Fake Marriage Box Set

She nodded. “It pinched like the devil.”

I squeezed the chair behind her, remembering how happy the family in the waiting room had been.

“I have the results,” he said.

“Well?” She leaned forward in her seat, and I copied her movement.

“I’m afraid the cancer has spread.” He opened up a file and gestured at some numbers and figures that made little sense to us. “We were trying to contain it, remember? Keep it confined to just your breasts, but it has metastasized to other areas.”

“Where?” I demanded. “Where did it spread?”

Mom was beginning to tremble in her seat, and I clenched her shoulder in support.

“The lungs, liver, and,” he paused, staring at the file beneath his hands. “I’m afraid the brain.”

I considered snatching the file out of his hands; there had to have been a mistake.

“The brain?” mom asked. “Are you sure?”

“It’s been confirmed, yes,” he said. “But this has happened before. We’ve had plenty of patients make a full recovery after a metastatic diagnosis.”

“Yeah, but, in the brain?” Mom shook her head.

“What does this mean now?” I asked. “Brain surgery?”

Dr. Lemonis hesitated, flipping through the pages in the file. “Not necessarily, no. This specific area of the brain is a high-risk area. Surgery would have a high likelihood of permanent brain injury.”

“Meaning brain dead,” Mom clarified for him. Both Dr. Lemonis and I winced at her blunt words.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Unfortunately, brain surgery is off the table.”

There was something he wasn’t saying, something important that I felt was capable of changing our lives. I was afraid to ask it, but apparently, mom wasn’t.

“Is it terminal?” she asked, her voice low.

“Yes.” Dr. Lemonis’ face didn’t betray any emotions, and I wondered how easy it was for him.

“How long?” I asked and took a seat beside mom. “How long does she have?” Mom took my hand in hers and squeezed.

“I’m afraid putting a number on it would only hurt the chances of recovery.” He nearly stumbled over his words. “Every case is different; I couldn’t give you a proper nu

mber based on anything.”

My fist slammed on the table, making the doctor and my mother both jump. “You’re going to tell me how long she has right now or this fist is going so far up your ass you’ll be diagnosed with colon cancer,” I demanded.

“Gavin,” Mom chided me as the doctor ruffled his papers and looked through a stack beside his desk. He seemed to be considering his next words very carefully.

“Six months would be the longest I’d give you,” he said directly to Mona. “No more.”

Mom straightened in her seat, and I leaned forward and buried my face in my palms. Six months? There has to have been a mistake.

“Check again,” I demanded. “I want you to verify everything you’ve told us. I don’t care if it takes you the rest of the week and you have to reschedule every other appointment you have. I’ll pay you extra. Check the damn prognosis again.”

“Mr. Hayward.” Dr. Lemonis raised his hand. “Of course I’ll verify everything, but it’s already been verified by several experts in the field.”

“I don’t give a shit; check it again,” I said. Mom squeezed my shoulder and stood, her legs weak and wobbly. I stood and helped her balance on her feet.

“Gavin, don’t threaten my doctor. He’s the one that gives me drugs,” she said as she led me out of the office. “Thank you, Dr. Lemonis, for your time.”