Ozrik #3
At the table, I suffered Stella’s attention.
She felt my forehead and the back of my neck before pressing her cheek against mine.
She wouldn’t dare use a thermometer because I would challenge the results and insist on seeing her imaginary numbers with my own eyes.
I wasn’t a dumb kid anymore who believed everything she said simply because parents didn’t lie.
She had all kinds of tricks up her sleeve, but I was attuned to most of them.
“You’re warm.”
“It’s eighty-five degrees outside.”
“You’re clammy.”
“I’m sweaty because it’s eighty-five degrees outside. I need to change. Are you done?”
“No.” She cupped my face, angling my head to study my eyes. “You’re pale.”
“I’m sporting a decent tan. The furthest thing from pale.”
She prodded my lymph nodes and groaned. “They’re slightly swollen.”
“They aren’t.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
“The scale read the same as always this morning. One seventy-three.”
“You haven’t been home in days. Don’t lie to me, Ozrik. Your clothes are fitting loosely. Your eyes are bloodshot. You’re sick.”
“Mother, I’m not sick. The numbers are normal.” I shoved the papers forward. “My eyes are dry from not sleeping. I’m going out.”
“Let me see your stomach.”
She reached for the hem of my shirt, but I pushed her hand away, not unkindly, but passionately enough so she understood I was enforcing boundaries. “Mom, don’t. Enough, okay?”
“Ozrik.”
“Please listen to me for once. I’m okay.”
“I haven’t seen you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
When I wouldn’t play her game, she cried. It broke my heart, but it was simply another way to get my attention. She wasn’t above playing the sympathy card, and she knew her tears were my weakness.
I drained the juice and headed to my bedroom to a chorus of dramatic sobs. I loved her and hated her in equal measure. It was times like this I wished I had a dad.
“You’re going to die,” she wailed. “The cancer is back.”
I’d never been diagnosed with cancer, but I missed an entire year of school at age eight because Stella had told everyone I was undergoing chemotherapy.
I recalled months in bed, bouts of vomiting and stomach cramps, and a vague sense of joy on my mother’s face when cards and endless gifts arrived from friends and neighbors.
They had decorated our house for an entire winter.
She read me letters from concerned classmates and distant relatives. She showered me with attention.
No one ever thought to contradict or challenge her diagnosis or my illness.
A horn honked as I finished dressing. I would have loved to shower, but I didn’t have time.
Finger-combing my hair, I glanced in the bathroom mirror, assessing my complexion and the whites of my eyes.
It was stupid, but every now and then, paranoia took over, and I had to double-check that Stella’s assessments were imaginative.
I stuck out my tongue and felt my lymph nodes.
Tip-top shape. Nothing amiss.
The wailing finally stopped as I made my way to the front door.
Stella intercepted, cheeks wet, nose red, eyes swollen.
It was pitiful, and part of me felt sorry for her.
She sniffled and offered a plastic Ziploc bag containing an egg salad sandwich and a disposable N95 medical mask.
She’d hoarded boxes of them during the COVID pandemic.
“You need to keep up your energy, so I made you food. Wear this, too. Your immune system is compromised. If you start feeling sick, get home right away.”
Sighing, I took the mask and the sandwich, then wrapped her in a hug. I held on extra long because it was what she needed. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ll call the doctor and see what he recommends.”
“Okay. You do that.” She wouldn’t.
“Please be careful.”
“I always am.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
I finally escaped with the start of a mild headache—probably brain cancer—and ran down the driveway to where Lex had parked Black Bug on the street.
Stella waved.
I waved back, then tumbled inside the vehicle and slammed the door. “Drive. Go, go, go. Get me the fuck out of here.”
Lex chuckled as I tossed the sandwich and mask into a plastic bag we kept for garbage.
“Whoa, wait. Is that food?” Noah rooted in the garbage bag, removing the sandwich. “I’m starving. If you’re not going to eat this, I’ll—”
“Don’t touch the sandwich.” Vern’s gaze never left the computer. “It’s booby-trapped.”
Noah frowned and seemed about to request an explanation.
He and Elliott knew the least about my life.
Since I didn’t want my entire fucked-up existence aired for other people’s comedic relief, and Vern was shit at filtering his comments, I said, “It’s probably spoiled.
Mom made it yesterday, and I think it sat out all night on the counter. ”
“Oh. Damn. Got to be careful with egg salad.” Noah tossed it in the garbage and refocused on the GoPro he’d been fussing with.
“We’re already filming.” He pointed to the dash cam.
“But like I told the guys, I can do some sneaky editing that Charles won’t notice, so we can cut anything that makes us look bad. ”
“We aren’t supposed to edit,” I said.
“Fuck his stupid rules,” Lex said from the driver’s seat. “He can kiss my ass. We’re going to win all five slots.”
“Fucking right we are.” Vern held his hand out for a fist bump, and we all knocked it.