Chapter 20
JORDAN
· FIVE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS EARLIER — FEbrUARY ·
“Colton and Miles just pulled into the driveway,” Mom says as she walks into the kitchen, sorting through the mail.
“Cool.” I tilt my cereal bowl up to my mouth and swallow the rest of the milk before unscrewing the lid from the milk carton on the table and polishing off the rest of that too. Then I toss the carton into the air, arcing it perfectly so it hits the wall by the trash and bounces right into the recycling can. Raising my arms in victory, I say, “Mom, please tell me you saw that.”
“If you chip the paint on that wall, you’re painting it,” Mom answers, unamused. “And did you seriously go through another gallon of milk?”
I stand up and throw my arms wide. “I’m a growing boy, Mom. You can’t stop this.” I pick my coat off a kitchen chair. “Besides, I only have so much longer to mooch off you, so I gotta take advantage.”
She rolls her eyes. “I can’t wait till you start buying your own groceries.”
“Less than four months. Admit it, you’re going to miss me.”
“Nope, it will be nothing but freedom over here.” Where other mothers break down in tears at even the mention of their kids going off to college, Mom’s eyes are nothing but dry deserts. But that’s just Mom. She’s tough as nails.
“Come on, Mom. You’re going to miss me.” I pinch two fingers together. “Just a little.”
I open my arms to clobber her with an obnoxious hug, but she slaps me with the mail.
“Get outta here,” she says.
A car horn honks outside, and I shrug on my coat, ready to endure the frozen tundra that is Pine Lakes in the winter, when I remember the last-minute change to the assembly schedule. “Oh yeah, Mom, they changed the assembly schedule today.” I shove a pair of gloves into my coat pocket. “The mascot-reveal assembly is now on March first at two o’clock.”
Mom shuffles over to the calendar with a pen, and her expression instantly changes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Oh,” she says, looking bothered. “I just have a doctor’s appointment scheduled at that time.”
I lean over the counter and give her my most deflated look. “C’mon, Mom. You’d rather go to the doctor’s office than watch your only child take off a smelly grizzly-bear head in front of the whole school?” Then I give her puppy-dog eyes.
Mom chews on the side of her cheek, thinking. Honestly, I’m surprised she hasn’t caved yet. The puppy dogs get her every time.
“You can pee in a cup anytime,” I remind her. “But I’ll only have one mascot reveal.”
“Okay.” She sighs, crossing off her appointment on her calendar and scribbling in the assembly.
“Great.” I slap the counter and wave. “I’ll be back by twelve. Or one. Or two.”
“You’ll be back by midnight,” Mom says.
“Yeah, sure.” I fling the door open, and a rush of snow flurries enters the house. Then I shut it before Mom rethinks my curfew and makes it eleven.
· MARCH ·
“You ready for this?” Paige asks as the two of us stand just under the bleachers in the school gym. She holds the patchy-furred bear head that completes my mascot ensemble.
I bounce from one foot to the other and jab the air with my paws while my mascot pump-up playlist blares into my ear from an earbud. “Let’s do this.”
Paige laughs. “I saw your mom come in. She’s sitting next to Principal Henderson on the risers.”
“Oh good. I’m glad they showed her where to sit.”
Feet clatter above us as students take their places on the bleachers. I’ve been the school mascot pretty much since I moved here, so I’ve never been a part of a mascot-reveal assembly before. But from what my friends tell me and all the talk I’ve heard from other students in the school, people really look forward to this event. The mystery of who’s under the mascot head has had people speculating for almost two years now. No pressure.
“Okay, I think I’m going to lose my lunch,” I tell Paige, feeling queasier the louder the gym gets.
Paige sets the costume head down and puts her hands on my furry shoulders. “You are Jordan Samuel Miller. You're fearless. And if you get through this, I’ll treat you to an Oreo milkshake.”
She drops her hands and smiles. And just like that, she’s calmed me in the way only Paige can.
“You’re the best.” I open my arms to her. “Who wants a bear hug?”
“Nooo!” She swats at me. “That thing is like a hundred years old and probably full of lice.”
Arms still extended, I step toward her, and she takes off running underneath the bleachers. I chase her through the jungle gym of bars and beams until I catch her and maul her hair with my bear paws.
“Miller, you’re on,” Coach Ramirez calls to me.
I step away from Paige, and she shoves me in the side. “You’re un bear able.” She tilts her head back with a snort, laughing at her own joke.
“You’re such a nerd.”
She frames her heart-shaped face with her hands and looks up at me, batting her eyes. “That’s why you like me.”
Oh, Paige, you have no idea.
I walk backward, away from her and closer to Coach. “Milkshakes tonight.” I point to her.
“Milkshakes.” She smiles back.
“Rawr.” I paw the air and give her a cheesy grin before putting the bear head on for the last time.
A few minutes later, I’m in the middle of the school gym doing a little hip-hop routine with the school dance team, and the crowd is going crazy. Right after the dance, the varsity cheerleaders encircle me in a canopy of glittery pom-poms as I take off my bear head and run a hand through my sweaty hair.
Over the noise, I barely register Vice Principal Mendel as he announces, “Let’s give a hand to our Pine Lakes High School mascot… Jordan Miller!”
The cheerleaders part, and I burst out, taking a few steps before tucking into a backflip. The crowd gets so loud that I can feel the floor beneath me start to reverberate.
“Jordan! Jordan! Jordan!” The crowd starts chanting with their fists pumping in the air.
I turn around, taking it all in. This far surpasses anything I ever imagined, and high on life, I do another backflip to thunderous applause before running full circle around the entire gym, slapping people’s hands and doing a few breakdance moves of my own invention.
When I come back around, I spot Mom laughing so hard that she’s holding her stomach. Jumping up onto the risers, I stand next to her, taking her hand and pulling her out of her seat before raising our hands high above us. As loud as I can, I yell, “Mama Bear!”
The crowd’s chant immediately switches. “Mama Bear! Mama Bear! Mama Bear!”
I kiss Mom on her forehead then run to the end of the riser and frontflip off. I look back at Mom, hoping she’s not too mad that I embarrassed her into the next century, but she’s still in the process of sitting down. Her hand clutches her stomach, pain etched across her face.
· MAY—TWO DAYS BEFORE GRADUATION ·
“I’ll be just a few minutes.” Mom closes the car door as she heads into the post office to mail a finished blanket for her quilting company. She looks tiny compared to the cardboard box in her hands. I can’t tell if it’s just a really big box with a really big blanket inside or if Mom’s getting thinner.
My phone buzzes.
Paige: Have you ever heard of Bubo’s Tacos in Cali? Ji was telling me that our new roommate is a local and says the taco place is amazing. Apparently, it’s this hole-in-the-wall restaurant that you can only get to by going through this really fancy hotel.
I smile at my phone as I put my feet on the dash and text back.
Jordan: Awesome! Add it to the list!
It’s been a month since Paige and I found out we got accepted to our first-choice schools in California, UC Berkeley for Paige and Stanford for me. The two schools are about an hour away, give or take time for traffic.
I open the Notes tab that Paige and I share entitled “California Dreamin’.” Cheesy, sure, but you can’t beat the Mamas and the Papas. I scroll through the list of restaurants, events, and concerts we want to experience together when we get there. In the middle of the list is “Jordan teaches Paige how to surf” in all caps. And you can bet I will follow through on that. Paige has wanted to surf for about as long as she’s wanted to go to the beach. And when Paige and I found out we would be going to California together, I was quick to volunteer as surf instructor. Paige made me pinky-promise that I would, like it will be some burden on me to teach her.
I grin. No, it won’t be a burden.
When Paige and I first met, she was getting over Ian, her boyfriend of two years. We just became really good friends, so much so that when I knew she was truly over Ian, it terrified me to tell her how I really felt about her. I was worried we might lose the relationship we had built if she didn’t like me the same way. But ever since we found out we’re going to college in the same state, I feel like the chemistry between us has intensified. It crackles whenever we’re around each other, and I can’t help but hope that she might like me back.
Well, that, and Missy has dropped some not-so-subtle hints that my feelings might be reciprocated.
I type “Sand Ridge Beach” next to surfing on our list. Immediately, Paige texts back.
Paige: Where’s Sand Ridge Beach?
Jordan: Patience, grasshopper. That is for me to know and you to find out.
Paige responds with an eye-roll emoji.
Sand Ridge Beach is one of my favorites. It’s beautiful, happy, and vibrant—everything that reminds me of Paige. And I know that as soon as we get to California, I’m going to take her there, and I will finally tell her how I feel.
Another buzz sounds in the car, and I look down to see that it’s coming from my mom’s phone in the cup holder. She must have forgotten it. It buzzes two more times, likely with a text from my aunt Linda, Mom’s sister, who’s deployed in Germany and is a notorious serial texter. I pick up Mom’s phone and begin to silence it when my eyes snag on a word in one of Aunt Linda’s texts. Oncologist.
I don’t know a ton about oncology, but I know it has something to do with cancer.
I have to read Aunt Linda’s message twice before my brain absorbs the meaning. My stomach bottoms out, and I open the full chat, scrolling up to the start of today’s messages.
Linda: I wish you would have told me sooner.
Sandy: I didn’t know for sure it was cancer until a couple weeks ago.
Linda: I thought you said your first appointment was last year?
Sandy: I went to my doctor at the end of last year, then she recommended I get some imaging done.
Sandy: I honestly didn’t think much of it. I was having some abdominal pain, but I didn’t think it was that serious. An imaging appointment was scheduled for March, but something important came up, and I had to reschedule. By then, they were so full, they couldn’t get me an appointment until two weeks ago.
Linda: Have you told Jordan?
Sandy: No. He needs to enjoy this time. He’ll never get these moments back. And he doesn’t need to add this to his plate. Stanford and leaving home is enough of an adjustment.
Sandy: I will find out the stage of the cancer at my appointment tomorrow.
Linda: Will you call me right after you meet with the oncologist?
Linda: I wish I didn’t live so far away.
Linda: I love you, San. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.
My heart is pounding against my ribs. Mom. Has. Cancer. Mom has cancer. I say the words again and again in my brain, but they don’t seem to lock into place. All the while, my stomach roils and the blood drains from my face, leaving me cold and nauseous.
Mom has cancer.
But she’s healthy. She’s been quilting and exercising and helping me get ready for college. How? And why didn’t she tell me months ago? She may have not known it was cancer until recently, but she could have let me know about her imaging appointment in March.
My heart plummets as I remember that conversation from February, the doctor’s appointment she had scheduled for March. The one I guilted her into ditching so she could come to the mascot assembly.
No, no, no, no. Mom.
The door pops open. “Okay, off to the grocery store,” Mom says as if the world is still spinning when, in fact, everything around me feels like it has stopped.
Looking at Mom now, I feel like the rose-colored glasses have fallen off. She is thinner. And the pained expression she’s had over these past few months—that’s not just from stomachaches like she’s told me.
Mom has cancer.
“What? What’s wrong?” She stares at me, concerned for my well-being when I’m the one who should have been concerned for hers. When I should have put her health first three months ago.
I swallow before holding Mom’s phone out to her and letting my thoughts shape themselves into a terrifying reality. “You have cancer.”
· MAY — ONE DAY BEFORE GRADUATION ·
The next day, Mom and I sit in Dr. Sanchez’s sterile office, waiting for her to come in. Mom holds out a cinnamon mint from a little tin in her purse. “Here, try one. It will rip your tastebuds to shreds, but they’re pretty good.”
I mumble something.
She retracts the offering. “No? Okay.” Mom pops it into her mouth before snapping the container shut. She’s acting like it’s just another day when, in fact, I can see her fingers trembling as she puts the tin back in her purse.
I put my arm around the back of her chair, and she leans into me.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Mom.” I don’t know why I say it. Everything is not okay. Mom is sick, and since finding out yesterday, the weight of it has crushed me as I replay how I twisted her arm into coming to that stupid assembly when she could have been at her doctor’s appointment, getting the help she desperately needed.
“Sorry for the wait.” Dr. Sanchez comes in with an awkwardly compressed smile, like someone took a normal grin and blended it with a pint of bad news. My weight shifts further into the seat as I brace for words I’m not ready to hear.
Dr. Sanchez sits on her rolling stool as she talks to us about Mom’s blood results before pulling up images from the CT and MRI scans. So many gray, white, and black shapes litter the screen that I can’t tell what is what, but Dr. Sanchez quickly points to the areas of concern, showing us the growth on Mom’s ovary.
Mom nods, seeming to take everything in stride, but my lungs feel like they are about to explode. I take in a deep breath, but it does nothing to relieve the pressure mounting in my chest.
Eyeing the patch of cancer on the screen, I pull Mom closer to me.
Too quickly, Dr. Sanchez clicks on another image. “This is your pelvis.” She looks at Mom and then points to one of the little masses on the screen. “This right here indicates that the cancer has spread from your ovaries to the uterus. When the cancer starts to grow into the surrounding pelvic region, that is considered stage two ovarian cancer. Based on clinical staging, your cancer is stage two, but we’ll know more about the cancer's growth when we’ve obtained biopsies from surgery.”
I grip Mom’s hand, and she wraps her cold, bony fingers around mine.
“What is the treatment?” I ask.
“With stage one, we can usually treat it through surgery, but since the cancer has started to spread, we’ll need to do surgery along with chemotherapy to stop the cancer's growth and minimize the chances of reoccurrence.”
Dr. Sanchez places her hands in her lap and looks directly at us. “I know this is a lot to take in. But I am here to help you get the best care, and if you ever have any questions, please ask.”
My brain is yelling at me, telling me not to ask the question that’s on the tip of my tongue. The question of a conscience draped in guilt. But because I have to know, I push the words out of my mouth. “How fast does this kind of cancer grow?”
Mom looks at me strangely, but Dr. Sanchez addresses my question without hesitation.
“With the kind of cancer your mom has, the cancer cells can quickly spread within weeks or months,” she says. “But with the treatment plan, we will….”
The rest of Dr. Sanchez’s words are fogged out by the dark cloud overtaking my brain. Mom’s cancer could have spread within weeks or months.
Because of me, her cancer has had three more months to grow. Three months when she could have been getting treatment, when maybe her cancer could have been contained within one location, when her treatment could have been surgery without chemotherapy.
Guilt wraps around my body, consuming me until I feel suffocated by all the what-ifs.
My mom’s fingers tremble in mine, and when I look down at her, for the first time I can remember, I watch as a tear escapes her eye.
Heartbreak and guilt knife into my ribs as I pull my mom into a hug. “We’re going to get through this together,” I tell her. “I won’t leave your side.”