She means the way some of the nurses do. The way some of her friends did toward the end, before the visits stopped entirely because watching someone die is uncomfortable.
“He looks at you different than the others did,” Mom says, taking a small sip of water. Even that seems to tire her. “Like you’re the only person in the room.”
“That’s not?—”
“It is. And you look at him the same way, so don’t bother denying it.” She sets the cup down carefully. “I’m glad you have him. When I’m gone, you’ll need someone.”
The words hurt even though we both know they’re true.
“You’re not gone yet.”
“Soon though.” She says, the way she used to tell me it was going to rain or that we were out of milk. Just a fact. Nothing to be done about it. “Don’t be scared, Marnie. Life’s too short for that.”
My throat tightens. “I’m not scared.”
“Liar.” But she’s smiling, that knowing smile that’s haunted me since childhood. The one that says she sees right through me. “You’ve been scared since your father died. Scared of getting close to people because it hurts more when they leave.”
I want to argue. Want to tell her that’s not true, that I’m fine, that I’ve been fine.
But we’re sitting in a hospice room surrounded by equipment meant to make her comfortable while she dies, and lying seems pointless.
“Roman’s not going anywhere,” she says into the silence. “I can tell. That boy’s as stubborn as you are. Probably more stubborn. Which is saying something.”
I manage a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It is when you need someone who won’t give up on you.” She shifts in the bed, trying to get comfortable, and I resist the urge to help. She hates when I hover. “When I’m gone—and I will be gone, Marnie, we both know it—don’t waste time trying to protect yourself from pain. The pain comes whether you protect yourself or not. Might as well have the good stuff too.”
“The good stuff,” I repeat.
“Love. Happiness. Someone who brings you coffee and knows how you take it.” She looks at me. “Promise me. No waiting. No being scared. Just live.”
“Mom—”
“Promise me.”
The words stick in my throat, but I force them out. “I promise.”
She settles back against the pillows, satisfied. “Good. Now stop hovering and sit down. You’re making me nervous standing there like you’re waiting for me to code.”
I sit in the chair by the window, the same chair I’ve been sitting in for three days, and watch her look out at the roses.
This is what we’ve been reduced to. Sitting in a room that smells like cleaning products, talking about death like it’s a grocery list, making promises about living that feel impossible to keep.
But she’s still here. Still herself underneath the illness. Still my mom, just smaller. Frailer. Running out of time.
I pull out my phone to check the time—barely 9 AM—and see missed texts from Roman.
Roman
How is she this morning? How are you?
Two questions. One about Mom, one about me. Because he’s figured out I won’t answer honestly about myself unless specifically asked.
She’s having a good day. Lucid. Mad about the gardener.
I’m okay.
The second one is a lie and he probably knows it. But I send it anyway.
