CHAPTER TEN
LILA
The bus dropped me off fifteen minutes ago, and I’m still frozen like a damn statue outside the skyscraper hospital. This could be the place where my mom either recovers or dies.
My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach, and my mouth goes bone dry.
Lila, move. They’re probably waiting for you in the waiting room.
I stare at the sign above the automatic doors, reading it over and over, like it might suddenly say something different.
Memorial Kettling Cancer Center.
They need you. You can do this.
I try to lift my left foot, but it’s like an anchor chained to my leg.
I’m sinking. Fast. Screaming for help but drowning in silence.
So, I do what I’ve always done. I cut the emotional chain.
I flip the switch like I’m Elena Gilbert from The Vampire Diaries .
I shut everything off. Numbness is safer.
I step into the lobby and instantly regret it. The place reeks of antiseptic, death, and slow goodbyes. The scent crawls over my skin, cold and smothering, sending shivers down my spine and dread straight to my stomach.
I think I’m going to be sick.
My coffee threatens to rise, but I force it down, same as the tears burning behind my eyes.
The lobby is beautiful. Too beautiful for a place so cruel.
The modern furniture could be in a home decor magazine, all clean lines and soft edges.
But what catches my eye and twists my insides is the botanical garden planted at the center of the lobby.
Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows and gleams on the trees as life blooms in a place built for endings.
What a fucking paradox. Grand fixtures hang high, and the glow keeps moving, brightening the craft tables, the café, and the little gift boutique.
Laughter echoes from the far side of the room. I glance over, completely appalled by the sight. Families are playing board games, finger-painting, and smiling as if this were some summer camp, not a place where people wait to hear if they’re going to live or die.
How are they so happy? Is this what I’m supposed to look like when I put on a brave face? This is bullshit.
I cross my arms and glare around the room.
Then I see them in the corner, near the elevators.
Mom’s hunched over, fidgeting with her fingers.
Her dirty blonde, shoulder-length hair falls in messy waves around her pale face.
Her eyes are rimmed red and shadowed beneath, like she hasn’t slept or stopped crying in days.
Dad sits beside her, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen him. He’s lost weight. His dark hair has always been a mix of salt and pepper, but now it appears entirely gray. He pulls her close and presses a kiss to her temple. His shoulders shake as a tear slips down his face. I freeze again.
I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and wait for her cancer to eat her from the inside out.
Why hasn’t my wish been granted yet? Why hasn’t anyone called?
After this appointment, I’m going to Heartford Cypher International to raise hell.
I don’t care if it sounds desperate. Beck will wish he had called the second he sees me.
Freaking rich prick. They love to play heroes until it’s time to pay up.
I suck in a deep breath and slowly cross the lobby, forcing each step forward. “Mom! Dad!” My voice cracks as I reach them. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I… I got caught waiting on the bus.”
Mom lifts her head and tries to tame her hair with her fingers, like she’s suddenly trying to look composed. Dad wipes his eyes, like the act alone could erase the pain etched into his face.
We’re all wearing glass masks… seconds from shattering.
Mom reaches out and pulls me into a hug, wrapping me so tight I forget how to breathe.
“Oh, honey, it’s okay,” she murmurs into my shoulder.
“We were running behind, too, so I called. They pushed the appointment back thirty minutes.” She brushes my hair from my face, offering a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“We’d better head upstairs so I can get checked in. ” I force a smile.
Grabbing both Mom and Dad’s hands, we make our way to the elevator. I press the glowing up arrow. The silence between us is heavier than words. “How are you feeling?” I ask, my voice light, my eyes searching hers for something, anything, hopeful.
“I’m okay,” she says gently. “Just a little tired today. But it’ll get better.”
We step into the elevator. Dad presses the button for the tenth floor, and something inside me snaps.
I jerk my hand away. “Oh, really? It’ll get better?” I snap, louder than I intended. “How exactly? By sitting around doing nothing?”
“Lila—” Dad flinches. “She doesn’t want the treatment,” he says, voice low and calm. “We’ve been through this. She doesn’t want it to change her.”
“She doesn’t want it to change her?” My voice breaks. “What does that even mean?”
Mom says nothing. Not because she’s cold. Because she’s hurting too. And somehow… that only makes it worse.
My anger falters and collapses into something softer. Something worse. It’s not anger.
It’s fear.
Tears fill my eyes, blurring the glowing floor numbers above the doors.
“You’re just… giving up?” I whisper. “You’re going to leave us? Without even trying?”
A breath shudders out of me. “Don’t you… Don’t you want to see Dad walk me down the aisle someday?” My voice cracks, and I can barely get the next part out. “Mom… I want to watch you… love my kids… the way you have loved me.”
It hurts to say the words, like they’re knives in my chest. “I don’t know how to do this without you,” I whisper. My voice cracks with every word. “I don’t want to be brave.” The sobs break free, choking me. “I just… I want my mom.”
Ding.
The elevator doors slide open. I can’t breathe. I don’t wait for them. Tears blur my vision as I run through the hallway, searching for the bathroom like it’s the only thing keeping me from drowning.
I burst into the bathroom, grip the sink with both hands, and lean over, sobbing so hard my body shakes. My tears hit the tile floor, one by one, like they’re trying to echo how broken I am.
I look up.
Wow, I look terrible.
My hair is a mess, my eyes red and swollen, my cheeks blotchy like I held it together just long enough for someone to ask if I was okay.
Well… I guess skipping makeup was the right move.
I turn on the cold water and splash my face, again and again, until the sting fades and my chest stops burning. It helps.
Barely.
I stare at the girl in the mirror. Cracked. Pretending. Holding the mask tight enough to keep it from falling… but my arms are tired. I can’t keep holding it much longer. Then my stomach lurches.
I slap a hand over my mouth and make it into a stall just in time. My world is falling apart, and I can’t do anything to stop it. I feel helpless.
After throwing up my coffee, I lean against the cold wall, breathing slowly.
In for four seconds. Out for four seconds. In for four seconds. Out for four seconds.
I wipe my mouth, flush, and stare at myself in the mirror again. It’s not a perfect reflection. But it’s someone trying. Someone holding it together, just enough.
I dry my hands, take one more steady breath, tug at my clothes, and I step back into the waiting room. The low hum of voices surrounds me, families whispering, nurses tapping on keyboards, the distant buzz of machines.
Then…
“Alice Anderson.”
My mom’s name.
My watch vibrates on my wrist, warning me that my heart rate’s too high. Don’t fall apart, Lila… not today. But it’s too late… the panic attack has already settled in, waiting to demolish me one second at a time. I look down at my watch.
118 BPM.
133 BPM.
148 BPM.
My breathing turns heavy. Cold tingles crawl from my hands up to my neck. I feel every pound in my chest, and it only fuels the panic.
Oh my God, I’m going to have a heart attack.
The knot in my throat chokes my words before they can even form. Mom walks to me and takes my hand. Her other hand brushes down my arm, her thumb resting over the watch like she can soothe it through sheer love.
Damn it. My heart.
I take a deep breath in through my nose as we walk together toward the nurse. She sees right through my glass mask.
The watch goes quiet, not because I steadied myself but because she did. My heart rate settles, and the grief returns. I should be the one comforting her. She is the one stepping into the unknown. And still she worries for me, holding my mask when I can no longer hold it.
This.
This is why I can’t lose her. She is my comfort. My rock. My home. And I don’t know who I’ll be or what I’ll become…if she’s gone.