I returned my gaze to her and focused on her face, willing her to drop the absurd idea of hers. “Yes,” I whispered. “Ten years to the day.”
“I have to leave on that day, son.”
I quickly looked away, knowing anger flashed on my face. I gathered my thoughts before turning back to her because I wanted to blow up at her about that fucking date she was so hung up on, but then I saw her face. There was a serenity etched across her features that scared the fuck out of me. She was ready to leave.
I slowly shook my head from side to side. “Please don’t,” I pleaded.
“We’re doing it for you, Michael.”
“Who is thisweyou’re talking about?” I asked. “Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds, Mom?”
“Open your mind, honey. Do it for me, please?”
I walked across the room and stared out the bedroom window, wishing I was anywhere but there. The pain of my reality was too much to bear. My mother was going to die soon. I was going to be completely alone and no matter how much I wished the pain away, nothing was going to change.
Something caught the periphery of my vision and I focused on the sidewalk on our side of the street. The cat from Cooper’s old house was sitting there watching me from my position in the bedroom window, his black tail swishing across the concrete. Sweeping left. Sweeping right.
CHAPTER TWELVE: Mike
Before closing the book, I reread the final paragraph for at least the tenth time. The outrageous theories began speaking to me. Perhaps Mom had known they would.
Are we, as humans, so arrogant to believe that we are alone in the vast universe? That only we have been given the opportunity for life. Does humanity selfishly believe that everythingisandendswith us? Those are dangerously naïve assertions for mankind to make considering we can barely see past our own galaxy and have very little true understanding of how time or the universe works. Perhaps we aren’t surrounded by what our eyes see. What if everything is an illusion and we’re playing a part for a very clever magician? Shouldn’t you dare to look behind the curtain?
The guest bedroom was at the back of the house and down the hall from my parent’s room. I’d moved from my upstairs childhood bedroom after being home for a few days so I could be closer to Mom in case she needed my help during the night. On Saturday, I peeked into her room thinking she’d be asleep at two in the morning, but she wasn’t.
“Mom?”
She turned to me and it took her a moment to associate my voice with my presence outside her door.
“It’s Mike. Are you okay?” I asked, moving through the open door.
“Your father told me you’re reading that book,” she stated. “He says you think it’s weird.”
My father definitely would have used the wordweirdwhen describing how I would’ve felt about the book and its contents, but I don’t know how hewould have told her considering he died eleven years ago. He and I shared a loving understanding of the most important woman in our lives, and we did use words like weird to describe a potion or an idea of hers behind her back. Not to hurt her or make fun, but to share an understanding we had about our wonderful life with an intriguing woman living under the same roof with us.
“Sounds like Dad,” I answered. “Where is he?”
She touched her head and smiled. “In here,” she said. “I bet you thought I’d say in the garden or under the bed, didn’t you?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” I admitted. “Tell him I miss him, and the next time he’s spying on me, tell him to say hi,” I joked, almost believing his and Mom’s latest communication.
I grabbed her water cup and went to the master bathroom to refill it. I stared at myself in the mirror as the cool water filled the cup, wondering how close she was to dying. A strange thought for sure, but one that had been occupying my mind ever since Tuesday. Mom was coherent and still as nimble in her mind and clarity as she ever was. It was only her body that revealed she was losing the physical war she was waging. “Would you like a sip?” I asked, returning to her bedside.
“Get us a popsicle instead, would you?”
“You sure?” I asked. “It’s two in the morning, Mom.”
“When is it not popsicle time?” she answered. “Orange this time if we have one.”
I came back to her room and opened the wrapper before placing a paper towel around the frozen concoction. “Can you hold it?” I asked, placing the wrapped wooden stick in her frail hand.
She grabbed it, ignoring my question and pointed at the chair beside her bed.
“Are you sure you’re not tired?” I asked, sliding into the comfortable chair I’d dragged from the living room.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she quipped. “Or I won’t, you never know.”
“Gross,” I replied, curling my lip and frowning. “I’d appreciate a more positive outlook if you don’t mind, missy.”
