“You never have been good at having the tough conversations.” Mama sighs. “Don’t know where you got that. If someone paid me to argue for a living, I would.”
Her hands are so soothing, I let my eyes slide shut and savor the sensation of her fingers, rhythmically sliding through my hair. Once she’s done, my wild hair won’t be half as tangled, but it will be twice as puffy. I don’t mind, though. “You’d have made a great lawyer, Mama. Between you and Rooney, I’m surrounded by pugnacious personalities—”
“That’s it!” Mom reaches for her crossword puzzle, tongue stuck out as she writes in the letters. “Pug-na-cious. Oh, Willa, thank you. Now I can rub it in Dr. B’s face when he next stops in.”
I pick up my head and meet her eyes. “So it’s Dr. B who put you up to crosswords?” She’s been obsessed with them for a few weeks now, texting me all hours of the day and night, when she wants to see if Rooney or I know a word she’s looking for.
“Well, he said if I ate my meals and didn’t drop any more weight on him, he’d let me out for your championship game.”
“Mama, we have to make it through qualifiers and playoffs—”
“Ah. Ah. Ah.” Mama holds up her hand, commanding silence. “What have I taught you?”
I sigh. “I can do anything I set my heart and mind to.”
“That’s right. You want that championship game, Willa, you’ll get it. As I was saying, if I keep my weight up, I get to come, but if I do the New York Times crossword in one day, he’ll take me himself in his fancy sports car.”
I sit upright, abruptly. “But it’s in San Jose this year. Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, the travel will take it out of you, and the outside world is a germ-fest, and—”
“Willa.” Mama interlaces her fingers with mine and smiles reassuringly. “It’s fine. He’s a doctor, he knows.”
My shoulders are pinched, worry twisting my stomach. I hate that Mama’s sick enough to need to be in the hospital, but I love that here, I know she’s safe and taken care of. As far as I’m concerned, I want her here, getting the care she needs, for as long as necessary. Thankfully, Grandma Rose left us decent life savings and Mama’s military pension helps. That’s where virtually all of our finances go—her cancer treatment, so she can get better as soon as possible.
Given that, I’m pretty much financially on my own, which I don’t mind. For years each summer, I’ve worked at a local bookstore—that’s where I learn words like tempestuous and pugnacious to add to my vocabulary. An indie bookseller that also serves coffee and baked goods, it experiences a great boost to business during touristy summer months, so I make nice tips, on top of a decent hourly wage. Whatever I earn during the summer is my disposable income for the school year. With my full ride thanks to academic and athletic scholarships, on top of careful budgeting, I squeak by for monthly expenses of groceries and utilities in the apartment I share with Rooney.
The last couple of months, though, Rooney’s “accidentally” paid the rent and full utility bills rather than letting me write a check for half and mailing it off with hers like we used to. I have a nagging suspicion that’s because Rooney’s family is loaded—her dad’s a big-time producer in Hollywood—so it’s nothing to her, and she knows I’m on a shoestring budget. She’d deny it ’til the day she died, but I’m onto her.
“Willa, you’re getting that far-off look that has no business being on a twenty-one-year-old woman’s face.” Mama’s hand is cold and painfully slim, but I still lean my cheek into her touch. This isn’t her first rodeo with cancer, and I know better than to take any moment with her for granted. Life is fragile, and while I’m hopeful Mama can beat this, I never pass up the chance to slow down and savor that she’s here.
“You don’t need to worry, honey,” she whispers. “I’m taking care. Dr. B’s doing everything he can for me and worries enough for the both of us, okay?” Her hand drops and squeezes mine. “You need to live your life. All you do is exercise, go to class, practice, and play, then sit here in the hospital, watching your mom lose her hair again.”
“Stop it.” Tears prick my eyes. “I love you. I want to be with you.”
“But you need to live, Willa. To thrive, not just survive. Go out with Rooney. Wear a short dress, show off those killer soccer legs. Kiss a boy, screw him six ways to Sunday—using protection of course—”
“Mother!” My cheeks turn bright red. “You know I don’t date.”
“I didn’t tell you to date. I told you to get laid.”
“Motherrrr,” I groan.
“I’ve been sick off and on for a while now, but you know what, Willa? I don’t feel like I’m missing too much. I lived as a young woman. I went to wild concerts and backpacked. I hung out with weirdo beat poets and read fat novels and hitchhiked. Smoked dope and stared at the sky while I rode in truck beds. I had fun and worked hard, enlisted, traveled the world as a nurse. Got to see new places, have exotic lovers and a few sexy soldiers—”
“Mama.” I shake my head. My mom’s pretty, even with her hair gone and a soft turban around her head. Her eyes are a rich brown like mine and wide-set. Her cheekbones pop and her lips are full. I’ve seen pictures. Mama was a babe when she was younger. I just really don’t like to think about her boinking.
“You know what I’m saying, Willa. Life doesn’t live itself for you, and nothing is promised to us. You have a lot to offer, so much to experience. I don’t want you to miss it because of me.”
I want to tell her that I’d miss everything life had to offer if it meant I got to keep her always. I want to tell her I’m scared she’s sicker than she lets on, that I’ll hate myself for spending nights doing what regular college kids do when I could have been spending those fleeting moments with her.
But I’m me. I don’t talk about uncomfortable things like that. So, instead, I squeeze her hand in reassurance and say, “Okay, Mama. I will.”
Ryder
Playlist: “Elephant Gun,” Beirut
Precisely two years ago, I realized my life was never going to turn out how I thought it would. Denial’s a powerful coping mechanism. After I got sick, my psyche held on to denial as long as it could. But, eventually, the thick pragmatic streak that runs in my family came knocking on my mind’s door and demanded I face reality.
I’m not your stereotypical Cali guy. I don’t hang ten or say gnarly. I grew up in Olympia, Washington, and I wish I still lived there, but Dad got an offer he couldn’t refuse from Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center—RRMC, as most people call it—so here we are.
I miss the feeling of fall. I miss wet leaves smashed into a slippery carpet beneath my feet. I miss the cold turning my nose pink and burning my lungs on long, snowy runs. I miss darkness, as weird as that might sound. I miss candles and hearth fires and hunkering down with a book once the sun set at dinnertime.
And I miss soccer. I miss the game I was so sure would direct and fulfill my adult life.