Chapter Twenty Bianca
Chapter Twenty
Bianca
The sterile smell of the treatment room was familiar.
She sat in the vinyl chair, arm outstretched, skin cold beneath the alcohol swab, and waited for the nurse to hook her up to the IV.
The port beneath her collarbone ached every time the needle went in, but she didn’t flinch.
She had already prepared herself for the pain.
A tote bag full of books rested at her feet and a Yeti filled with ginger tea sat on the table nearby.
The treatments before had stripped everything from her—her hair, her appetite, her energy, her dignity.
She remembered the day she stood in front of the mirror and saw the first bald patch.
She’d stared at her reflection, stunned by how hollow her eyes had become, how foreign her body looked.
That night, she had shaved her head for the first time, not for control or vanity—but because she couldn’t bear to watch herself disappear piece by piece.
“Let me help,” Remi had said gently. She had taken the clippers and trimmed Bianca’s head almost bald.
They’d done it together in the quiet of Bianca’s bathroom. There were no tears, no music, just silence except for the buzz from the clippers. When it was over, Remi had touched Bianca’s bare scalp and kissed her forehead.
“You’re still you,” Remi had whispered.
The mastectomy came after the third round of chemo, when the tumor hadn’t shrunk enough.
It felt like a punishment—another part of herself gone.
Her femininity, her sensuality, everything she’d held close reduced to scars and skin she didn’t recognize.
And though she’d had her breast reconstructed, it was nothing like having her own.
Harry was already gone by then, but Remi was there through it all.
She’d held Bianca’s hand after the surgery.
She sat beside her during the nights Bianca woke up in a cold sweat, unsure if she was alive or dreaming.
She answered the calls when no one else did.
The times that Bianca had cried, Remi never told her to be strong.
She just let her fall apart. And that—more than any chemo or other treatment—was what helped her survive.
This time would be different, though. This time she’d be alone.
Remi wouldn’t be there to hold her hand, to help shave her head, to be her support, to play Prince’s “Kiss” over and over again.
Now, three years after her first fight with cancer, the scars remained, but so did she.
Bianca had made it through the first time, not whole—but alive.
And she only hoped she’d make it through unscathed this time too.
She returned to her place on Bodega Bay, with its beauty and untamed quietness.
The sun was light and warming, but the wind still carried a chill with it at night.
Bianca reclined on the sofa with a woven blanket draped over her legs to shield her from the cool air.
The chemo had left her drained, nauseous, fatigued, and brittle.
Her skin was pale, and not even the summer sun could change that.
The television was low and unintelligible. A mug of tea sat cooling on the coffee table, half full and long forgotten. She had drifted off to sleep sometime around noon. Her bones ached. When she awoke the sun gave light into the room. She reached for her phone on the end table. It was five thirty.
There was one unread message: Mom, I’m flying into New Orleans tomorrow. Can you pick me up at the airport? My flight gets in at three o’clock.
And below it, ten minutes later: Never mind. I called Dad. Should’ve known you were too busy.
Bianca sat up slowly, the weight of the words heavier than the blanket on her legs.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. Too busy.
She stared at the phone, willing herself to call, to text, to explain.
But the feeling didn’t come, only the quiet crash of the waves against the shore from the open patio door.
She leaned forward, pressing her elbows to her knees, head in her hands.
Everything ached—her body, her pride, her motherhood.
She contemplated informing Mila where she was, letting her know that she had not gone back to New Orleans as planned but was still in California.
Bianca didn’t want anyone to know she was still close by.
She blinked away the burn in her eyes, then pushed herself up.
She made her way to the kitchen, poured out the cold tea, and started a fresh cup.
Bianca stood at the counter, watching the kettle begin to steam.
She thought of Mila in high school—how fiercely independent she’d been, how easily she had let that independence excuse the growing distance between them.
She’s strong, she’d told herself. She doesn’t need me like that.
But the truth was, Mila always needed her, just not in ways Bianca knew how to give.
And so Mila had leaned on Harry. They had bonded in a way Bianca had never managed to replicate.
He understood her humor, her moods, her silences.
He showed up at recitals, parent-teacher conferences, all of it.
He saw her. Bianca hadn’t been jealous of their relationship—not exactly, but she noticed.
The way Mila lit up around him. The way she trusted him.
And then came the divorce, and that was the quiet death of everything.
Bianca reached for the kettle and poured the water slowly into her cup.
She sat down at the kitchen table and dialed Mila’s number.
There was no answer. She opened her messages again and scrolled to Mila’s last text.
She stared at it for a moment, then typed: I’m sorry I missed your message.
You’re right … I haven’t shown up when it matters, but I want to change that. I’m trying. Please don’t give up on me.
She sat with the message, debating whether to send it or not. Then she hit Send. There was no immediate reply. She had lost her. Again.
Bianca reached for her phone again, her thumb hovering over Mila’s message thread.
There was no reply yet, just the blue check marks confirming the message had been read.
She sighed, then stepped out onto the deck.
A cool breeze brushed against her face, and the sun was low now.
She needed to see Mila and talk to her, but she didn’t want anyone to know where she was.
A part of her wanted to fight the cancer alone this time, but another wanted to hash things out with her daughter, or at least give it a try.
She sat with the phone on her lap, watching light fade across the floorboards of the porch.
The sun was going down. She unlocked her phone again, opening the message thread.
Still no response. Her thumb hovered, then slowly typed: I’m at this address.
If you are free, maybe you can come here instead of going to New Orleans.
Maybe we can talk, yell, or sit in silence.
I’m here. Please don’t share my location with anyone. I’ll explain when … if you come.
Bianca hit Send and then set down the phone.
She exhaled through the tightness in her chest and leaned back against the chair.
No reply came right away, and she didn’t expect one.
The longer she sat, the more the air cooled as dusk approached.
Her body was heavy, the ache in her bones more prevalent now.
She stood slowly and stepped back inside, leaving on the porch light—just in case.
In the living room, she stretched her body along the couch, pulled the blanket over her legs, and let her eyes close. Sleep came for her quickly.
The sound of a car door slamming jolted her upright.
Bianca blinked, disoriented, her heart thudding in her chest. She glanced toward the window.
A shadow moved across the porch. And then there was a light tap on the screen door.
It wasn’t loud, but enough to shake her fully awake.
She pushed aside the blanket and stood up slowly.
Bianca opened the door, just in time to see the black Toyota pull away from the curb.
“Mila.”
“You told me to come,” she said softly.
Bianca stood frozen for a moment, as if moving might make her daughter vanish before her very sleepy eyes. Her heart smiled.
She stepped aside. “Come in, baby.”
Mila slowly stepped inside, her eyes scanning the place. “This is nice.”
Bianca smiled. “I like it. It’s very peaceful and calming here.”
Mila set down her bag and turned to her mother, brow furrowed. “Mom, why are you here and not at home? What’s going on?”
“Let’s sit.” Bianca gestured toward the couch. Mila did as she was instructed.
Bianca took a seat next to her, close but not touching. “The cancer is back. And now it’s moved to my lymph nodes.” She admitted that quickly. She wanted to put it out there.
“What? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want anyone to know. I wanted to tackle it on my own,” she said. “I’m doing chemo. It’s hard and takes everything I’ve got most days. Which is why I couldn’t—”
“Go back to New Orleans,” Mila finished quietly.
Bianca nodded.
Mila exhaled, her eyes glassy now. “Is that why you left Napa … Aunt Remi’s so suddenly?”
Bianca hesitated. “For the most part—yes.”
“And you and Aunt Remi … you’re not speaking?”
“She told you that?”
“She didn’t have to. She hinted at it. But Zoe and I—we could tell.”
Bianca sighed. “We’ll work it out. We’ve been through worse,” she lied. Nothing was worse than what she was currently going through with Remi.
“Hope so,” Mila said. “You’ve been friends for like … forever.” Mila paused. “Does she know? About the cancer?”
“No,” Bianca said quickly. “No one does. And no one knows where I am, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Mom—”
“Mila, please.” Bianca’s voice wavered, but she held Mila’s gaze. “Let’s just keep this between us. For now. Please?”
Mila breathed deeply. “Okay.”