Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
TURNING POINT
Celeste
I've lived in my new house for three weeks now, and, while the place is a Mediterranean masterpiece perched on the cliffside, it echoes with emptiness.
Only Rosa, with her gentle humming and the scent of lemon polish that follows her, is keeping me sane, but I can't lean on her weathered shoulders all the time.
And it's been a soul-crushing few weeks.
My mother got the results back from her last scans and the news crashed down like a wrecking ball.
The cancer has spread like ivy through her lymph nodes and nearby tissues.
Her tumors sit stubborn and defiant, refusing to shrink under the assault of chemicals that leave her skin sallow and her bathroom floor littered with strands of once-vibrant hair.
Her doctors keep trying different cocktails of medicine with names I can barely pronounce, but they haven't yet found the key that will unlock her healing.
And it's only a matter of time before the disease, hungry and relentless, spreads to a distant organ like her bones, lungs, liver or brain and becomes metastatic cancer —medical shorthand for "prepare yourself. "
I've been carrying this knowledge like stones in my pockets. Every night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling until dawn breaks. I feel like I’m living alone on the moon when I'm at the Malibu house, floating in a vacuum of silence.
The nearest neighbor is hidden behind a mile of twisted cypress trees, their shadows stretching like fingers across Max's manicured lawn at sunset.
I come home every evening to a dark and quiet house—my wing with its separate entrance might as well be on another continent—and sit on my balcony, where the railing is always cold against my bare feet.
The Pacific stretches before me, black and bottomless, its waves hissing secrets I can't decipher while I huddle under a cashmere throw that costs more than my first car.
I keep waiting for those rhythmic crashes to lull me into peace. But they don't.
And I've never in my life felt so thoroughly, completely alone.
Of course, people at work have noticed the change.
I catch Elaine's concerned glances through the glass wall of my office, where I've been hiding behind my laptop screen like it's a shield.
The fluorescent lights seem harsher now as I slink from my sanctuary only for mandatory meetings, my voice barely rising above a whisper when I present development notes.
The hallways echo with laughter I no longer contribute to.
Bob turned 50 and the office went nuts—those stupid mylar balloons kept bumping against the ceiling all day, making that squeaky rubber sound that sets my teeth on edge.
On another day, Symone wouldn't stop flashing her new three-carat princess cut, practically dislocating her wrist to make sure everyone noticed.
Yesterday, Alicia's desk vanished under about fifty roses for her work anniversary, and I swear that sickly-sweet smell seeped under my door no matter how hard I tried to keep it out.
The break room's basically a graveyard of half-eaten sheet cakes, that waxy frosting that glues your mouth shut.
I used to be first in line for a corner piece, clinking plastic champagne flutes like I belonged.
Now? I'd rather eat glass than join their little celebration circle.
It's like I woke up one day and forgot all the steps to their office dance.
I can't lose her. She's been my rock my entire life.
After my father died, when I was 15 and Lexi was 10, it was just the three of us against the world.
Mom somehow made sure our fridge stayed full and the electricity never got cut off, but it was more than that.
She's the woman who taught me to parallel park at midnight in an empty grocery store lot, who still sends me New Yorker cartoons that make me laugh, who knows exactly how to fold fitted sheets into perfect rectangles.
There are so many memories that would vanish with her—the three of us in Vegas, Mom in that sequined vintage dress she found at Goodwill, dancing under strobe lights until our feet blistered.
She'd always walk away from the blackjack tables with more chips than she started with, her eyes gleaming.
The three of us skiing in Big Bear, our breath clouding in the thin mountain air, Mom having saved all year for those precious forty-eight hours.
Our sun-drenched Disneyland pilgrimages, sticky with cotton candy and exhaustion.
But more than those postcard moments, I'd miss our book club for two—her curled on one end of our threadbare couch, me on the other, debating character motivations over mugs of Earl Grey until midnight, even though it's been fourteen months since we last dissected someone's prose together.
I remember all those nights she'd sit with me after yet another rejection letter arrived.
"Screenplay number seventeen isn't dead," she'd say, pouring more wine.
"It just needs revision." Then she would remind me to keep going.
“Thomas Edison tried 2,774 different filaments before he got one to work," she'd say, squeezing my shoulder.
Or she'd quote Babe Ruth about how each strikeout brought him closer to his next home run.
If cancer takes her, will my dreams follow her into the darkness?
Or would abandoning them be the real betrayal?
I'd miss those midnight talks on the porch swing, her arm around my shoulders while I sobbed over yet another breakup.
"Listen to me," she'd whisper, her voice steady even at 3 AM.
"That boy doesn't deserve a single second of your time.
You only get so many seconds in this life, Celeste.
Don't give them to people who won't treasure them." And now, I’m seeing the truth in her words - that you only get so many seconds in your life. They’re finite and will one day run out. And yet, I’m wasting precious seconds of my life with Max.
Seconds that would be better spent with the people who love me.
It’s only a year. I have to tell myself that.
But how many seconds will I have wasted on Max if I actually do make it through the year?
I Google this and the answer is 31,536,000 seconds.
Or, like the famous song from Rent, 525,600 minutes.
I blink back tears. My mother told me not to waste a single second on people who don’t love me, who don’t treasure me, who don’t see me.
And, goddamn it, I’ll be wasting over 31,000,000 seconds on somebody who, quite frankly, doesn’t deserve me.
Then, one night, I get a phone call that crystallizes everything for me. A call that puts things into such a perspective that I absolutely know it’s time to do whatever it takes to get out of this deal.
“Hi, Lex,” I say to my sister when she calls.
“Celeste,” she shrieks, hysterical. “I’m at Cedars. It’s Mom.”
My heart plummets to my shoes. No. No. No. NO!!!!!
“Is she-”
“She’s in critical condition, Celeste. A bladder infection that’s turned septic in a hurry. They’re giving her antibiotics, but-”
“On my way.”
And, just like that, my mind crystallizes into a single, desperate thought.
I'll race to Cedars-Sinai and kneel on those cold hospital tiles, begging whatever god might listen that Mom somehow survives.
The word "sepsis" echoes in my head like a death knell—blood poisoning that could steal her from me in hours.
My stomach twists into a painful knot. If she makes it through or if she—no, I can't even complete the thought without my throat closing up.
Either way, I'm escaping this gilded cage with Max.
I just need to plot my exodus from this Malibu prison.
I stumble toward my Prius, keys jingling in my trembling hand, when I spot Rosa standing sentinel in the driveway, her silver-streaked black hair pulled into its usual tight bun.
Her weathered face creases with concern as she steps forward, blocking my path.
She's always had a sixth sense for my distress, noticing what Max's cold green eyes never bother to see.
"Celeste," she says, her warm brown hand enveloping mine. Her dark eyes scan my face like she's reading a tragic novel. "Where are you off to in such a hurry, child?"
My lips quiver as I try to speak, but instead, hot tears spill down my cheeks, leaving mascara trails I can feel but don't care about.
The words about Mom remain trapped behind a wall of panic.
My entire body trembles like I'm standing in a blizzard rather than the seventy-degree Malibu sunshine.
I yank open my car door in desperation, but Rosa firmly pushes it closed with a decisive thud.
"Celeste," she says, her Jamaican accent thickening with emotion. "You can't drive like this. You'll wrap yourself around a telephone pole because you won't see nothing through those tears. Let me drive you."
I nod weakly, surrendering my keys. "Cedars," I manage to whisper through lips numb with fear. "Please."