8. Rory
Rory
My heart pounds in my chest, and the edges of my vision blacken.
It’s the same feeling I had when Mom first told me she was sick, that morning not too long ago.
She hadn’t felt great for a while, she said. No big deal.
She thought it was the flu, then maybe another virus, but when it didn’t go away, she went to the doctor, where they ran some tests and found “a little something.”
“The little something” was a growth of some kind. She was going to have surgery to sort out exactly what it was.
When she told me there was a growth of some kind, my heart dropped to my feet, my mind jumping straight to cancer.
Old people get cancer. Not my mom. She’s only sixty. She should have years ahead of her.
What did she do to deserve this?
I grip the hard plastic of the chair. My head spins, and if I don’t hold on, I feel like I may fall to the ground.
I’ve had almost a week to process the idea, and it’s not getting any easier.
At one point, I thought I was almost coming to terms with it. I’d even gotten comfortable enough with the situation that I was annoyed that they told Dylan first, well before they told me.
Of all the emotions I’ve experienced in the last week, I thought the uncertainty was perhaps the worst.
Clearly, though, I was wrong.
Nothing could have prepared me for this wave of despair.
“I’m so sorry,” the surgeon says again, shifting in his seat as he looks from me to Dad, then to Dylan and back to me.
The four of us are seated in a circle in this small space off the waiting room next to the OR. Dad and Dylan and I have been here for hours, waiting to hear any update while Mom has been in surgery.
When the surgeon knocked on the door, his expression made my heart drop.
I don’t remember his name. I’m not sure I’ll remember his face, either, although the sadness in his eyes, the way his forehead wrinkles with concern, makes me feel like he genuinely is sorry.
The doctor leans forward, his forearms on his thighs and his fingers laced together. “The cancer is so extensive that we can’t resect all of it. It’s invading other organs.”
I blink. What does that even mean?
He must see the question in my eyes, or have been doing this for a very long time, because he gives us a few seconds to absorb what he’s said so far before he elaborates.
“We can offer radiation and chemotherapy, but those will be palliative. That means that the goal of treatment isn’t to cure the cancer. It’s to slow the growth so she can have more time, although both options come with their own sets of side effects.”
More time.
My mind flashes back to what I thought was the shittiest week of my life. The week I lost my job and got dumped, when I left my apartment with what little I owned in the back of my worn-out truck.
I laugh, the sound bitter to my own ears.
Looking back, it’s almost comical. How I thought that was rock bottom, at the time.
Live and learn, right?
Dad looks at me, his brows furrowed. He’s probably concerned about me, given my inappropriate laughter.
Maybe I am losing it.
The surgeon takes it in stride, though, likely used to any number of bizarre reactions this kind of news. He really is good at his job.
It’s too bad that you can be the best in the world at a job like this, and there are still people you can’t save.
“I’ll work with you to explore all the options available, and we’ll come up with a plan that will be the best for all of you. I do think hospice will be an option, and I’d encourage you to explore it and learn more, at the very least. If you’re okay with it, I can put the referral in today.”
I zone out as I try to make sense of his words. Do we have months left? Weeks?
Maybe it’s me, once again. There’s something toxic about me that ruins everyone around me.
It was just a matter of time before my bad luck caught up to my parents.
Once the doctor leaves, the three of us sit in stunned silence.
It’s only when a nurse enters to tell us that Mom is ready to move from the post-op area to a hospital room that I realize my world is spinning, that things are still moving forward outside of this small space where time seemed to stand still.
“She’s still sleepy, but she’ll be able to have more visitors later. Would one of you like to sit with her?”
Dylan and I look at Dad, but he’s still frozen, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap.
Dylan clears his throat. “I’ll sit with Mom. Rory, can you drive Dad home?”
The ride back to Mom and Dad’s house is only five minutes, but it feels like hours.
Dad sits stiffly beside me, his eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears.
It’s such a change from the man I grew up with that I’m not even sure how to react.
Dad was always the backbone of our family. The one who made sure bills got paid, that things were packed for family trips.
While Mom is the one I turn to for comfort, Dad is the one who gets things done.
To see him unable to move like this tilts my world on its axis.
Even when we pull into the driveway, I have to walk around the Jeep to open his door before he makes a move to get out of the vehicle.
I push open the front door and, when he seems unable to decide which direction to go, guide him to his favorite recliner in the living room.
“Do you want to, um, talk?” I ask. “Or just…company?”
I’m not sure I’ll be good at either right now, but it feels like I should offer to do…something.
I’m relieved when he shakes his head, because honestly, I’m having trouble processing this whole thing, too.
I pat the back of his chair. “Okay. I’ll be upstairs, but I’ll check on you in a little while. Dylan said he’d text me when Mom is more awake from her surgery, and we can go back to the hospital and see her, so I’ll let you know.”
Another small nod is the only indication that Dad heard me.
Upstairs, I wait until Spam scampers into the room, then close the door to my childhood bedroom before he can escape.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and type out a text to Stacey.
Stacey
Time for that drink. Meet at High Times this evening?
I manage to hit Send.
And then I slide to the ground, my back against the door. Spam jumps into my arms, and I hold him close.
And then I finally let myself cry.
“What kind of mood are you in? Wine, beer, or hard stuff?” Stacey leans on the bar at High Times.
Unlike the rustic charm of the Church Bar, High Times has a more sleek, modern aesthetic.
The bar is made of shiny black granite, with backlit shelving for the bottles.
Fancy lighting hangs from the ceiling, and even the floor tile has a modern, funky vibe with blue and orange hues that complement the walls.
I don’t really give a crap what it looks like, though. As long as there are drinks that will help me forget about Nate and everything going on with Mom.
“Vodka.” My voice is flat, almost bordering on the way Allie sounded back in college, before she started her medication.
From being there for her through those dark days to when she finally got diagnosed and found meds that helped her to be herself again, I know what depression looks like.
This isn’t that, at least not in a clinical sense. But even so, it doesn’t feel good.
I’m not happy, though, and it’s tough to remind myself that this won’t be forever. At the same time, I’m not dumb enough to think that alcohol can wash away all of the grief and sadness.
It seems to dull the pain for a little while, though, and that’s what I need right now.
At least until the morning, when I’m sure I’ll wake up with a killer hangover.
But while sitting at the bar, it seems like a good idea to drown things out.
Like Nate’s memory. It’s almost like I can’t escape it. Even now, I hear his voice, like he’s right here.
The bartender slides a glass of wine toward Stacey and a short glass filled with clear liquid toward me.
The ice cubes clink against one another in the vodka.
I focus on that sound, doing what I can to ground myself in this moment, away from every other part of my life.
I pluck the lime from the edge of the glass and squeeze, but I hear it again, louder. Nate’s voice.
Startled, I drop the lime completely into my drink. A few drops of vodka splash onto the bar as I try to maintain my cool.
Because that’s not a memory. That’s definitely Nate’s voice behind me.
I take a deep breath, then a long sip from the glass to fortify myself.
What the hell is he doing here?
Stacey and I are at High Times because Nate doesn’t come here.
Maybe we should have taken that cue from Gilmore Girls after all and passed out ribbons to designate who gets which spot in town.
Blue for Church, pink for High Times, obviously. Then we wouldn’t be in this situation.
I maintain a death grip on the glass as I turn slowly.
And there he is, every inch of his body familiar to me.
I know the exact moment he sees me, too, because he freezes, his gaze on me.
The guys with him—Travis and Lawton, two of his coworkers from the police force—don’t notice me, continuing to talk and laugh until they turn to him.
Then their smiles fade as they take in the situation.
I clench my jaw, hoping it hides the pain I’m sure is in my expression.
Why is he here? He goes to Church Bar. Not High Times.
We’ve even talked about this.
How every adult in town seems to have a favorite. That there’s so little overlap between the patrons of each bar.
When I once asked if we should try High Times, he gave me an impassioned speech, listing all the reasons that Church is his favorite.
There’s no way he should be at this bar. If I’d thought there was any chance he would be, I wouldn’t have come.
My heart beats faster in my chest as my breath grows ragged, like I can’t get enough oxygen.
Is this what a panic attack feels like?
I whirl back around to face the bar and elbow Stacey with my free arm as I bring the glass to my lips.
I take a large sip, downing half the drink in one go, then cough at the sharp taste.
“What?” Stacey takes a ladylike sip of her chardonnay, oblivious to my imminent meltdown or the urgency of the situation.
I cough again, but the burn as the vodka slides down my throat makes up for the taste.
“Nate,” I hiss in an exaggerated whisper, both hands gripping my drink. “Don’t look. He’s over there.”
She looks around—exactly what I said not to do—and her eyes widen when she sees the men.
“Oh. They look…” Stacey turns back to me mid-sentence, and she must finally take in my expression of panic because she shifts gears almost seamlessly. “I can’t believe they’re here. What do you want to do?”
“We should go.” I focus on downing my drink in record time, because as much as I want to not be here right now, I paid for this drink, and I’m not letting Nate ruin anything else.
The straight-up liquor is more than I’m used to. I can’t exactly chug it, but I manage to get most of it down in a few gulps.
I set the nearly empty glass down. Setting my palms flat on the bar top, I lean on my arms for a second, just to gather my strength.
And that’s when I feel it.
A drop of awareness that trickles down the length of my spine.
The woodsy scent of pine and cedar.
And a presence that I’m all too familiar with.
Nate has this way of just being. He commands attention, even without trying. When he’s near me, it’s like a magnetic force.
I used to love it, basking in that sense of power and protection.
Now, though, it feels like an ocean wave that’s about to take me under.