by Leia Stone
The only thing more shocking than the arrival of my period was the disappointment I felt at the sight of the blood.
For a moment I thought that maybe, just maybe…
It's over now, though. I’ve gotten my period and the universe has given me a clear sign that I am not to be a mother, not yet anyway. I’ve decided to go on birth control until I can figure out my life and plan things in order like a proper adult. Still, a deep ache I never thought I'd have has opened up inside of me.
I want to be a mother.
I want to be Owen’s wife.
I want more time with my mom.
I have more wants than I care to admit.
And I wasn't the only person who was disappointed. Owen's gaze fell down to my kitchen table when I’d told him.
"Is it weird that I feel a little sad?" he’d asked.
"I think it's a testament to how serious we are about each other."
Then he’d pulled me onto his lap and kissed me.
Now I need to add find a lady doctor to my list. It can go right below find a job. At least I have a place to live.
Thankfully, I can push those tasks off for another day. In an hour, we're leaving for Vegas. I'm packed but my mom is not. She went to take a nap, but that was two hours ago. Her naps are becoming more frequent, and when I asked Owen about it, he said that was normal.
Normal for what?
I didn't ask, because I didn't want to know the answer. And because I can guess what he meant.
Using two knuckles, I knock lightly on my mom's bedroom door.
"Come in," she calls.
She's standing in front of her closet, her back to me. Her frame that was already thin is now gaunt. Her robe hangs off her, her peach fuzz hair peeks out of a pretty silk floral wrap I bought her.
"Mom?" I walk to her, peering at her in the mirrored closet door. Stress pulls at her face. "What's wrong?"
She flings an angry arm at her bed.
Dress after dress lie haphazardly on her comforter. A wave of sadness rolls through me. "You don't know what to wear?"
"No." Her voice pricks with frustration. "Because everything falls off me. I don't have a single dress appropriate for a show in Vegas."
I eye the selection on her bed. I don't need to see them on her to know they don't fit. But I do have an idea.
"I'll be right back," I tell her. I go across the hall to my closet and pull it open. I've done some shopping since I came home. Not a lot, but there is one dress that might work. It’s tight and stretchy, meant to hug the curves. I pull it from the hanger and return to my mom's room.
"This," I say, thrusting it into her hands. "Try this. It's a little casual, but you have that cardigan with the silvery sheen. Between that and some jewelry, we can dress it up and make it appropriate for a show."
Mom eyes the fabric in her hand. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely, Mom. Try it on."
I turn away while she changes, pretending to sift through the jewelry box on her dresser. The sight of her body, changed as it has been by the disease ravaging her on the inside, would send me to my knees. I can't let her see me like that. She needs me to be strong.
When I hear the sound of a zipper, I turn back around. "That's perfect," I tell her, and I mean it. The silvery cardigan makes the mint green dress a little fancier. "Here." I hand her a pair of dangly earrings.
She takes them and turns away quickly. She wasn't fast enough though. I saw the shininess in her eyes.
The sight of her upset makes my own eyes burn with tears. "Mom…" I place a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay to cry. I cry all the time."
Every night, I wonder how much time I have left with my mom.
She swipes at her eyes. "What's the use in crying? I don't want to spend what precious time I have left moping around. It's such a waste, except I can't seem to stop."
She sounds like the mom I remember when I was younger. She may have relaxed a lot since then, but her pragmatism still exists.
I have an idea. "Do you want to make up a word? Every time you feel like crying, say the word instead. It will release the emotion without having to burst into tears."
She nods. "I like that idea. What's the word?"
I think about it, but it's a lot harder to make up a word when you're focused on making up a word. Instead, I say a word that I never say in everyday language. It's a little weird on its own, and doesn't have any strong connotation. "Marzipan."
Mom makes a face. "Marzipan?" She says it a second time, then a third. She nods. "I like it."
I help her finish packing her overnight bag and carry it to the front door. I try not to pay too much attention to the fact that we're fulfilling last wishes.
Marzipan.
Marzipan.
Marzipan.
"Just throw it on the ground, Mom." I point down at the concrete and back to the small card she holds in her hand. We'd barely made it twenty feet from the entrance of our hotel before a man on the Las Vegas strip shoved the card at her. It’s reflexive to take something being handed to you, and this happened to be an advertisement for an all-nude strip club. Not sure why, of the three of us walking together, the man chose to give it to my mom.
Mom looks down at the blond girl with the pouty lips and the bondage-style lingerie. "I feel bad throwing it on the ground. She doesn't deserve to be stepped on. And besides, it's littering." She sips from the straw of her hot pink yard cup. It's hard to take her seriously when she's drinking a daiquiri nearly as big as her. It’s taking three times as long to walk the strip because we keep having to take breaks for my mom to catch her breath, but she’s refused a wheelchair.
Owen and I share a grin. "Mom, look." I point at all the other cards on the ground. "It's okay."
Mom frowns, and holds the mostly-naked girl in her hand until she finds a trashcan and tosses her in. Headed to the casino at the hotel where the show is, it’s slow going at this rate, but that’s why we left early. When Owen asked my mom what she wanted to see, she told him she didn't care what it was, she just wanted the experience. With only a few days’ notice, there weren't a ton of choices, and we went with Cirque du Soleil. Honestly, I think she will love it.
Owen and I stop at a bar beside a row of slots and order drinks. The bartender takes our picture after I make a joke to her that I need footage of my mom with a drink meant for a twenty-one-year old.
Mom declares she wants to learn roulette, and of the two of us Owen is the only one who has played. With a grin on my face, I sit back and listen while he teaches her the basics. It sounds like gibberish to me. I've never been much of a gambler. I prefer to keep my money.
Once she thinks she's gotten it down, we find a table with two seats open beside each other. Mom and Owen take the seats, and I stand behind them.
Owen removes two one hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and sets them down separately on the felt, one in front of my mom and the other in front of him. The dealer changes the money in for chips, sliding one color to my mom and a different color to Owen.
Owen holds up his yellow chip to my mom. "Each of these is worth five dollars."
Mom nods, a determined look on her face. "Got it."
She starts tentatively, sliding one chip out to a square. Owen slides a second one out for her. "Ten-dollar minimum bet," he tells her, smiling sheepishly. "Your teacher forgot to mention that."
We watch the little ball spin around and around, slowing and then finally dropping into a slot.
"Sixteen," the dealer announces, no emotion to be found in his voice. Makes sense, I guess. It's not like he can cheer for the winners. He gets to work paying out those who won and taking the chips of those who lost. He matches Mom's two chips with two more, and she lifts her hand to high-five Owen.
They play and play, until I remind them both it's time to go or we’ll miss the show. Owen is down to his last few chips, and Mom only has six left. He glances at his watch and pushes his three chips to my mom.
"Here," he nod
s, urging her to add them to her tiny stack. "Last bet. Whatever you want, and then we'll leave."
Mom looks up at me, winks, then turns back to the table. She slides all the chips to the number nine. My birthday. 9/9.
I hold my breath when the dealer releases the ball, hoping against all reason that the universe will make the ball slide into the nine slot. My mom deserves a big win.
It slows, until it loses momentum and drops, bumping along. I strain my neck to see where it stopped.
"Twenty-eight," the dealer declares.
Damn. The number right next to nine.
Mom and Owen stand up and she shrugs and sips from that ridiculous drink.
We leave for the show, and on the way, Mom tosses the yard cup in the trash.
Owen chose the show well; my mom absolutely loves it. I watch her more than I watch the entertainment taking place in front of me. Her eyes widen when the acrobatics shock her; she places a palm over her heart when she thinks they are dangerous, and claps heartily when they perform tricks that appear to defy possibility.
After it's over, she grabs Owen's arm and hugs him. "Thank you," she gushes. "It was amazing. Everything I wanted a show in Vegas to be. Why did I wait so long to come here?"
We leave the area and agree to get one more drink and late-night food. I've heard it said that nothing good happens after ten p.m., but I don't think that counts in this zip code.
By the time our bellies are full, Mom is exhausted. We walk her back to her room and say goodnight, making sure she gets in safely. When Owen told us he'd booked two rooms, I'd offered to stay with my mom, but she said no. To say she's supportive of my reunion with Owen would be the understatement of the century. I’ve never seen her so happy.
As soon as her door is closed, Owen's hand wraps around my waist and pulls me in so my back is pressed to his front. "Are you ready to turn into a pumpkin, Cinderella?" his husky voice tickles my ear. "Or can I interest you in more Vegas-style debauchery?"
I rest the back of my head on his shoulder. "How debaucherous are we talking? And yes, I know that's probably not a word."
His chuckle rolls through me. "Not small-cards-thrust-into-hands type of debauchery."
I laugh as I picture my mom carrying that blond girl around in her hand.
"More drinks. More gambling. Some gratuitous public displays of affection." He pushes against me as he says it, pressing his length against my ass.
My breath catches in my throat. "I think I could handle a little more of all three of those things."
We're stepping onto the elevator when I pull my phone from my purse. I haven't looked at it once since we left the hotel room hours and hours ago.
I'm taken aback when I see my previous boss’ name listed as a missed call. Owen notices my surprise.
"Who's that?" he asks, fingertip bumping against my phone screen.
Jeanne Chapman. "My boss in New York. Old boss, I mean." A weird feeling is sneaking out from behind hidden places inside me. The feeling of waking in the morning and getting ready, of doing my hair and donning professional clothes. The energetic air of the city in the morning, the scent of coffee, the smells of food and gas and a million different perfumes. The six-figure salary I once garnered. I miss being a part of something. I can't deny that.
Owen takes my free hand, lifting it in the air between us and running a feather-light touch across the top. "Penny for your thoughts?"
The elevator descends and my stomach drops. It stops a few floors below and three people get on. Two guys, one girl. They have accents, something European that I can't place accurately.
"I have no idea why she'd be calling me," I murmur, turning into him.
"She left a voicemail. Listen to it."
The elevator deposits us on the ground floor, right into the casino. I step to the side, trying to find a quieter space, which is as futile as it should be considering my current location. Throngs of people excitedly talk over one another, slot machines whistle and ring their bells. I stick a finger in one ear to drown out the din and click on Jeanne's voicemail. Owen stands beside me, surveying the happenings of the casino, hands tucked in the pockets of his navy-blue dress pants. These slacks are not like the ones he wears for work. These are tighter, more modern, and they make him look sexy as sin.
"Autumn, hello," Jeanne's voice breaks through my carnal thoughts. It's been a mere two months since I heard her voice, but I'd already forgotten it. "Jeanne here. I'm sure you were quite surprised to see my call. I'll cut to the chase. Bill is out. He bought a ranch in Montana and moved his entire family there." I may have forgotten the sound of Jeanne's voice, but I can still pick up her emotions from her tone, and right now I hear disbelief mixed with disgust. "We'd like for you to take his place. VP of Product Marketing. I know you're spending some time in”—she pauses, and it hits me that she's trying to remember where I told her I was going—“out west." A blanket term. That's like telling someone I went back east. "Call me. We'd love to have you back. We're willing to work with you on a start date, and I have been authorized to double your previous pay."
The voicemail ends, and goosebumps break out onto my arms.
I slide the phone back into my purse as Jeanne’s voice goes round and round my head.
Go back to New York?
Double my pay?
FUCKING VP before thirty! It’s everything I’ve wanted as far as career goals go.
"Everything okay?" Owen asks.
I look at Owen, at his honest, open face. I know what he would say if I told him what Jeanne said. Which is why I can't.
"She was just checking in to see how things are going out here." The fib slides out smoothly.
Owen nods. I can't tell if he believes me, or if he just wants to.
"Let's go." I take his hand and pull him into the belly of the beast.
We spend the next few hours in our version of debauchery. Owen teaches me roulette and craps. I win and lose, then win again. We drink too much and stay up too late.
For a few hours, we pretend we're not here for the saddest reason ever.
Chapter 23
Owen
There are a lot of things I never thought I'd do in my life.
Getting back together with Autumn is first on that list. I mean, yeah, I prayed for it until my mouth turned dry, but I never thought it would actually happen. The chasm between us seemed too large to cross.
Second on that list? Writing a prescription for medical marijuana for Autumn's mom.
Check, and check.
It's starting to get painful for Faith, not that she lets it show. Autumn doesn't notice, and for that I'm grateful. Me, on the other hand? It's my job to notice the slightest wince, the longer blinks, the slower movements.
The first two times Faith had cancer, I offered to write her a prescription. She declined my offer, telling me she'd escaped her teenage years without having done it and she didn't plan to start. This time?
Well, she's at the dispensary right now.
I'm sitting in Faith's living room, waiting for her to arrive. I came straight here after work, knowing Autumn was out at dinner with her new friend Livvie. Faith called me earlier in the day, and with a voice that betrayed her exhaustion and embarrassment, she asked me for the last thing I expected.
As I sit on Faith’s couch, my phone dings with a text message from Autumn.
Livvie's running late, I'm waiting at the table. What are you up to?
I stare down at the phone, uncertain how to respond. I don't want to lie, but I want to respect Faith's privacy. If she wants Autumn to know about the prescription, she'll have to be the one to tell her.
I write her back. Relaxing. When do you think you'll be done? Dessert with me?
I could meet her somewhere. Or maybe have her meet me at my place and I'll have her for dessert. She's sweet like sugar, and she tastes divine. Our sex life pretty much picked up where we left it at age eighteen, except this time around both of us have more experience and confidence.<
br />
A twinge of guilt sneaks in at my roundabout lie. Sure, I'm relaxing. I just didn't tell her where. If we're keeping track, the score is now one to one. I know Autumn didn't tell me whatever her old boss said on that voicemail. The look on her face could not have come from someone just checking in to see how she's doing. There was surprise in her arched eyebrows, then a curve of a pleased smile. Whatever made her feel that way, Autumn didn't want me to know about it.
I decided to let it go that night. We were in Vegas; it wasn't the time or place to push. A small part of me doesn't want to know. My imagination has supplied the answer already anyhow. Something along the lines of big promotion, corner office, and whatever else could be said to lure Autumn back to Manhattan.
The thought fucking shatters me. I've been pushing it away for an entire week, ever since we came back from Vegas. Without her mother, Autumn doesn't have a reason to stay. What will keep her in Sedona after Faith is gone?
The front door opens wide and Faith steps in. She holds a basic white paper bag, the name of the store she visited nowhere to be found on the sack. The hush-hush, nondescript nature of it makes me smile.
Faith blushes when she catches my gaze. "That was awkward. The girl who helped me called it 'medicating.’ I asked her questions, and she kept saying 'When I medicate…' and then answering me. I felt like telling her to give up the charade, we both know she's recreational." Faith laughs. "What a fucking ordeal."
Her words leave me dumbfounded. Or, more accurately, her use of one word in particular is what has momentarily stunned my brain. I don't think I've ever heard Faith swear. Cancer has changed her; being terminal has changed her; she’s much more carefree.
I stand, reaching into my pocket for my car keys. Faith is so embarrassed I imagine she'll want to be alone for the next part. I just wanted to be here in case she wanted me to go with her to the shop, but she didn’t want someone to see me with a patient and get in trouble. I’m not sure that I would, but it was a good call, I guess. "Well, I'm glad you got what you needed. I'll head out now."
Her arm shoots out. "Wait. Please don't go." She looks down at the bag, her fingers tightening around it. "I don't know what I'm doing. Could you help me?"