My unsteady palm pushes the door open and the scene in front of me cuts me in half.
Mom is crouching in front of the toilet, vomiting. But that’s not the part that causes my fingers to unclench, letting the bottle crash to the floor.
It’s the blood marring her hands while she grips the toilet. It’s the trails of crimson on her cheeks as she vomits blood.
“Mom!” I run toward her and crouch beside her. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
She heaves a few more times, the sound getting louder and uglier with each passing second.
I place a shaking palm on her back, unsure how I’m supposed to react in such a situation. She’s vomiting straight out blood and it splashes all over the white ceramic toilet.
I retrieve my phone with a shaky hand. “I’m…I’m going to call an ambulance.”
She shakes her head once and motions at a towel. I drop my phone before I grab it and give it to her. She slowly wipes her face, her trembling hand barely holding the towel.
I help her get up, and she leans on me to reach the sink. She washes her face and brushes her teeth clean while I stand there watching her close as if I’m seeing her for the first time.
Since when did my mom become so thin that her collarbone is protruding through her tank top?
Since when were her dark circles so prominent that there’s a shadow beneath her eyes?
Also, why is she so pale and her lips chapped?
A gloomy halo falls over the bathroom, festering in the corners and triggering an ominous sensation inside me.
“Mom… Should I take you to a doctor?”
“No. I’m fine.” Her voice is low, exhausted, like her appearance.
“But you were vomiting blood just now. That doesn’t look fine to me.”
She wipes her face, and even though the blood is gone, it doesn’t look healthy.
It’s wrong.
Everything is.
“Come with me.” She motions at the room with her head and I follow after, my steps hesitant and my limbs barely keeping me standing. Why do I feel like I’m a death-row inmate being led to the guillotine?
Mom sits me down on the sofa beside her and grabs both of my hands in hers. “I’m sorry you have to find out this way, Nao-chan. I wanted you and myself more prepared.”
“More prepared for what?” I can hardly speak past the lump in my throat.
“I have stomach cancer. Late-stage. The doctors said I have a few months at best. A few weeks at worst.”
My lips part and I want to laugh.
I want this to be a distasteful joke so I can laugh, but the sound doesn’t come. My vision becomes blurry and Mom turns into a shadow as I stare at her through my tears. “Please tell me you’re kidding, Mom.”
“I’m so sorry, Nao-chan. I found out recently, and I didn’t want to worry you, but maybe I was just being selfish. You were finally having fun and living and I didn’t want to ruin that for you. But you were right, this is your life and you should know what’s going on in it.”
I shake my head frantically, causing the tears to cascade down my cheeks. When I was five years old, I had my first experience with death when one of our neighbors in Chicago, Mr. Preston, passed away in his sleep.
I asked Mom what it means to die and she said it’s when people go to the sky and no one can see them again. She said she will die, too. We all will. I remember crying and screaming at her to take it back, because Mom’s words were law in my head. She never lied to me and never gave me misguided truths. She didn’t even let me believe in Santa, the boogeyman, or the tooth fairy. She never painted the world in bright pink colors for me.
So when she said that she would eventually die, I believed it and I hated it. I spent days crying in my sleep, thinking about how she would die like Mr. Preston from next door.
I’m that little girl now as I shake my head over and over again, not wanting her words to be true. “Take it back, Mom.”