Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Helen
By the time I get back from the grocery store, my arms ache from lugging overstuffed bags for three blocks. I had gone in for oat milk and somehow emerged with half the store. I fish out my keys, fumble with the lock, and nudge the door open with my hip.
“Hey, Teddy, can you—” I freeze in the doorway, stunned by the scene in front of me.
Teddy stands barefoot in my kitchen, leaning on the counter for support.
Wearing my robe.
My purple, fuzzy, thigh-length robe, which gapes open at the chest, showing off a frankly unfair number of muscles and tattoos.
He’s holding a steaming mug of tea and looking incredibly guilty.
Across from him, perched on one of the counter stools, is my mom.
My mom, with her wispy blonde hair and a billowing top that makes her look like she floated in on a breeze.
She wears it because chemo has left her skin blotchy and raw and the fabric doesn’t chafe.
I’ve bought her every lotion known to man, tried everything to soothe it.
Nothing really helps. The loose sleeves also hide the frailty of her arms, the way her skin has become paper thin, almost translucent.
Even sick, with the changes cancer has carved into her, she’s still beautiful.
Always has been, a fact that caused me no small amount of angst during my painfully awkward teen years.
It’s not easy to be a pimply fourteen-year-old with glasses when your mom looks like she just walked off the cover of Vogue.
It’s never just been her looks, though. She’s magnetic, talented enough to be a backup dancer and, for a brief, shimmering moment, an emerging starlet. She could sing, she could move, she could hold a room without even trying.
Skills she slowly lost once she met my dad and had me. She gave up the stage for diapers, and although she claims to have never regretted that decision, I have my doubts.
Mom beams when she sees me. “There she is!” she says brightly, as if this is all totally normal.
I blink. “Mom?”
She spreads her arms. “Surprise!”
I stare at her, then at Teddy, then back at her. “What’re you doing here?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “I used my key. Figured you’d still be at work.
Wanted to drop off some cute Christmas decorations I got for you.
” She grins, pulling cartoonish gingerbread men figurines out of a plastic shopping bag.
The cookie men hold lollipops with swirls of red and green.
“I know you don’t usually decorate for the holiday, but I couldn’t resist. Aren’t they adorable?
” She places them on the counter and shoves them at me.
Right. I haven’t told my parents about the suspension yet, that I’ve been benched.
Because admitting that is failing. It’s telling my parents they were right.
They’d had reservations when I announced I wanted to apply to medical school.
My dad had warned that medicine might be too hard, too much work.
I’d heard his unspoken concern that I couldn’t handle it.
Fuck that.
I paste on a smile that feels more like a reflex than a choice. “Well. Surprise.”
Teddy raises his mug in greeting, like this is just another Tuesday. “Hey. So, umm, this is your mom.”
I bob my head. “Yep. Sure is. My mom who thinks November first is the official start of Christmas.”
Mom beams. “And this is your boyfriend. Honey, why didn’t you tell me?”
Teddy flushes red and waves his hands. “No, Mrs. Chu. It’s like I said, I’m not—”
“Oh, shh.” She laughs with delight, grinning at Teddy. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re here. Alone. Barely clothed. Making tea. If that’s not a boyfriend, then what is?”
“Mom, please.” Heat rushes up my neck, flooding my cheeks until I’m sure I’m the color of a ripe tomato. I drop the bags onto the counter with a thump. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“I’m just so happy,” she continues as if she can’t hear me. Her eyes glisten with something that looks like tears.
Oh my god. Please don’t cry.
I mentally beg her, knowing if she starts crying, then I’ll start crying and this is already so embarrassing.
I’d lied when I told Teddy I wasn’t a crier the other day.
The truth is that I didn’t used to cry, but since my mom’s breast cancer diagnosis and then her recurrence over a year ago, tears have become a new, unwelcome friend of mine.
She waves Teddy toward her. He approaches hesitantly, then startles when she grabs his hand and pulls him close. Leaning in like she’s telling him a secret, my mom says, “I used to worry about Helen. She’s always been a bit of a loner—”
“Mom!” I hide my face behind my hands.
“—but I can tell you’ll take good care of her.” She gives Teddy a watery smile and pats his hand.
My breath stutters because I hear her unspoken words.
Take good care of Helen, for when I’m gone.
That’s a reality I can’t face.
Teddy turns to me, his eyes wide, silently pleading for an escape route.
I feel his pain.
Mom sets down her tea and clasps her hands. “Well, since you’re here, you’re both coming to Thanksgiving at our house. No excuses!”
“What?” I squeak.
“I’m serious, Helen. You can spend the night, and I’ll make my special cinnamon rolls for breakfast. I want you to bring this nice boy home. Your father would love to meet him.”
“I highly doubt that,” I mutter dryly, imagining my serious, stone-faced dad meeting my shirtless, tattooed, currently-wearing-my-robe housemate.
My mom gives me her best pleading expression. “Please? I’ve always wanted to host your boyfriend.”
There’s that word again.
Boyfriend.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. How can I deny her? My terminally ill mother. As crazy as this moment is, this is the most energetic I’ve seen her in months. The last thing I want to do is take that light out of her eyes.
I can’t look at Teddy as I say it. I’m too scared to see his reaction. “Sure, Mom.” I force a smile. “We’d love to come over.”
“Good!” She beams, arranging the gingerbread men on my counter next to the salt and pepper shakers. “I’ll just leave these right here. They’re perfect for this spot. Don’t you think?”
Like a puppet with my head on a string, I nod. “Perfect, Mom. Everything is perfect.”
As soon as the front door clicks shut behind Mom, I collapse face-first onto the couch with a groan that could shake the foundations of the building.
Teddy, still in my purple robe, ambles over and flops onto the other end. “So…that happened.”
I lift my face just enough to glare at him. “Why didn’t you deny it harder?”
“I did!” He throws up his hands. “You saw me. She had the mom energy of a woman who’d throw a casserole dish at my head if I said no.”
“She does have that energy,” I admit, the words muffled against a throw pillow. “She once smacked a rude director with her purse during a community theater rehearsal. Broke the clasp.”
“See?” Teddy leans back, resting his arm on the cushion. “I value my life—and my skull.”
I sit up and toss a pillow at him. “You were wearing my robe.”
“I didn’t have a shirt on,” he says defensively. “She walked in, and I dove for the first thing I saw to cover up. I’m just glad you left it on the counter.”
I groan again. “You didn’t say we weren’t dating.”
“You didn’t tell her you got suspended,” he adds gently.
I wince. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem.”
He softens immediately. “Helen…”
“I know. I know. I should’ve told her. But she’s going through so much already, and this whole suspension thing…” I let out a shaky breath. “It makes me feel like a failure. She already thinks I work too much. That I’m too serious. If she finds out I lost the one thing I care about most—”
“You haven’t lost it,” he says, his voice firm. “This isn’t the end.”
“It feels like it.” I slump back on the couch, and the room falls quiet.
“What did you mean about her going through a lot?” Teddy asks.
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, stalling. Saying it out loud always makes it more real. “She has breast cancer.” My voice catches, so I clear my throat. “Metastatic and progressing, although slowly. That’s why I moved back to California. To be close to her and help out.”
“Jesus.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m so sorry. I know what that feels like.”
I sigh. “I know you do. That’s why I didn’t bring it up the other night. I didn’t want to remind you of everything you’ve gone through.”
He moves closer on the couch and lowers his face until it’s level with mine. “You don’t have to do that.”
“What?”
“Protect me. I can handle grief. Maybe I can even help you with everything going on. I wish I’d had more people to talk to when it happened to my dad. My friend Jamie was there for me, but the rest of my friends were too young. I can be that person for you. The one you talk to.”
Something warm spreads in my chest. It’s a nice thought. To have someone who understands. I haven’t told anyone about Mom’s diagnosis. Not even Gwen, for the same reason I kept it from Teddy.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
For a moment, he studies me, like he’s turning something over in his mind. Then he draws in a slow breath, hesitant. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“You’re wondering why my mom’s white?” I guess. His expression says I’ve hit the mark, and I’m not surprised. Although I do have my mom’s high cheekbones, most of my features are from my dad.
He scrunches his nose. “Yeah. Is that okay?”
I laugh, relieved he’s asking. Some people don’t.
“It’s fine. I’ve learned the difference between curiosity and judgment.
My mom’s Irish and Scottish. My dad moved here from China in seventh grade.
They met at UCLA. He was in med school; she was studying drama.
I never really understood what pulled them together since their interests are so different, but six months later they got married. I was born the next year.”