27 Mom doesn’t go to the doctor. After she tells Dennis she will, the two of them start looking at each other in a way that makes me wonder if I’m going to have to spend some time sitting around outside when we get back to the house. It turns out that I don’t, but that’s only because Mom comes up to me after inviting Dennis in “to discuss some things” and taps my shoulder, hands me some money, and says, “Go out for a few hours.” Before I can even say anything, like ask how I’m supposed to go somewhere without a car—ours certainly isn’t anywhere around—or even a phone to call a cab, she’s nudging me outside and shutting the door. So I go out. When I get back Dennis is gone and Mom’s sitting outside looking out at the water. “Did you go to the doctor?” I ask. She gives me a look. Of course she didn’t. Stupid of me to even ask, but then I’m feeling a little scattered right now. “Sorry,” I mutter and sit down next to her. “I guess you’ll go before we leave?” “Please. I’m fine. Look at me.
28 I wake up with a start in the morning, open my eyes to see Mom looking down at me with an expression on her face I can’t read. I scramble up off the sofa, head into the kitchen. She doesn’t ask why I slept downstairs, just comes in behind me and sits down, looking out the window. The only sound is the coffee brewing and her breathing. She keeps looking out the window while she drinks her coffee. I refill her mug twice. “I need a few days’ rest,” she finally says. “I need a chance to tie up some loose ends.” “But we—everyone knows what happened. You won’t be able to do anything.” “Is that so?” “I didn’t mean it like that. I—we’re not leaving?” “We are leaving. Just not today.” She’s going to try something. Getting away but not getting anything—she’ll see that as a challenge. I think of the look on her face when we first drove through Heaven, her expression when she saw all those houses, and know we aren’t leaving because she needs to be inside one of those houses and take something b
29 Mom comes home really late and in a strange mood. She’s smiling but it doesn’t reach her eyes, just stretches as a false curve across her mouth. She asks me what I’m watching but clearly doesn’t listen to my answer, stands next to the sofa with one hand curved tight into it, pressing so hard her fingers sink deep into the cushion. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” she says, but the words come out slowly, strangled and breathless. I turned off all the lights earlier, but in the flickering glow of the talk show that I’m not really watching, her face is strained, lit blue and red and green as she tries too hard to breathe normally. Before I can say anything else she turns away and goes upstairs. I turn off the television and follow her, but by the time I get upstairs her bedroom door is closing. I think about saying something, about telling her she has to go to the doctor, and catch the door with one hand. I push it open, peer inside. Mom hasn’t turned on any lights and is standing framed by
30 Once, when I was younger, Mom sent me to the library to do research and I ended up reading a book instead. I don’t remember who wrote it but the cover had a girl on it. She was standing in the middle of a grassy field and it looked like she was staring off into the distance but I could tell she wasn’t. She had this look on her face, a look I couldn’t place but somehow knew, and so I pulled the book off the rack it was sitting on and read it. It sucked. The girl lived in the country like a hundred years ago and spent all her time thinking about being a schoolteacher. That was it. That was the whole story. I stopped halfway through and looked at the cover again. I would have pulled it off the book and taken it with me, but there was a woman sitting across from me with a little kid in her arms, staring at me like she knew what I was thinking. I put the book back and walked away, but I never forgot that girl’s face. It wasn’t even a real face, just some picture, but I still never forgot
31 I’m finally allowed to see Mom. She’s still in the emergency room and when I walk into the little green-curtained cubicle that’s hers, it’s clear what she’s expecting. She’s ready to leave, is dressed and flipping through a ratty-looking magazine with one hand, the fingers of the other tapping impatiently against her knee. “You should go start the car,” she tells me when she hugs me, a whisper in my ear right after she says “Baby!” and pulls me into her arms. When I don’t reply, she moves away and looks at me. “I want to talk to the doctor,” I tell her. She sighs. “I don’t know what they told you, but it’s nothing. I’m fine now. Don’t I sound fine?” “You sound terrible.” “I mean aside from sounding like I had a tube shoved down my throat. Come here, listen.” I do, and she breathes slow and deep, easily. Normally. “See? I’m fine.” “So you didn’t pass out and have a bunch of fluid pumped out of your lungs?” “I fainted, probably because I hadn’t eaten anything. And the fluid—baby, you
32 I call Greg that night. I don’t know why but I do, stand outside the front door and unfold the piece of paper with his name scrawled across it. It’s only when he answers the phone sounding like he’s asleep that I realize how late it is, that it’s dark, late-at-night dark. I can see the stars. I hadn’t even noticed them. “You’re asleep,” I say, and then feel stupid for stating the obvious. “Never mind. This was—I shouldn’t have called you. I’m sorry.” “Dani?” “Yeah.” “I thought it was you.” He sounds a little more awake now. “Where are you?” “At the house. Mom’s asleep and I’m…I just thought I’d call. At”—I squint at a window, catch a glimpse of the clock by the television—“four in the morning. I didn’t realize it’s so late. I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. Let me just—ow!” I hear the sound of something falling. “Um, pretend you didn’t hear that.” “Are you all right?” “Fine. I just—I fell out of bed.” I laugh and can practically hear him smile over the phone when he says, “I should have known
33 For the first time ever, I pick where we go. Where we are. Mom didn’t want to choose or even think about it. She just shook her head when I asked and then closed her eyes. I listed choices anyway. She didn’t respond. She was pretending to be asleep but in a few minutes she actually was. She tires easily these days, though she won’t admit it. We could have flown but Mom wanted to drive. It was the only thing she asked for, the only thing she said when I told her where we were going. I had to buy maps, which I knew how to do, and then I had to get my license. That I didn’t know how to do. I’d only ever had ones that didn’t belong to me. I went in expecting to wait in line, sit for an awful picture, and then walk back out. It turned out there’s a test. It was the first one I’ve ever taken. I passed and left with my very own driver’s license. It’s strange to look down and see my name, my real name, on it. I know a lot about cancer now. I know what metastasized means; I know what the dru
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