I bare my teeth at the bartender, pointing to my beer. “What? No glass?” I’m just baiting him now. It’s hard to stop once I’ve started.
He sighs. “Nope. You’re a real man, covered in tattoos, and real men don’t drink their beers out of a glass. Right?”
I’ve got nothing to say to that. If he’d have offered me the glass right off the bat, I would have said no for precisely that reason. My father would have given me a concussion if he’d ever caught me sipping a beer out of a fancy, skinny Euro glass. Would have, if he wasn’t dead, that is.
I know exactly who that bastard was, though.
I get sent to a fancy school: Fuckin’ pussy. Think you’re too good for us now, huh?
I earn a good grade: You want a fucking medal, boy? Goddamn, molly-coddled piece of shit. You wanna earn yourself a medal, you join the goddamn army.
I dare to have a hope or a dream: You think you’re something special? You’re too dumb to make anything of yourself. Give up while you’re ahead, asshole. Save yourself the disappointment.
Funny how the complexes our fucked-up parents instill in us extend well beyond their expiration dates. Pisses me off that this sassy bartender prick can see something like that on me a mile away, too. I give him a tight-lipped, very unamused smile, which he laughs at and then walks away.
The beer’s gone in three long swallows.
I should have ordered two.
Another would be great, but I don’t feel like summoning my passive aggressive server again so soon, so I sit and stew, spinning the empty bottle around and around, watching it wobble, almost falling over, and catching it before it has chance to topple.
Back in New Hampshire, my only friends in the world are both holed up at our house on campus, doing god only knows fucking what. They wanted to come, actually, but…no. Dash would have brought Carrie, Wren would have brought Elodie, and that was just not fucking happening. It’s easier to come on trips like this alone. No one else to consider that way, or take up space, to have opinions, or want things. I’m sure plenty of people would be miserable, going on vacation by themselves, but I wouldn’t have it any other wa—
I still the bottle in my hands, freezing when my cell phone vibrates in my pocket.
It isn’t a text message. I get those frequently enough. Just one extended, polite buzz for a text. This is a much longer, more aggressive, sustained buzzing. Once it stops, it starts up all over again. Someone’s calling me.
Who would have the audacity to actually call me?
Toying with the bottle some more, I let the phone keep ringing. What could be more disgusting than having to actually talk to someone on the phone? I can’t think of anything worse. My brain struggles to return to thoughts of solo travels, though. It’s poised and quiet, waiting to see what happens next. I’m kind of entertained when my phone starts buzzing again after a brief pause. I take the cell out and study the number, frowning at the area code. Nine one seven? Nine one seven? A prestigious New York area code, but I don’t recognize the rest of the number. Can’t place it.
I hit the green answer button and hold the speaker to my ear. “Yeah?”
“Good afternoon. Can I speak with Mr. Davis, please?” a cool female voice asks.
Mr. Davis. Christ. What am I, forty-eight? “Speaking.”
“Oh, good. I’m so glad I’ve caught you, Mr. Davis—”
I wince. “Pax. Please.”
“Uhh, oh. Okay, Pax. Thank you. Well, I’m so glad I caught you. I tried to reach you at your school, but they told me you were overseas during mid-semester break. I hope you don’t mind. I got your number from the school administrator, as it was a matter of urgency.”
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“Oh, god. I’m sorry. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on straight. My name’s Alicia Morrigan. I’m your mother’s primary care giver at St. Augustus’. I would have waited to call until the morning, but she’s had a bad day and I wanted to give you as much notice as possible before—”
Ever been in a car accident? It’s weird. There’s this moment, right as it’s happening and metal meets metal, that you realize you’re in grave, imminent danger, and you know there’s nothing you can do about it. You exist inside that weird moment, straining against the surprise, desperate to just move! but you’re paralyzed, watching it all unfold, locked in place…
Breathe.
Fucking breathe, you moron.
A piercing, sharp pain lances through my head, right between my eyes. It’s so sharp and unexpected that I have to squint in order to brace against it. “I’m sorry. What? You’re her…what?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Her primary care giver,” the voice repeats. What was her name again? Alicia?
“Right. But…St. Augustus’? I don’t understand.”
“Meredith was admitted last week. I wanted to call you then, but your momma’s one stubborn woman. She wouldn’t hear of it. Now that her condition is worsening—”
“Wait. Stop.” I hold up a hand like she can see me fucking doing it. “Stop, stop, stop. STOP. Her condition? What are you talking about? What condition?”
Again, the line goes silent. Crackles. I think the call’s been disconnected, but then Alicia says, “I see.” She’s lost that airy, floaty tone to her voice. Now she’s all business, her words clipped. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Davis, but your mother swore she’d told you what was going on. Looks like she lied.”
My mother? Lie? Shocker. I can count on one hand how many times Meredith Davis has told me the unembellished truth. I bite the tip of my tongue until I taste blood. “Her condition?” I repeat.
“Right. Yes. It is not my place to be telling you this.” Alicia coughs. Or could be that she chokes on the information that should have come from my mother. “There’s no real way to soften the blow, so I’ll just come out and say it. Your mother’s been battling cancer for the past eight months.”
She pauses, the void of sound hanging in the air between us—me sitting in a bar in Corsica and her in some sterile, bleach-smelling room in New York—fizzing with awkward anticipation. She’s waiting for the shock. The horror. The tears. The disbelief and the bargaining.
No.
Oh god, no.
It’s not true.
It can’t be.
She’s so young.
So fit.
So healthy.
Why her?
She’s so good.
She doesn’t deserve this.
“What kind?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“Of cancer. What kind of cancer?”
The bartender, who was on his way over, gesturing to my empty bottle of beer, pivots and heads in the opposite direction.
“Leukemia. Her prognosis was good at first, but we’ve had a nightmare trying to find a match for a bone marrow transplant. And since you weren’t a ma—”
Alicia cuts herself off. Swears angrily under her breath.
The headache that’s been steadily thumping behind my eyes spreads like wildfire, rooting deep into my head, firing tendrils of pain down the back of my neck. “Finish…the…sentence.”