A Mother's Goodbye

‘All right, Miss Thomas?’ he asks and I manage a weary smile. No, I am not remotely all right, but I’m not about to explain that to him. In any case I know I look terrible. My face is pale, my hair straggly and unwashed – I didn’t bother with the wig – and I’m wearing a shapeless black tracksuit. I breathe a sigh of relief when the elevator doors close even as a voice in my head whispers, another moment gone. When will I stop thinking that? When I’m dead?

I fumble with my keys, the mechanics of it nearly defeating me, my fingers shaking. Finally the lock turns and I open the door and step into my apartment: I’m home. The relief nearly makes my knees buckle.

‘Grace…?’ Heather comes around the corner, looking both surprised and hopeful. I see the shock flash across her face briefly, and I know that I must look even more awful than I realize – nearly balding, pale and pasty, swaying on my feet. I’m a complete and utter wreck.

‘I’m back.’ My lips try to curve but I can’t quite manage it. I don’t want to cry. Not yet.

‘Come and sit down. Can I get you something? Some tea or…?’ She’s at a loss, but she takes me gently by the elbow and leads me toward the sofa. ‘You should have called. I would have come to get you.’

‘It’s okay. Where’s Isaac?’ All I want is my son.

‘He’s in his room. Isaac!’ she calls, an urgent note in her voice. ‘Isaac, look who’s here.’

The situation feels unbearably surreal. Me decrepit on the sofa, Heather hovering over me, beckoning my son over. ‘Look,’ she says, injecting a bright note in her voice. ‘Look, it’s your mom.’ Words I never thought I’d hear her say.

Isaac stops in front of me, looking uncertain. I don’t look like I normally do. I should have put on my wig; he didn’t even know I’d lost most of my hair. And I’m hunched over, my chest starting to throb with pain. I need more Vicodin.

‘Isaac,’ I rasp. ‘Come here, buddy.’

He comes slowly, hesitantly, and I do my best to hold out my arms, even though the lymph node removal has made them ache. ‘You can hug me,’ I say even though I know it will hurt. ‘Gently.’

He comes closer and then stands in the circle of my arms. He drapes his arms over my shoulders, barely touching me. I press my cheek to his and close my eyes, breathe in his scent. Memorize him.

Tears sting my eyes and I take a shuddering breath and then ease away. I don’t want to freak him out.

‘I’m home, Isaac,’ I say, and he nods.

‘Are you better?’ he asks seriously, and I have no answer. I have no answer at all, and so I just manage a smile and a jerky nod, and after another uncertain moment he goes back to his room. He’s had enough of sickness. So have I.

I lean my head against the sofa and close my eyes.

‘You must be exhausted,’ Heather says. ‘Do you want to get in bed? Or tea, or soup…? Ice, maybe? A hot water bottle?’ She lets out a nervous laugh. ‘Sorry, I just want to help.’

‘I know.’ I open my eyes. ‘Thank you.’

‘Are you okay, Grace?’ she asks, her uncertain gaze searching my face, looking for answers I know I need to give.

I glance toward Isaac’s room; his door is partially ajar. I lower my voice, each word dragged from me like a weight. ‘No,’ I tell her, my nemesis, my friend. ‘No, I’m not.’

Twenty-Six

HEATHER

I stare at Grace, unsure what to say, whether to ask. She looks awful, even for someone who is recovering from surgery. Her skin is pasty and pale, her hair wispy and flat, but the worst is her eyes. The look in her eyes before she closed them was dark and deadened, like a light has gone out inside her forever.

‘Can you please close Isaac’s door?’ she asks quietly, and my heart flips right over. I go to close it, softly, so he doesn’t notice. He’s lying sprawled on his floor amidst a spill of Lego, and he doesn’t look up. I tiptoe back to Grace; she is still sitting with her head back against the sofa, her eyes closed, like the world is too much for her. And maybe it is.

‘Grace…?’

‘The cancer has spread.’ Her voice is so low I strain to hear the words.

‘Spread…?’

‘To my brain, liver, kidneys, and bones.’ She opens her eyes. ‘Everywhere, basically.’ She lets out a laugh, the saddest sound I’ve ever heard.

I sit slowly down on a chair opposite her, my mind spinning emptily. ‘What… what does this mean?’

Grace takes a deep breath and then lets it out in a shuddery rush. ‘It means I have three to six months to live. Or as my doctor said, closer to three.’ Her lips tremble and she presses them together.