41. Forty-one
Forty-one
October is the equivalent of living in a dream.
An alignment of the stars.
A natural phenomenon that few people get to witness, but for some reason, I do.
Bo has fully imbedded himself into my life. We go to church on Sundays. We have dinner with Lucy most nights and play board games. And after Lucy goes to sleep, we sneak off to his bed.
All I keep thinking is, Bo loves me . It’s as though nothing has ever made sense in my life until this truth.
On Tuesdays, I go to yoga and have dinner with Libby.
On Wednesdays, I pick up Huck. Most weeks, we spend the entire time sitting at the edge of the property where Bo’s building a cabin and drink dyed-red hot chocolate while we watch them work. Stacking logs and fastening them together, Huck loudly narrating the whole thing. One week, my dad even joins us so he can meet his future grandson, something that clogs my throat when I say it out loud for the first time.
“Birdie ate an earthworm when she was seven,” my dad tells him as they watch Bo and the crew move a log into position. Huck finds this to be both hilarious and appalling.
The realization that Huck is going to be my legal child knocks the wind out of me daily. When I get the notice a court date has been set for mid-November, I’m equal parts happy and terrified.
In a life where I never dreamed I’d have children, in my own way, I will. Huck will be someone I introduce as my son.
Sam tells me a normal number of times how disappointed he is with my chest and Mabel greets me every Friday morning with, “Now that’s the glow of a happily screwed woman.”
Veda is the outlier of perfection. The fall tree that doesn’t burst with color but drops its brown leaves with a single gust.
In all appearances to anyone who isn’t looking, she seems fine. She smiles at the right times, narrows her eyes like a hawk without mercy, and pins her hair back into her bun as her mismatched beaded earrings hang from her ears. But there’s a swift undercurrent of exhaustion too. A weakening.
All the while, Bo keeps asking how she is and I keep giving him the vague answer of, “A pain in my ass.” Not a lie, but miles and miles away from the truth.
After arriving at my usual time of eight o’clock and finding her sleeping two mornings in a row, I start coming at nine, making her breakfast at nine-thirty. She guides me through working the clay, but instead of sitting next to me with her own hands doing the work, she sits in the wicker chair with the blanket over her lap. As I mold clay into the petals of flowers, Veda sits quietly, often with her eyes closed.
I help her smoke pot—learning one joint is overkill from our first experiment—and fill her freezer with soups that she tells me are, “Better than every other healthy thing I force down her dying throat.”
With every worsening I notice, no matter how subtle, the sharp thorns of guilt dig deeper into me. Bo is watching his grandmother die without knowing.
Some days when I think about it, I know I’m doing him a favor by not letting him see what’s happening right in front of his face. Some days, I know I’m robbing him of something by not telling him. But mostly, when I think about it, the emotions are so heavy I have to lie down until the feeling passes. A tangled ball of guilt that’s so complicated, I don’t know how I’ll ever undo it.
It’s at her eightieth birthday party dinner at Bo’s house in the first week of November where I know I can’t keep this secret any longer. I have to tell him.
We’re all there, Bo even invites my dad, and Huck joins us because it falls during our usual Wednesday evening time together.
My dad and Bo stand talking about the infamous countertop—again. At some point, I expect they’ll tire of this conversation. Not yet. Huck and Lucy run up and down the stairs playing wildly, and Veda sits in a chair, smiling. It’s with both resignation and admiration she watches everyone gather to celebrate her .
She coughs into a napkin. It’s slight—not a hack—but when she pulls the napkin away, I see three bright red drops of blood staining the material.
“You okay?” I ask her softly.
She scoffs, annoyed look in her sharp eyes. “I’m still dying of cancer, if that’s what you mean.”
“And a pain in the ass,” I say without heat, crossing my arms over my chest.
She laughs, putting the napkin in her pocket, then looks at Bo. “You don’t stop loving him, Birdie. Or letting him love you.”
I pull my chin back, taken aback. “Why would I?” I ask, following her gaze to him.
She’s quiet. Then, “You’ll want to.”
Looking at him, I can’t imagine a life where me loving Bo, Bo loving me, isn’t like the sun rising or setting. Just is.
Then I remember—Veda has cancer.
My eyes drop to her. She’s in a floral shirt and black pants, hair pulled back showcasing all of who she is. “We have to tell him, Veda.”
Her breath comes out in a puff, but she nods, watching him laugh at something with my dad across the room as they each sip on a beer. “Just not today.”
Around the table, we sing “Happy Birthday” to Veda with a cake filled with eighty candles. Pointed hat on her head, face lit up by all the light representing her years on earth. A beautiful kind of sadness punches at my ribs.
She blows them all out, with the help of the kids, and smiles. Veda has suffered loss yet has lived a good life; I see it all over her timelessly lovely face.
Bo raises his glass, beaming at her. “To Gran, for keeping the world on its toes for eighty whole years!”
While we clap, she waves her hands around and stands up.
“Now I want to say something,” she says, her tone somehow both stern and joy filled. As always, the room falls obediently silent in her wake. “You don’t get to be eighty without learning a few things, and I want to say them. Bo”—she pauses, looking at him—“I love you. I was devastated when we lost your dad—a parent burying a child…” Her voice trails off until she shakes her head. “But you coming to be with your grandad and I?” She smiles wide enough her face fills with lines. “Your dad would have loved your cabins,” she says, voice cracking just slightly. “But he would have been most proud of the way you love without end.” Her eyes bounce to Lucy, then me, then back to him.
Bo reaches his big strong hand toward her twisted weak one, giving it a squeeze.
“Lucy,” she says, smiling at her, voice playful. “You are sunshine, you always remember that.”
Lucy giggles and blows her a kiss.
“Greg.” She looks at my dad. “You raised one hell of a woman.”
My eyes go from my dad—slowly—to hers. I know what this is instantly. This isn’t a birthday speech; Veda is saying goodbye .
“I told you she loves you,” Bo whispers into my ear. Ignorant of what’s happening.
I ignore him, eyes staying glued on Veda, as she turns to Huck and says, “Huck, Birdie is going to be your mom, and I want you to try really hard not to let her feed you only healthy food.”
Everyone laughs, even Huck, except me. Because a tear rolls down my cheek that my body refuses to hold on to.
“She’s going to be a good mom, Huck,” she says, and Huck gives me a blocky smile, swelling my heart as it shreds.
“Birdie,” she says, Bo squeezing my hand under the table. “You are a better friend than one person deserves in a lifetime.”
I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know—but her twisted hands cut me off, clapping. With a grin, she declares, “Now enough of the mushy stuff, let’s eat cake!” earning a loud enough cheer from the kids and Bo.
With the attention off me, I slip away from the table, secret tears dripping down my face.
My eyes catch my dad’s before I go to the bathroom. He nods. He sees the same lie I do.
Bo and Veda never stop smiling as they share a big piece of cake.
I say good night to my dad as he gets in his truck and Veda and Huck settle into the minivan so I can drive them both home.
When Bo hugs and kisses me good night, guilt stings. Everywhere. I hate myself as much as I hate the cancer in Veda’s body .
She’s silent the entire drive.
“I wonder if Huck had fun tonight,” I say, numb, setting Huck off on a too-loud monologue about all the reasons he had fun, filling the quiet of the ride until I drop him off.
When I get Veda inside her house, I flip on her lights and glare at her, unable to decide if I want to scream or cry. “Want to tell me what that little speech was about?” I demand, hands on my hips.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Can’t a woman give a speech at her birthday dinner? I’m eighty for God’s sake!”
I huff out a breath. “I’m not playing this game, Veda. I want to tell Bo. Tomorrow. I can’t do this. The lying—it’s killing me!”
She looks at me, lips pursed, until she sighs. “Fine. We’ll tell him tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I say, softening, wrapping a hand around her arm. “I’ll be with you; I’m on your side.”
She smiles, just slightly, and nods.
“I meant what I said, Birdie. You’ve been a great friend to me.”
I look at her, trying to understand what she’s not saying, but I can’t.
Instead, I hug her. Tightly. “You’ve been a great friend to me too. We can figure everything else out tomorrow.” I pull back slightly, still looking at her, and add, “Just so you know, Veda, I’ll never stop loving him.”
She looks at me like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. She’s quiet.
“Birdie?” I stop, turning to face her from the doorway. “You’re not horrible with the clay. ”
I chuckle, hand on the doorknob. “Careful, Veda. Eighty might be the year you become tolerable.”
Her smile makes mine widen, then I lift my chin, pull the door closed behind me, and I step outside.
Driving home, the only thing I can think is—Bo’s finally going to know Veda has cancer.