Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
CALEB
“Mom!” I shout again, stomach dropping to the floor.
No, no, no!
Silas sweeps her into his arms and lays her on the couch, and her eyes start to flutter open again.
Relief slams into me, but it’s short-lived.
“Mom!” I drop to my knees on the floor beside the couch, grabbing her hand up in mine. It’s cold as ice.
Check her pulse at her wrist: weak but steady.
Check her breathing: shallow but present.
Check her skin: pale. Too pale.
Check her eyes: unfocused but tracking.
Four checks. Even number. She’s alive. She’s here.
But something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.
“I’m fine,” she says, waving us off like she’s just dizzy. “Probably just stood up too fast.”
She tries to sit up, but both Silas and I immediately urge her to stay laid down. With a horrible sinking feeling, I realize how pale she is underneath her makeup.
How did I not notice before now?
I should have noticed.
I’ve been so distracted. Too distracted to notice your own mother is sick? For five years, I was so vigilant, being the good son and following my rules so strictly, then I dropped the ball and now—
“Mom,” I choke out, throat raw with tears I’m not allowing myself to shed. Not yet. Not in front of everyone.
I remember the last time she looked like this. The last time she fainted.
The chemo. The radiation. The way her skin turned translucent like paper. The way she’d smile and tell me everything was fine, even when I could see her hands shaking as she reached for the prescription bottles.
I was twelve then.
I try to say something. To ask another question.
To ask the question.
My jaw opens. Closes. Opens. Closes.
Four attempts. Even number.
My hands are shaking. I grip Mom’s hand tighter. Count her fingers wrapped around mine. Five fingers. Odd number. Wrong.
Breathe. Count to four. One. Two. Can’t get past two.
Try again. One. Two. Three. Can’t reach four.
I still can’t say it. Ask it.
The one I already know the answer to.
She’s looking anywhere except at me—at the Christmas tree, at Silas’s face, at her hands twisted together in her lap. All the places people look when they’re about to deliver news that destroys everything.
But when she finally meets my eyes, tears immediately well up in hers.
“I didn’t want to spoil the holidays,” she whispers, and a single tear crests, rolling down her carefully made-up cheek and cutting a clean line through the foundation she applied so carefully this morning. Foundation meant to hide how sick she is.
I’m shaking my head no, even as I reach up to swipe away her tear with my thumb.
No. No. No. No.
Four times. Even number. Make it not true.
The motion is automatic. Gentle. One swipe across her cheek.
Then another. Make sure I got it all.
Then another. Three swipes. Odd number.
One more. Four swipes total. Even. Balanced.
The same way I used to wipe away her tears when I was twelve and she’d try to hide how much the treatment hurt.
I still can’t speak. All I can do is just keep shaking my head in denial.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Not again. Not when she’s been five years in the clear. Not when we finally have a real family. Not when everything was supposed to be okay now.
“But tell me,” she says, and her voice goes urgent, almost frantic. Her cold hand squeezes mine with surprising strength. “Where did you see the motorcycle men? Around your school? Have they been bothering you?”
I just keep shaking my head no, unable to form words. My chest is shaking with a sob I refuse to let out. I can feel it building behind my ribs, clawing at my throat, demanding release.
But I won’t. I can’t.
If I start crying, I won’t stop.
Because it’s back.
The cancer’s back.
The thing I’ve spent five years trying not to think about.
The thing that’s lived in the back of my mind like a monster under the bed.
The reason I check on her breathing at night when I can’t sleep.
The reason I’ve built my entire life around being perfect enough, good enough, successful enough that she’ll have something to be proud of. Something to fight for.
And it didn’t matter.
None of it mattered.
“No,” Harper says from behind me, and her voice sounds small. Scared. Nothing like the Harper who was spitting fire thirty seconds ago. “Z said he saw them around the—Around y’all’s club. He saw Dad talking to someone with a Devil’s cut. Helen, are you okay?”
There’s a pause. I can feel Harper staring at the back of my head, trying to understand what’s happening. Trying to decode why I’m on my knees, why Mom’s crying, and why the entire energy of the room has shifted from anger to something else.
Something worse.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice cracks.
When nobody answers—when I can’t speak and Mom won’t speak and Silas is too busy holding Mom’s other hand—Harper’s voice gets louder. More desperate.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
I hear Silas take a breath. Steady himself.
“They found something on Helen’s scan when she went in last week,” he says, and even through my haze of panic, I can hear how carefully he’s choosing his words. How gentle he’s trying to be. “Her cancer’s back, honey.”
The room goes silent.
I still can’t look at Harper. Can’t turn around. Can’t do anything except stare at Mom’s face and watch more tears slide down her cheeks and feel my entire world crumbling into ash.
“We’ll fight,” Silas continues, and now his voice wavers. Just slightly. Just enough. “But—”
“But what?” Harper demands. “But what? What the fuck does that mean?”
“Harper—” Mom starts.
“No!” Harper’s voice is rising now, getting sharp and jagged. “What does that mean? You’re gonna be fine, right? You beat it before. You can beat it again. Right?”
Silence.
That’s the answer.
The silence.
“Right?” Harper says again, quieter this time. Pleading.
“We don’t know yet,” Mom says, and she’s using her mom voice now. The one that’s supposed to be comforting. The one that’s supposed to make everything okay. “They want me to come in after Christmas for more tests. Another biopsy. More imaging. We won’t know the full extent until—”
“The full extent.” I finally find my voice, and it comes out flat. Dead. “What’s the full extent right now? What did they see?”
Mom looks at me, and I watch her debate whether to tell me the truth or feed me a comfortable lie.
“Multiple nodules,” she says finally. “In both lungs.”
Both lungs.
The room tilts.
My brain immediately starts calculating:
Stage 4 lung cancer survival rate: 5-10% at five years.
Recurrent lung cancer survival rate: even lower.
Multiple nodules in both lungs: metastatic disease.
Metastatic disease: terminal.
No. Stop. Stop calculating. Stop—
But I can’t stop.
My brain is a machine, and the machine won’t turn off.
Time since last remission: 60 months. 1,825 days.
Average time to recurrence: 24-36 months.
She made it past that. She was supposed to be safe.
She was supposed to—
I’m twelve years old again, sitting in Dr. Patel’s office while she explained staging and treatment plans and survival rates. I’m twelve years old, trying to understand words like “metastasis” and “prognosis” and “palliative care.”
I’m twelve years old, and my mom might be dying.
No.
I’m seventeen, and my mom might be dying.
Again.
“Multiple nodules don’t necessarily mean—” Mom starts.
“Yes it does. You know it does.” My voice is too loud now. Too sharp. I can hear myself losing control, but I can’t stop it. “Multiple nodules in both lungs after lung cancer mean it’s metastasized. It means stage four. It means—”
“Caleb.” Mom’s voice cuts through my spiral. Firm. “We don’t know that yet.”
“But you suspect.” I’m standing now, though I don’t remember getting up.
When did I stand? How many seconds ago?
Count backward. Can’t. Lost track.
My hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets.
Can’t do the finger pattern. Hands shaking too hard.
Try anyway. Thumb to—can’t. Won’t work.
“That’s why you didn’t want to tell us. That’s why you’ve been so tired.”
Count the times she’s been tired this week: three times. Odd number.
She skipped dinner one night last week to nap. Wednesday. Four days ago.
Why wasn’t I fucking paying attention? Why wasn’t I counting? Why wasn’t I—
“That’s why you haven’t been eating. That’s why you—”
I can’t finish.
Can’t say the words that are crowding behind my teeth.
That’s why you’ve been saying goodbye.
All those little moments. The extra hugs. The way she squeezed my hand too tight last week when we were watching TV.
Monday: Three hugs instead of two.
Tuesday: She watched me leave for school from the window.
Wednesday: Extra-long hug before bed. Twelve seconds instead of four.
Thursday: She made my favorite dinner.
Friday: Told me she was proud of me. Four times in one day.
Saturday: Took a photo of me and Harper decorating the tree.
Sunday: Kept staring at me during the movie.
Seven days of goodbyes. Seven days, I didn’t understand.
She knew.
She’s known for at least a week.
And she didn’t tell me.
“I wanted one more normal Christmas,” Mom says, and now she’s really crying. Not delicate tears anymore but full sobs. “I wanted to give you boys one more perfect holiday before everything changed again. I wanted—”
I want to argue. Want to rage. Want to tear this whole perfect living room apart because none of it matters. The Christmas tree doesn’t matter. The presents don’t matter. The cinnamon rolls and the gas fireplace and the family we were supposed to be—none of it fucking matters if Mom is dying.
All 917 rules I’ve written. Everything. Everything. Everything.
None of it fucking matters if Mom is dying.
But I can’t say any of that.
So instead I just stand there, hands clenched into fists at my sides.
Fists. Both hands. Even number. Symmetrical.
My nails dig into my palms. Four fingers and a thumb on each side.
Breathing hard like I’ve been running.
Count the breaths: Too fast. Too many. Can’t count them. Lost the pattern.
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks.
The fire crackles.
Someone’s phone buzzes—Z’s probably, forgotten on the coffee table.
And Mom is still lying on the couch with gray-tinged lips and hollowed-out eyes and a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near her face.
“I’m going to be okay,” she says, and it’s not clear if she’s talking to me or Harper or herself. “We caught it early this time. We have options. Dr. Martinez is optimistic—”
“Dr. Martinez is always optimistic,” I hear myself say. Flat. Mechanical. “That’s her job.”
I know I’m being cruel. I know I’m making this worse. I know I should be comforting her, holding her, telling her everything’s going to be okay, like I did when I was twelve.
But I can’t.
Because this time I know better.
This time, I know what “multiple nodules” means.
This time, I know that “we’ll fight” is just another way of saying “we’re running out of options.”
“I need to—” I start, but I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
I need to leave. I need to scream. I need to break something. I need to rewind time and force her to tell me sooner so I could have—what? Done something? Fixed it?
But how? There’s certainly nothing I can do now.
That’s the worst part.
All my control, all my planning, all my rules and schedules and perfect behavior—none of it can stop this.
I can’t fix this.
I turn toward the stairs without another word.
“Caleb, wait—” Harper’s voice follows me, but I’m already moving.
I take the stairs two at a time, my vision blurring at the edges. I make it to my room and close the door behind me with a control I don’t feel. Gently. Carefully. Not slamming it, even though every cell in my body is screaming to destroy something.
Lock the door. Unlock it. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock—
Lost count, none of it matters—
I sink to the floor with my back against the door and fall the fuck apart.
The sobs come quietly at first. Then harder. Until I’m gasping for air, hands pressed over my mouth to muffle the sounds because even now, even in this, I can’t let them hear me break.
I can’t let Mom hear me crying.
She has enough to worry about without knowing I’m up here shattering into a thousand pieces.
So I cry silently into my hands, shoulders shaking, chest heaving, rocking back and forth and thinking about all the ways I’ve failed.
Failed to keep her safe.
Failed to notice she was sick again.
Failed to be good enough, perfect enough, strong enough to keep this from happening.
Failed.
Failed.
Failed.
Outside my door, I can hear muffled voices downstairs. Harper’s sharp tone. Silas’s deeper rumble. I can’t make out the words, but I don’t need to.
They’re talking about Mom.
About cancer.
About how our perfect Christmas morning just became the day everything fell apart.
Because this time, I’m old enough to understand exactly how bad this could be.
And there’s not a single thing I can do to stop it.