22. Abby #3
I burst through it, tripping over a crack in the parking lot and stumbling slightly before stopping, straightening, and pulling in a deep breath. I look around. The bus stop. That’s where I need to get to. And then I need to get to my apartment, shut the door, and be alone.
But by the time the bus drops me off a block from my new apartment, and I get inside, I realize there is only one person that I can talk to. One person who will not tell me that I’m overreacting or that things will be brighter tomorrow or that I need to focus on all of the positives.
“Abby?” My mother answers the phone after only two rings.
“Hi Mom,” I say.
“This is a nice surprise. How are you?”
I burst into tears.
“My goodness, what happened?” my mom asks.
I take a deep, shaky breath, and then blurt, “A little boy I know died from ALL. I just found out. I’ve known him for two years. He was in remission. It came back and he died.”
My mother is quiet for a long moment, then she says, "his poor mother.”
That makes a new batch of tears start.
“I cannot imagine the pain she is going through,” my mom says, not disturbed by my tears.
We all cried a lot in the past and I like that I can do that now and not worry about freaking her out.
My tears would definitely bother Dash, Kane, and Benjamin. I need to fall apart with my mom.
“That has always been my greatest fear,” my mom says. “That it would come back. That we would have fought so hard, given it so much of…everything…and it wouldn’t matter in the end.”
Same. Exactly the same. This is why I called her.
I kick off my shoes, drop onto the couch, pulling the throw blanket off the back and draping it over me, huddling underneath.
“That was absolutely the scariest time of my life and the idea that it could start all over again is unimaginable,” my mother goes on. “Even thinking about going through all of that again…” She gives a heavy, sad sigh.
“He was only ten,” I say. “He was young when he went into remission. That should’ve been enough.”
“That’s what the statistics tell us,” my mother agrees.
“But it can still come back,” I say, unnecessarily. None of the “good” statistics are one-hundred-percent.
“Of course it can,” my mother says, not mincing words. “But you are well past the window where there’s a good chance of that,” she adds.
Those are her first encouraging words, and I take them seriously because my mom doesn’t say things only to make me feel better. She’s right.
“I know,” I say quietly.
“I don’t know what I would do,” she says. “It’s so damned hard to watch someone you love be sick and hurt.”
A heaviness settles over me and presses in, and I let it.
If I got sick again, I would have to tell this woman that her greatest fear has come true. That she would have to relive those years all over again. That everything she gave the first time—money, energy, time, her relationship with her other daughter—was for nothing.
And now I would have to tell three of the best men I have ever met the same news.
I know that Dash, Kane, and Benjamin love me. And that means that my cancer returning would absolutely break their hearts. I know watching me get sick, go through treatment, and not know what might happen would be so hard on them.
I think about the past few weeks. All the happiness we’ve experienced. All the fun. The laughter, love, sex. All the plans we’ve made. Like Thanksgiving.
I could shatter all of that.
I could make Benjamin’s house a place full of sadness and fear and pain instead of happiness and contentment and hope.
The kitchen countertops could be covered with medicine bottles instead of the wine we drink on the patio at sunset, and the fancy olive oil Benjamin and I used for cooking pasta the other night, and the strawberry sauce we used for a very fun, sticky sexcapade on that same kitchen counter after dinner.
The couch where I was just cuddling with Linda and Benjamin could become where I lie sick after chemo, where they nurse me instead of fuck me.
I cover my face. I could ruin everything.
“I’m so sorry about your friend,” my mom says after the silence has stretched for several long seconds.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice choked.
I hear her sigh. “No one should have to go through that. I’ll be praying for his mother and father.”
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” I admit.
“There’s no ‘supposed to’ about it,” my mom says. “However you’re feeling is the right way to feel.”
We’re quiet for another few seconds.
“Do you want to come home to visit?” she asks.
I think about that. “Maybe. I’ll let you know.”
Right now, I feel like I just need to be alone.
“Well you know you’re always welcome. I love you.”
I know she does. And loving me has brought her a lot of pain.
“I love you too, Mom.”
We disconnect and I realize that it’s getting dark in my apartment, but I can’t make myself get up and turn the lights on. I snuggle deeper into the couch cushion and realize that I have missed two phone calls, and I have four texts from Benjamin.
Dammit. He’s worried.
Well, he’s not as worried as he could be. As far as I know, I am healthy at the moment.
I send a quick text with a total lie in it. “I’m okay. Don’t worry.”
Then I shut off my phone.