid of what it is she might request.
"Don't tell Autumn. Not until we know something concrete."
My heart falls at her request but I completely understand it. I don’t want to worry Autumn unnecessarily either.
With one finger, I gesture from me to her. "Client-patient confidentiality, remember?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Do you think in the dark of night, when they are with their lovers, doctors don't break their code?"
I point back at myself. "Not this doctor."
Faith smiles, just a small one, and gently pats my cheek. "You're a good man, Owen Miller. I hope my daughter knows how lucky she is."
"I make sure to tell her every day," I say, with a wink.
Faith chuckles and stands, prompting me to follow her. At the door, she turns around. "We'll take this one day at a time. Just like we always have." Then she steps through, letting the door close behind her.
The first time I told her she had cancer, I was an intern and I said we'd take it one day at a time. And that's what we've been doing ever since. Maybe th
at's all we can ever do, cancer or not.
I want to be optimistic like Faith, stoic in the face of something frightening, but I have the burden of knowledge.
I chose not to tell Faith something I'd learned only from experience, something not yet verified by testing but known by gut feeling.
What I'll see tomorrow on those scans won't be good. It will be a downhill road from here on out.
I've failed the one person who never turned her back on me.
Chapter 20
Autumn
The night is dark and clear. Owen has pulled his outdoor couch to the middle of his back yard. Turns out, it converts into a bed of sorts, kind of like a futon.
We're on our backs, gazing up at the charcoal sky. We are linked together, the sides of our bodies pressed so close we could be the seam of a piece of clothing. Owen, however close he may be in physical proximity, is a million miles away.
"Penny for your thoughts?" I ask, keeping my gaze trained on the sky overhead. He has been like this since he picked me up this evening. I was afraid to ask why, didn't want to pry. A part of me feels like I should ask what's wrong, we've known each other long enough that I don't need to tread lightly. The other part of me feels our newness, the parts of him I don't know as well as I used to, or at all.
Owen pinches the bridge of his nose, and though he doesn't make a sound, I see the deep rise and fall of his chest.
"Tough day at work," he says, his voice immensely sad.
I shift so I'm on my side, bringing my hand up and palming the fabric of his shirt over his heart. "Can you talk about it?"
His gaze flickers over to me, then back up. I watch his eyelashes as he blinks four times in rapid succession. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.
"Is there anything I can do for you to make you feel better?"
He rolls over onto his side, facing me. He looks at me, his eyes an ocean of anguish. There is apology in his expression, sown into the squint of his eyes and the pleat of his lips. What is he sorry for?
Insecurity snakes in, starting in my heart and slithering out like spokes on a bike tire. Has Owen changed his mind about us? Is this not what he wants?
I should ask him, but I know I won't. When it comes to Owen, there is still a young girl inside me nervously biting her lip, uncertain of her place in the world. I may have grown into a woman, but Owen has a way of stripping me bare and exposing my heart. Will giving it to him again lead me straight into disaster?
"Mom?" I stick my head in her bedroom door. She's sitting on the end of her bed running her hand over her freshly shaven head.
“Oh.” Seeing her without hair startles me. It’s been slowly thinning, even with the use of the cold cap, but I didn’t want to say anything to make her uncomfortable, and now … it’s gone.
She gives me a small smile. “It’s been falling out in chunks. This is easier. I think it looks kind of punk rock, no?”
I choke back the sob that wants to escape me and nod. “Totally punk rock. We should book your skull tattoo later.”
That causes her to genuinely smile before nodding her head. “Okay, I’m ready to go.”
It's chemo day. I can't tell if the treatment is working, and that bothers me. It's not like a skin rash that we can apply cream to and watch it disappear, or a bruise that changes color and eventually fades away. No visible progression.
Mom nods at my question, yawning as her head bobs up and down.
"How can you be tired? You slept in today. It's like you're a teenager." I smile teasingly as I grab the bracelets she always wears from her nightstand and hand them to her. "Good thing I don't do to you what you used to do to me when I slept in."
She winds her hand through the bangles. "I was tough on you, wasn't I? Probably a little tougher than I should've been." She pushes the hair back from my shoulder, her fingers brushing lightly over the skin left bare by my tank-top. "I was trying to be both mom and dad. I made mistakes."
Her admittance takes me by surprise. And as nice as it is to hear, it makes me uncomfortable. It's hard hearing your parents are faulty. It humanizes them. And I was only joking so I’m thrown by this serious admission.
"I can't imagine how difficult it was to be a single mother. You did a great job, Mom."
She nods once, acknowledging my words. "Let's go."
As she steps around me, I feel a squeeze of my hand.
On the drive to the hospital, Mom listens to the kind of music you'd hear during a spa treatment. It makes me think of white sheets and heated massage tables, aromatic body scrubs and the padded footfalls of technicians.
Oh, how I miss the spa days in Manhattan with my roommate. Now I was doing my own pedicures to try to make my savings account stretch out until I found a job.
My mom places a hand on my arm as I steer the car toward the parking lot.
"Just drop me off up front, hon."
I look in the rearview mirror and let the car slow to a crawl. "You don't want me to walk you in?"
She bats a hand in the air. "I'm perfectly capable of walking in by myself. You go do whatever it is you need to do and just pick me up after."
"Are you being a teenager? You're embarrassed of me so you want me to drop you off where your friends can't see you with me?" I crack a smile to let her know I'm joking.
She laughs. "Precisely."
I do as she asks, rounding the circular driveway and stopping the car at the entrance. "I'll pick you up here when you're done."
She gathers her bag and pauses with her hand on the door handle. "You're going to make a good mom one day."
A lump immediately forms in my throat and again I’m thrown by her random sentimental statement. Has she been talking to Pastor Greg or Owen? No. Somehow I know that they would never tell her. My mom is just in a sentimental mood for some reason.
"I learned from the best."
She gets out of the car, and I watch as the automatic doors slide open and she walks through, the hospital swallowing her.
You're going to make a good mom one day.
The words have hit home. With that one sentence, my mom has reopened the possibility that I could become a mother, and it's nearly too much for me to bear.
Instead of leaving the hospital, I pull into the parking lot, sliding into a space, and cut the engine. I lean back, melting into the seat, and prop my arm on the door.
Me, a mom one day? Do I deserve it? Do I want it?
Yes and yes. All this time, I've been punishing myself for a choice made long ago. It was a choice so huge, it eclipsed all others. But what if it's time to stop punishing myself? The bravest thing a person can do is forgive, right? I've always believed that, but I'd never extended it to me personally. Never realized just how much I was withholding it from myself.
But what if I don't have to anymore?
Owen and I have been given a second chance. Can we make it count? Will the universe, God, whoever it is pulling strings, be so kind as to give us a take two?
My mind races. Excitement takes hold in my belly, in the place where maybe a life could be growing. My fingers flutter over my flat stomach.
Owen and I are new—but not really. We've hurdled the beginning of a relationship already. We're more than ready to have the talk, the one where we figure out if we're willing to go the distance.
I know I am, and I think—
Wait. What the hell?
Thirty yards away, my mom and Owen exit the hospital, walking out of the same door I watched her walk through five minutes ago. They stop, he points across the street, and she nods. Together they walk down the sidewalk, press the walk button at the small intersection in front of the hospital, and cross the street.
I back out of my space and drive in the direction they've gone. My mind's reeling wondering what the heck they’re doing. I'm stopped by a long red light and I don't see where they've gone, but I have an idea. A line of shops sits directly across the street from the hospital. I bet they've gone into one. But why?
> The light turns and I make my way across the intersection, taking inventory of each store as I cross the street, and pull into a spot in front of a dog groomer. To the left is a sushi restaurant. To the right, a coffee shop.
Maybe my mom's appointment was pushed back and Owen took her for a coffee while she waited. That's probably it. The bunched-up muscles in my upper back uncoil. Of course Owen would do something so kind for my mom.
I laugh softly, embarrassed at my worry. Why did I jump to the worst thoughts? They're not keeping anything from me. They're getting coffee, for heaven's sake, maybe even a danish. I know how Owen likes to indulge my mom.
Honestly, I wouldn't mind a danish right now. I grab my purse from the back seat and decide I'll join them and tell them how silly I was, acting like a detective. They'll laugh.
I pull open the door to the coffee shop. It's tiny, just enough room for the counter and machines, and seven tables with two chairs each. Mom and Owen are at the back, up against the wall. A picture of Italy hangs on the wall above them.
Owen's hand covers my mom's palm. They are so engrossed in the conversation they don't see me approach. My excitement fades as something darker, a sense of foreboding, overtakes my happy feeling. I’ve just read Owen’s lips, and he said, Faith, I’m so sorry.
"Mom? Owen?"
They turn to look at me in perfect unison, like they are mirror images of one another. The same surprise in their eyes, the same wetness on their cheeks.
And I know. Somehow, in this moment, I know. The fear lurking in the back of my mind steps out from the shadows. I recognize the fear, because I saw it in Owen's eyes twelve hours ago.
"Last night," I whisper, looking between my mom and Owen, my gaze finally settling on him. "You were so upset. You knew."
My mom grabs my hand. "He couldn't tell you, honey. Legally, and because I asked him not to."
I turn to her and my heart aches at the sight. Her arms that held me when I fell, hands that made thousands of meals for me, fingers that brushed away my tears … my beautiful mother.