Nine
Lily
Sunlight pours through the blinds, landing directly on my face and rousing me from sleep. My eyelids flutter against the brightness, and I shift to my side, seeking relief from the harsh glare. As I turn, my eyes find Jake standing in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space.
“Hey,” I say hoarsely.
He doesn’t respond but steps into the room and comes to the side of the bed.
“Are you going to work today?” I ask him.
“I’m leaving soon. I wanted to check on you first,” he says quietly.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” I ask him.
He covers my hand with his and gently squeezes. “I hate Dad.”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“Because if he didn’t hurt you, you never would’ve left him. And now you’re sick, and he’s not here to help you.”
“Oh, sweetheart. I understand why you’re angry because I’ve felt that way, too. And it’s okay to be disappointed in his choices, but hate is a strong word. Your father loves you and your sister very much. Don’t ever doubt that.”
He nods and looks back up at me from our joined hands. “Are you sure you’re okay? I’ve never seen you this sick before, Mom.”
I nod. “I’m fine, Jake. Please don’t worry.”
After a moment of silence, he looks at me, doubt flickering in his eyes. Leaning in, he kisses my forehead. “Feel better, Mom. I love you,” he murmurs.
“I love you too.”
Once he’s out of the room, I hear him say goodbye to Sam, and the front door closing.
I lay in bed for a minute before I get up, trying to calm the dizziness so I won’t fall on my ass. After brushing my teeth and hair, I throw on my old college sweatshirt and matching sweats with my fluffy slippers that have the grippers on the soles.
I take slow steps out of the room. Holding on to the railing, I descend the stairs and step into the kitchen. I don’t see Sam, but I notice the back door is open, leaving the screen door exposed. Then I hear it.
Soft cries.
I make my way to the door and pause for a moment, peering out onto the patio. Sam is a small knot of misery in the chair, her soft weeping like a broken melody.
As the older sister, I’m the one who should be strong and protective, always shielding her from hurt. Instead, I am the one who needs care. She’s hurting like this because of me.
I slowly open the screen door, and Sam’s head pops up. She quickly wipes her eyes with her sleeves, but it’s no use hiding it.
“Hey, no crying allowed,” I joke but that just makes her cry all over again.
I sit beside Sam. She unwraps herself and hugs me, burying her head into my shoulder.
“I hate this,” she cries. “It’s not fair.”
“I know,” I say softly.
For a while, neither of us speaks. I simply hold her close, letting her cry and allowing her to feel what she needs to. When her breathing finally slows and her body relaxes, she pulls away and settles back into her chair, the silence lingering between us.
Suddenly, Sam breaks the quiet. “I’m quitting school.”
“No, you are not,” I say firmly. “You are not quitting. You worked way too hard to give up now.”
“You can’t take care of yourself, let alone your kids, on your own, especially a three-year-old who has way too much energy. Plus, you have your bakery, sis. You need help.”
I turn away and stare at the garden I planted the moment we moved in. “I know,” I say.
“You do?” she asks.
I smile. “Yes, I realized that last night. Sam, I don’t ever want you to see me like that again. I will see if I can get an aide to watch over me after my treatments. All I ask of you is to go back to school, to your friends, and visit us when you have time.”
“No. I’m not leaving you and living my life like you don’t have fucking cancer!” she snaps, standing up. “You act like it’s normal or something.”
“I know this is a lot to take in, but it is my reality right now.”
“You’re not supposed to be sick. This isn’t supposed to happen to you!”
“Sam—”
“No! You need to tell Mom and Dad. Then your kids, and then Ethan. He needs to know because your children will need him.”
The weight of her words knocks the air out of my lungs.
She must notice the shift in my expression.
Without hesitation, she moves closer, kneeling in front of me.
She rests her hands on my knees, her tone softening as she says, “Things are only going to get worse before they get better. You can’t hide this from them any longer.
It’s already starting to affect your appearance.
Your kids are going to need their father to help get them through this. ”
“I know,” I whisper, my voice barely audible as I lower my head in shame. “I know, and I will. I promise.”