She prodded my lymph nodes and groaned. “They’re slightly swollen.”
“They aren’t.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
“The scale read the same as always this morning. One seventy-three.”
“You haven’t been home in days. Don’t lie to me, Ozrik. Your clothes are fitting loosely. Your eyes are bloodshot. You’re sick.”
“Mother, I’m not sick. The numbers are normal.” I shoved the papers forward. “My eyes are dry from not sleeping. I’m going out.”
“Let me see your stomach.”
She reached for the hem of my shirt, but I pushed her hand away, not unkindly, but passionately enough so she understood I was enforcing boundaries. “Mom, don’t. Enough, okay?”
“Ozrik.”
“Please listen to me for once. I’m okay.”
“I haven’t seen you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
When I wouldn’t play her game, she cried. It broke my heart, but it was simply another way to get my attention. She wasn’t above playing the sympathy card, and she knew her tears were my weakness.
I drained the juice and headed to my bedroom to a chorus of dramatic sobs. I loved her and hated her in equal measure. It was times like this I wished I had a dad.
“You’re going to die,” she wailed. “The cancer is back.”
I’d never been diagnosed with cancer, but I missed an entire year of school at age eight because Stella had told everyone I was undergoing chemotherapy. I recalled months in bed, bouts of vomiting and stomach cramps, and a vague sense of joy on my mother’s face when cards and endless gifts arrived from friends and neighbors. They had decorated our house for anentire winter. She read me letters from concerned classmates and distant relatives. She showered me with attention.
No one ever thought to contradict or challenge her diagnosis or my illness.
A horn honked as I finished dressing. I would have loved to shower, but I didn’t have time. Finger-combing my hair, I glanced in the bathroom mirror, assessing my complexion and the whites of my eyes. It was stupid, but every now and then, paranoia took over, and I had to double-check that Stella’s assessments were imaginative. I stuck out my tongue and felt my lymph nodes.
Tip-top shape. Nothing amiss.
The wailing finally stopped as I made my way to the front door. Stella intercepted, cheeks wet, nose red, eyes swollen. It was pitiful, and part of me felt sorry for her. She sniffled and offered a plastic Ziploc bag containing an egg salad sandwich and a disposable N95 medical mask. She’d hoarded boxes of them during the COVID pandemic.
“You need to keep up your energy, so I made you food. Wear this, too. Your immune system is compromised. If you start feeling sick, get home right away.”
Sighing, I took the mask and the sandwich, then wrapped her in a hug. I held on extra long because it was what she needed. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ll call the doctor and see what he recommends.”
“Okay. You do that.” She wouldn’t.
“Please be careful.”
“I always am.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
I finally escaped with the start of a mild headache—probably brain cancer—and ran down the driveway to where Lex had parked Black Bug on the street.
Stella waved.
