Strings inside my stomach knotted themselves tightly. “Mom!” I half-shouted as I grabbed her shoulders to turn her to face me. “What’s wrong?” I suddenly felt like the parent and she, my frail, little child.
“Cancer, Marissa. I have st-stage four cancer.” The second the words fell from her lips she collapsed, burying herself into my chest. My brain couldn’t register the words she had just spoken to me. It was just a massive confusing mix of nouns and verbs that created a cohesive thought, but it wasn’t a rational one, and I couldn’t for the life of me comprehend it.
“I don’t understand.” I said it five times in a row. My mother’s silken blond hair tickled my chin as her face was buried in my neck, sobbing on me. “I don’t understand.” Six. “I don’t understand.” Seven. “I don’t understand.” Eight. I bit my lip to stop it from quivering but it didn’t matter. A cascade of tears and snot and saliva seeped from my face while I cradled my mother. My mother who had breast cancer. Stage IV breast cancer. “I don’t understand.” Nine.
It was Hank, Mr. Brockwell, who tried to put things into perspective for us. He came over right away after I incoherently called him to ask him to pick up my brother from soccer. I don’t know how much I told him, but I know I got out the words “bad” and “mom” and “cancer.” At least I think I said the word cancer.
By the time Mr. Brockwell and Marc got to the house, I had already moved Mom upstairs to her bedroom. She pretty much collapsed into a deep sleep. Sheer exhaustion overtook her from her afternoon at the doctor’s office and telling me her horrific news.
“So what does this mean? What does this mean?” Marc was pacing back and forth in the living room, and I kept staring at his shoes as I sat on the couch with my knees hugged to my chest.
“Well kids, this isn’t easy. I mean, cancer, cancer is never easy.” Mr. Brockwell said.
“Cancer isn’t easy? Seriously, what does that even mean?” Marc yelled just before he kicked the coffee table, sending magazines soaring toward the floor.
Mr. Brockwell got up from the couch. “Now listen son, I know you’re upset, but please try to calm down.” He put his arms out to hug Marc, but Marc just made a growling sound and pushed past him. Mr. Brockwell joined me again on the couch, and Marc resumed his pacing.
“Marissa, sweetie, do you want me to get you something? A soda, water, anything?” His voice was so soothing.
The fabric from my jeans scratched my chin as I hugged my knees tighter to my chest. “No thank you, Hank. I wish my grandmother would call back.” At that time my grandmother lived two towns over from us. In that moment, I wanted to hear her voice more than anything. I stared at Marc’s feet as he dragged them back and forth across the floor.
“She’ll call, Marissa. She’ll call,” Mr. Brockwell said.
“Marc, stop pacing.” I didn’t think I could take watching him pace anymore.
“Oh, shut up.” He scowled at me.
“I mean it, Marc. Stop pacing.” My voice was louder than before.
He stopped for a minute. “What does, ‘I mean it’ mean? Are you planning on doing something about it? What are you gonna do, go tell Mom that I’m pacing?” He started pacing again.
“Marc!” I yelled. “Take your shoes off. You’re getting dirt and sand all over the floor, and it’s going to upset Mom!” I stood in front of him.
His eyes blazed down on me. “Mom won’t care about the dirt on the floor, Marissa. Do you know why? Because Mom has cancer!” His breath was hot on my face as he spit out the last word at me. I fell to the floor and cried into the sandy carpet.
“Marc!” I heard Mr. Brockwell yell before I felt him at my side rubbing my back. Then I heard Marc growl again. It sounded like he kicked something, and then I heard the front door slam. Next, the phone rang.
“Grandma.” I got up from the ground and wiped my face with the bottom of my T-shirt. The caller ID confirmed it was my grandmother calling. I answered, and as soon as I heard her voice say, “Marissa, what’s wrong?” I lost it again. In a stupor, I handed the phone to Hank, and he informed my grandmother that her only daughter had terminal cancer.
****
Zoe was giving me this look with her big eyes that could only be described as sad-take-me-home-please-I-will-love-you-forever eyes. “Please Marissa, I need your help.” She had her hands folded over themselves in a begging position, and she rested her face on them as she mouthed the word “please” over and over again.
“You know how I feel about loaning my car out to anyone.” I stood protectively in front of the driver’s side door.
“I know, Marissa, but please? For me?” She now added pouty lips to the puppy eyes.
“You know how I feel about loaning my car out to someone who has gotten a moving violation, right?” I had to look at the ground; those eyes were killing me.
“Marissa, I promise I’ll be good. Stop at all stop signs.”
“Not rolling stops, actual stops. Complete stops, Zoe.”
She bobbed her head up and down. “Actual stops. I promise.”
Ugh. I passed her my keys, which I had been clutching in my hand. “I get off work at four. You need to return those to me before then.” It was bad enough I had to work with Taylor on a Saturday afternoon, but now I had to worry about Zoe blowing through stop signs in my car.
She threw her arms around me. “You’re the best friend ever! I love you so much! I’ll be totally careful. I promise.”
She was beaming as she waved goodbye to me. I pulled the heavy glass entrance door to the mall
