Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
In the past week, I’ve finished reading all eight romance novels Aunt Joan brought and none of the literary ones I intended to read as inspiration for my novel. I’ve revised exactly thirty pages—nowhere near enough—and I’ve spent dozens of hours wondering if I’d see Cosmos again. I haven’t.
Mom is now on day sixteen of the trial, and I think the hardest part is the silence.
The treatment has robbed my bubbly, vivacious mother of her voice.
She used to babble on about any topic at all and talk to strangers for hours without a breath, but now it’s too much effort.
She only talks when something’s really wrong or when I’m trying to get her to do something she doesn’t want to do, like eat.
Or take her meds. Then her voice comes out again, and it stings.
“Do you want to eat something?” I ask.
The look on her face tells me she doesn’t, but she hasn’t eaten since yesterday, and she promptly threw up afterwards. I’m worried about her.
“How about you try just a little?” I prompt, lifting the lid off the covered hospital meal. No matter what they bring up, it all smells the same. It’s a scent I can only describe as warm and food, a kind of generic bland scent that makes me want to vomit along with my mom.
As soon as I lift the lid, she shakes her head and covers her mouth with her hand. I set the entire tray on the floor in the hall. As far away as possible. With my help, Mom drinks some water before sliding back down the pillows and pointing to the remote control for the TV.
I know I can’t really be upset with her, but I’m tired of being ordered around with grunts and points. I almost don’t feel bad leaving her to go to my writing workshop today. Although I’d feel a lot better if I had pages to read that I actually liked for once.
Aunt Joan waltzes in right on time, carrying another container of brownies, probably pot brownies, since I threw out the last batch, and Mom wasn’t happy about it.
“Here,” Aunt Joan says, handing me a printout of some sort.
A quick glance tells me it’s an article about the benefits of marijuana for cancer patients.
I try to contain my eye roll. It’s not that I’m against Mom having weed.
I know it can help her symptoms. It’s more that I don’t think she should mix weed with a new experimental drug.
But I’ve already made my opinion known, and, as my mom continuously reminds me, she’s got twenty-two years on me and can make her own decisions.
“Just take care of her, okay?” I set the printout on the table by Mom’s bed and pick up my purse. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Take your time.” Aunt Joan waves me away, already launching into a discussion about a book she left last time.
I leave them with their pot brownies and trudge myself through two hours of my writing workshop.
When I get back to the hospital, I’m exhausted and want nothing more than to watch a funny movie and pretend I don’t have a seventy-thousand-word novel to write and edit in the next three weeks.
But, I can hear Aunt Joan’s distinct chortle as soon as I step off the elevator, and I know my plans for a quiet movie night just went up in smoke.
Rose is standing in the doorway of Mom’s hospital room with her hands on her full hips.
“There are dying patients on this floor, and they don’t deserve to hear you cackling,” Rose shouts in order to be heard over Aunt Joan, who has now taken up singing the Star-Spangled Banner for no apparent reason at all.
Clearly, they’ve had more than their fair share of brownies.
“She’s leaving,” I say, from behind Rose. “Right, Aunt Joan?” I give her a pointed look. She snorts and goes right back to singing. Maybe she shouldn’t be driving after all.
Mom is giggling so hard she’s panting and grasping her chest like she’s trying to contain a gaping wound. “Stop! Oh, stop. I can’t—”
Aunt Joan sobers suddenly, looking at Mom with wide eyes, like she’s only just realized laughing is causing Mom pain. It’s good to see Mom happy, but I don’t want her exhausting herself. Or hurting herself. Clearly, neither does Aunt Joan.
“Sorry, Ticktack,” Aunt Joan says, bursting into tears. “I’m so sorry.”
Rose and I share a look. She seems as unamused as I am.
“How long have they been like this?” I ask.
“Maybe twenty minutes.” She looks me up and down. “You okay to handle this yourself, doll?”
“Doll.” Mom cracks up laughing.
“Doll’s balls.” Aunt Joan cracks up laughing.
Rose rolls her eyes in exasperation. “I hate to kick someone out, but so help me, I will. I’ve got other patients I need to deal with.”
She stomps off, leaving me to handle the situation on my own. I close the door behind her so we’re not entertaining the entire floor anymore.
Aunt Joan crawls up onto Mom’s bed and snuggles next to her. They’re both crying again, but at least they’re quieter.
“I feel like I’m falling through the universe,” Aunt Joan whispers. “Nothing’s connected anymore. I’m slipping into the in-between. Are you even my Ticktack? Are you another Joan’s Ticktack? How do we know we’re not in a parallel universe?”
Oh, dear. They’ve devolved into ridiculous philosophical talk. This is bad. “How many did you have?” I hold up the half-empty container of brownies and sniff. The chocolate can’t mask the overpowering grassiness of the weed. Knowing Aunt Joan, she probably doubled the recipe.
“Do you… do you think…” Mom gasps as she tries to get the words out. “In a parallel universe, we’d still be friends?”
“We’d be friends in every universe.” Aunt Joan wraps her arms around Mom, and they both settle down, their tears slowing to a stop.
Mom’s breaths lengthen, and she drifts into sleep just as quickly as she previously burst into laughter and tears.
Aunt Joan falls asleep just after her, while I tidy the room.
Every time I glance over at them, I feel like an intruder, looking through a window at something I’ll never have.
I don’t have sisters, or cousins, or even friends who I’d be that comfortable with.
Comfortable enough to let down my defenses, get so high I can’t keep myself together, and then fall into a vulnerable sleep. I’m not sure I’d even do that with Mom.
Once the room is semi put together again, I pull out my computer to work on my novel.
I’ve been stuck on this next section, uncertain where it should go, but knowing I don’t like how it is.
The main character needs to start making changes in her life, but I’m not sure what changes will drive her toward the growth she needs to experience.
I kind of want to add in a romance subplot, but I don’t want it to be another one of those books where the love interest is the catalyst for change and love makes everything instantly better.
In my experience, love makes things worse, or at least more complicated.
“How was class?” Aunt Joan carefully rolls on her side so she’s facing me, a sleepy expression on her face.
“You still trying to write the next great American novel.” There’s a hint of disgust in her tone.
She’s made it abundantly clear that she thinks getting my MFA is a waste of time and money.
At this point, I think she’s probably right.
I don’t feel any closer to having a publishable novel, and I barely have enough money to pay the bills.
“It’s going great. Really great.” I stare at the blank screen in front of me. “It’s almost finished.”
She studies me for so long I worry she’s going to call me out on the lie, but instead she just points to a stack of books on the floor. “I brought more romance novels.”
“Mom will appreciate that. They’ve been a good distraction for her.”
“Hmmmm.” She gives me a knowing smile and closes her eyes. “Start with the one on top. You’ll like it.”
Aunt Joan doesn’t know what I like. Sure, she’s known me all my life, but only on the periphery.
If she really knew me, she’d know I prefer serious literature to romantic fluff.
I want seven-course meals, not cotton candy.
Although I enjoyed the romance novels she brought last week, I’ll never admit that to her. I barely admit it to myself.
I pick up the book she suggested and read the back cover. It almost makes me laugh with how predictable it sounds. But maybe that’s the appeal of this kind of book. Sitting here in the hospital, unsure what will happen tomorrow, completely out of control, predictability sounds nice. Really nice.
“You know, you could try writing one—just for fun.” I thought Aunt Joan was asleep again, so her voice startles me enough to make the book fly out of my hand and land on the floor with a smack.
Mom stirs and mumbles something in her sleep. Aunt Joan makes a soft ‘shhhh shhhh’ sound and snuggles closer. She doesn’t say anything else, and, after a while, I wonder if she’s still awake or if she’s fallen back asleep, too.
I pick up the book and set it on the little rolling table. The words on my computer screen are waiting for me. I have to finish this novel. Extending my MFA isn’t an option. I need to finish this now.
But maybe… a fun, silly side project might get my creative juices going again. I open a new document, title it happilyeveraftercrap.doc, and start typing.