Chapter Twenty-Seven Prue
Twenty-seven
Prue
“Hey,” I say softly to Tracy, dropping my bag by the back door. “Is she settling in okay?”
“Hi, sweetie. Yes, she’s fine,” Tracy whispers, placing her glass of wine down on the kitchen counter as she smiles brightly toward me.
Tracy and her husband, John, didn’t meet until much later in life, so she never knew my mom as she once was, but she’s been a good friend to Dad all the same and helped us out in a pinch a few times.
“I’m sorry to be a bother, I checked everywhere I could think of. ”
“Oh, no, please don’t apologize,” I say, smiling. “My dad was on med duty today, he’s probably just forgotten them in his office,” I say, reaching for his office keys that are hanging on the wall. “I’ll check there first. Sorry to have caused more work for you!”
“No, no, it’s been a mostly quiet evening. I got half a new blanket done while your mom kept me company.”
“Knitting?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tracy says, staying by the entryway.
“I’d love to learn someday.” I begin walking down the hall toward Dad’s office.
“Well, I’d be happy to teach you!”
I reply with a noncommittal, happy mumble before trying the door to see if it’s locked before using the key.
It’s unusual for Dad to lock his office door, but I suppose you can’t be too careful with Mom’s recent wanderings.
Immediately after getting inside, I spot Mom’s pill organizer on his desk and walk over to it.
Then, something catches my eye: an unopened white box of pills, next to Mom’s many bottles we use to fill her weekly organizer.
The same collection of pill bottles that I’ve been picking up from the pharmacy and dividing out for years now, none of which come in a box.
I pick it up and read its label. Tomas Novikov, Dexamethasone, 2mg Tablets.
I lower into Dad’s office chair without thought, feeling a creeping sense of dread tunnel my vision as I tap my finger against the box.
I’m sure it’s nothing, I tell myself quickly, trying to dismiss the growing aching feeling in my chest. It’s probably for Dad’s headaches or something equally innocuous.
But no matter how much I try to just set the box back down, take Mom’s medication to Tracy, and get back to the brewery, something inside of me—call it intuition or paranoia—begs to know for sure.
So, I hit enter on Dad’s keyboard to wake up his old-school computer, type in the same exact password he’s had since I was a middle schooler, and click the browser so I can find out what this medication is prescribed for.
Except, when the browser opens, I don’t have to type anything in at all. Not when Dad’s left open four tabs that reveal so much more than I’d bargained for.
RE: Next steps and suggested reading—[email protected]
Treatments for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma | Canadian Cancer Society
How to tell your loved ones | Cancer Support Network
Preparing for Chemotherapy | Canadian Cancer Society
My heart races in my chest faster than it ever has, reading the websites over and over as tears begin to burn along my eyelids and my breath turns shallow. I grip on to the side of Dad’s desk with both hands, my knuckles turning white, as I try to stop the room from spinning.
“No, no, no,” I whisper aloud, shaking my head as I click on the tab with the email from his doctor. “He’s fine,” I tell myself, removing my jacket and tossing it across the room carelessly. “He’s fine, ” I repeat, wiping my face against my sleeve, black mascara staining the cuff of my sweater.
“Everything all right in there, Prudence?” Tracy asks from down the hall. “Did you find it?”
I look up to the ceiling, blinking back tears.
Shit. “Yes, sorry, coming!” I say, as cheery as I can force myself to sound, as I pick up Mom’s medication in shaking hands and walk back down the hall with it.
“Sorry, I got a little—” I don’t finish my sentence, smiling as brightly as I can instead.
“I’m just going to do some light organizing before going back to the party.
Dad’s office is a safety hazard.” I attempt a joke, but I hear it fall flat.
Tracy’s eyes are curious, but her smile shows she’s none the wiser as she nods politely and says, “Okay, hon.”
Immediately, I turn back toward the office, shut the door behind me, and collapse into Dad’s desk chair.
I bring my knees up to my chin, wrap my arms around them, and begin to cry—shaking as every possible wave of emotion washes over me and threatens to pull me under.
My phone rings in my jacket pocket, vibrating against the metal filing cabinet I threw it onto, and I leave it there.
It couldn’t matter. Nothing could matter.
I start reading the email and get hit with blow after revealing blow as I fight back tears unsuccessfully. Dad has known about his diagnosis for months. His team has been delaying his treatment since. He asked for more time again —they said no this time.
Chemotherapy starts in January.
The symptoms of therapy will mean he can no longer keep working as he has been, or look after anyone but himself. He’ll most likely experience extreme fatigue, nausea, vertigo, severe headaches, upset stomach, and the list goes on and on.
But, despite all of this, his prognosis is good.
His doctor states that they’re confident in his treatment and recovery. I read that part of the email over and over again. It says they are happy to see the slow progression of his cancer. They claim he is in good hands. Such positive words for such a stunningly dark scenario.
And once I’ve realized I’m not facing the certainty of losing Dad forever, my emotions turn to anger.
Inexplicably large, not previously experienced rage that I know is not all directed at him but seeks him out anyway.
He’s lied to me. He said I could convince him that Mom could stay.
He let me think I stood a chance at keeping this family together and everything the same when nothing would ever be the same again.
He’s lied to me and he’s sick and everything is wrong.
My phone rings again, startling me as I read over the second of Dad’s left-open tabs. Mindlessly, I move to grab it out of my jacket, and as it stops ringing I see I have three missed calls from Milo.
I don’t hesitate to call him back. If I was going to let anyone ride out this horrible shitstorm with me, it would be him.
“Prue?” he answers on the second ring. “Hey, sorry for blowing up your phone, I just wanted to make sure that you were all right. Did you find—”
“I found them,” I say, my voice hoarse from crying. “Mom’s fine.”
“One second,” Milo says into the phone. I hear the noises of the crowd drift farther and farther away until he’s outside, the sound of gravel under his feet and crickets faint in the background. “Sorry, I can hear you better now. You found the meds?”
“Yeah,” I say, then sniffle back a wave of tears.
“Killer, hey, are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“Can you come here?”
“Of course, yeah. Did something—”
“I’ll…” I pause, a sad sort of hiccup that comes before tears steals my breath. “I’ll explain in person. I’ll meet you on the back porch, okay?”
“Okay, love. I’m on my way.”
“Milo?” I ask, tears breaking free and shaking my voice.
“Yes?”
“Please hurry.”
“I am,” he says. I hear him, his quickened footsteps against gravel as he runs and the sound of his heavy breaths into the phone. “Whatever it is,” he says, panting, “we’ll figure it out together. I’ll make it right.”
A broken sob escapes my lips as I fold into myself, hugging my arm around my waist as I slump against the wall and slide down to the floor. “I’m afraid this is a problem that not even you can fix,” I whisper, sniffing back tears as I look up at the ceiling.
“What about ABBA?” he asks, voice strained from running.
“No chance.”
“Take a chance on—” He pauses. “Probably not the best time for jokes.”
“I appreciated it,” I say, wiping away tears. “But probably not.”
“Okay, I’m here.”
“Already?” I say, moving to stand. “That was fast.”
“The back door is locked.”
“I’m coming,” I say, wiping my face as I step out into the darkened hallway and weave my way through my parents’ home.
It looks different… feels different. Unfamiliar and ominous and nothing like it once was: a place where color and liveliness and joy and art and music had existed in overflowing, abundant quantities.
I’ve been so afraid that there’s too much sadness here now, too much loss, to ever revive it. And now, that feels more possible than ever. Maybe life will always be better in the past.
I hang up and slide my phone into my pocket once I see Milo’s silhouette through the back door.
I open it and immediately throw myself against him.
“Thank you,” I whisper as he curls his hand over the back of my neck, tucking me closer.
“Hey, Killer, what’s happening?” he says softly, bringing me against him with his forearm across my back.
I begin to cry once more, shaking in his embrace.
“I’ve got you,” he tells me, running his hand along my neck and shoulders.
“It’s awful. ” I lean back within his arms to face him. “I don’t know…” My face crumples and I cover it by pressing it into his chest. “I don’t know what to do,” I whisper against him.
“Let’s get you some fresh air.” Milo picks me up effortlessly in a tight hug then carries me to the porch’s back steps. He sets me down next to the railing, sits, then pulls me into his lap, sideways.
“Whatever it is, Prue, we will figure it out.”
“I-I-I…” I try to speak, but the words don’t come, interrupted by sobs and breathless gasps. Milo gently shushes me, brushing the hair that’s fallen out of my bun away from my face as he holds me steady against his chest.