Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
One month later
HARPER
The keys to the Mustang feel heavier than they should in my hand. Like I’m not just holding metal, but trust. Responsibility. Maybe even a piece of Caleb.
He’s in the kitchen doorway, and he looks…
wrecked. Dark circles are carved under his eyes, and his shoulders are locked so tight I’m surprised he can breathe.
His debate team jacket hangs perfectly pressed on him, but the rest of him is unraveling.
His fingers twitch toward his phone like an addict reaching for a fix.
“I should go with her,” he says. Again. For the third time in five minutes. “I can miss one tournament.”
“Like hell you will.” Helen sweeps in behind him, purse already in hand, lunch bag swinging from her wrist. She’s dressed like she’s going to brunch with friends instead of chemo—soft yellow sweater, carefully applied lipstick, scarf knotted neatly at her throat.
She’s fighting for normalcy when nothing about this is normal.
“You’ve worked too hard to just stop at regionals your final year.
I won’t have you throwing that away because of my appointment. ”
“It’s not just an appointment, Mom. It’s—”
“It’s a Tuesday.” Her tone slices through his protest. Firm, no-nonsense. Final. “And Tuesday is chemo day. You have a debate team meet. How are you going to make it to State if you skip Regionals? Harper very kindly offered to drive me and sit with me. That’s that.”
But I see it—the tiny tremor in her hands as she adjusts her scarf, the split-second she braces against the counter before moving again.
She’s fighting to be strong for him.
He’s fighting to be strong for her.
I step in, sliding the bag off her wrist. “Come on. Traffic’s gonna be hell if we don’t leave soon.”
Caleb’s jaw flexes, grinding against invisible pressure. “Text me every hour. I mean it. Even if she seems fine, even if nothing’s happening, I want updates.”
“Caleb—” Helen tries, weary.
“Every hour,” he repeats, and now he’s staring straight at me.
I hold his gaze and nod once. “I’ve got her.”
He swallows hard, then pulls his mom into his arms. He holds her like she might vanish if he lets go, his face buried in her hair. She looks small and frail next to him. When he finally releases her, his eyes are glassy, but he doesn’t let the tears fall.
“Go win that tournament,” Helen murmurs, cupping his face in her hands like he’s still her little boy. “Make me proud.”
“You make me so proud every single day,” he whispers back.
I have to turn away and swallow hard, so I don’t fucking start crying at how much this family loves each other.
The cancer center smells like industrial disinfectant and sick people. The overhead fluorescents are too bright, the kind that buzz just enough to make your teeth ache, and the walls are plastered with motivational posters about “fighting the good fight.”
Whatever ambiance they were aiming for, they missed. Miserably. Soft, peppy jazz trickles from hidden speakers, like we’re in a hotel elevator instead of a place where people come to slowly poison themselves back to life.
Helen checks in at the front desk with practiced ease, smiling at the receptionist like they’ve been girlfriends for years. And maybe they have been. That thought twists something in my stomach hard enough to make me swallow back bile.
“How’s Caleb doing?” the receptionist asks, pulling up Helen’s chart.
“His debate team made it to Regionals,” Helen says, her voice lit with pride so strong it could power the entire damn building. “Area next if they win today, then on to State.”
“That’s wonderful! You must be so proud.”
“I am. He’s extraordinary.”
She says it like she’s naming a fact. The sky is blue. Gravity keeps us grounded. Caleb Graham is extraordinary. No hesitation, no caveat, no but if only. Just certainty. What’s it like, having someone believe in you like that?
We sit in the waiting area.
Helen flips through a magazine like she’s at the salon, calm and patient, while I can’t stop alternately shifting in my seat, tapping at my phone, and chewing on the inside of my cheek.
Around us are patients in every stage of this nightmare—scarves over bald heads, eyes sunken and skin too pale, each face stamped with that same quiet, grim determination.
“Helen Graham?” A nurse with a clipboard appears. “And you’re Helen’s daughter, right?”
My stomach lurches. “I’m—”
“Yes, she’s family,” Helen says smoothly, linking her arm through mine before I can correct the nurse. “She’s here to keep me company.”
Family. The word sticks in my throat.
The nurse leads us through a maze of beige hallways until we spill into a large room lined with reclining chairs and IV poles, like some dystopian living room. Helen moves to her assigned spot with the ease of routine.
“First time?” the nurse asks me, noticing how I’m just… frozen.
I nod. Words are impossible.
“You can pull that chair over.” She gestures kindly. “It gets easier after the first visit.”
Easier. Like watching someone you care about get pumped full of poison is something you can acclimate to. I’ve seen the aftermath of these sessions—the repeatedly flushing toilet, the muffled retching, Silas’s low voice coaxing Helen back to bed.
The nurse sets the IV with clinical efficiency. Helen doesn’t flinch or make a sound. She just settles back into her chair and pulls out a book, like this is all routine.
“It takes about three hours,” she says conversationally, like we’re grabbing lattes. “I usually read. Sometimes crosswords. The time goes faster than you’d think.”
I can’t look at her book. I can only look at the clear bag above her, drip drip dripping chemicals into her veins. Medicine that’s supposed to save her by hollowing her out first.
“You don’t have to stay the whole time,” Helen says softly, catching my eye. “I know this isn’t exactly riveting entertainment for a teenager.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her gaze lingers on me, soft and knowing. “Thank you.”
The first hour is quiet. She reads her romance novel, occasionally smirking at the page like she’s in on a private joke. I scroll through my phone and fire off texts to Caleb like I promised.
HARPER: Hour one. She’s good. Reading some smutty novel and making faces at the steamy parts.
His reply comes fast:
CALEB: Thank god. How are YOU doing?
I stare at that for too long before typing back:
HARPER: I’m fine.
But I’m not. I’m watching this woman—this kind, generous, maddeningly strong woman who has shown me more love in six months than Darlene ever bothered to in eighteen years—get this awful treatment while pretending it’s casual.
And I want to scream. I want to smash those beige walls and demand to speak to the universe’s manager. Because why does Helen get cancer while Darlene gets to skate through life untouched?
It’s not fair. None of this is fair.
Halfway through the second hour, Helen shuts her book and looks straight at me.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?”
I blink. “Me? I’m fine. How are you doing? You’re the one—”
“I’m doing what I need to do,” she says simply. “But I’m worried about you. You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
She gives me that look—the one Caleb gives too—like she can see straight through my bullshit.
“Talk to me. How are things? Really?”
I shift in the chair, restless. “Everything’s fine. School’s good. Caleb’s… Caleb’s great. We’re all good.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her voice is gentle but firm, persistent in that Graham way that doesn’t feel like pressure so much as invitation.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me how you are, Harper. Not school. Not Caleb. You.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, except my voice cracks.
Helen reaches over and takes my hand. Her skin is soft, her grip steady, and it makes my chest ache.
“You know,” she says, “it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to not know how to handle this. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
I look at our hands—hers smaller, fragile now.
“I don’t get scared,” I lie, chin tilting up. “That’s Caleb’s thing.”
“Everyone gets scared, sweetheart.”
“Not me.”
She just watches me until I finally look up. Her eyes are soft but unrelenting.
“You know what I see when I look at you? A girl who’s been taking care of herself so long she’s forgotten how to let anyone else do it. Someone who’s been hurt so many times she’s convinced she doesn’t need anybody.”
My throat burns. “I don’t—”
“But you do. We all do. That’s not weakness, Harper. That’s being human. We need family.”
And just like that, the tears break. Hot, ugly, humiliating. I try to yank my hand away, but she won’t let me.
“I’m sorry,” I choke. “I’m supposed to be here for you, and instead I’m—”
“You’re being exactly what I need.” Her voice is firm. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done for Caleb these past few months?”
I shake my head.
“You gave him something besides my cancer to care about. You reminded him he’s eighteen. You made him laugh again. You gave him hope again. That is everything to me.”
The tears come harder.
“He talks about you constantly,” she goes on. “Not just how much he cares about you—though he does, more than either of you realizes, I think—but how strong you are. How brave you are. How you’ve survived things that would have broken other people and still came out swinging.”
“I’m not brave,” I whisper.
“You are. You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”
She squeezes my hand. “And I need you to know something. Whatever happens with me, you’ll always have a place with us. You’ll always be family. Not because you’re Silas’s daughter, and not because you live under our roof. But because I choose you. We choose you.”
The words crack me wide open. Family isn’t something you earn. Love isn’t conditional. Not here. Not with her.
“I’ve never had a mom like you,” I whisper, raw.
Helen’s eyes shine.
She leans awkwardly past the IV line and hugs me. And I let myself collapse—ugly sobs, shaking, the whole thing—because for once, it feels safe enough to fall apart.
“I don’t want you to be sick,” I whisper into her shoulder.
“I know, sweetheart.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
“I’m going to fight as hard as I can. But even if something happens to me, you’ll be okay. You and Caleb will take care of each other. You’ll both be extraordinary. Because that’s who you are.”
When I finally pull back, I feel wrecked but lighter. Like I’ve been dragging chains I didn’t even realize were there.
“I didn’t know moms could be like you,” I admit.
Helen smiles, soft and fierce. “Well, now you do. And someday, when you’re a mother, you’ll remember this. You’ll pass it on.”
I can’t picture myself as a mom. But looking at her, I almost believe it’s possible.
The nurse checks her IV, and we settle again, but something invisible has shifted.
I text Caleb:
HARPER: Hour three. Your mom is incredible. And she loves you more than anything.
His reply is instant:
CALEB: I know. Love you both.
I stare at those words until they blur. Love you both. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s just a fact.
Maybe that’s what family is—people who keep choosing you, over and over.
When the chemo is done, I help Helen to the car, her weight leaning against me. She’s pale, tired, but still smiling.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “Not just for the drive. For letting me be there for you.”
“Yeah. Well. Thanks for showing me what a real mom is supposed to look like. And for making my dad not an asshole anymore.”
“He did that all on his own.” She squeezes my hand. “Thank you for showing me what it’s like to have a daughter.”
“All right, enough with the mushy Lifetime moment.” I swipe at my face. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
After all, I’m Harper Tucker, stone cold bitch.
Even if lately I feel more like a marshmallow.