A smile is at my lips, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. That’s just not going to happen today.
“No.” My voice cracks.
Ryan ducks his head, takes three steps to cross the room, and crushes me in a hug. He doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes me as tight as I need.
I haunt the edges of my room for the next few hours. I only pee and shower when everyone but Mom has left the house. Ryan to Jesse’s, Dad to work, Danielle and Heather to brunch with friends.
At ten, I’m so hungry for something more than sugar that I have to venture to the kitchen. Mom’s there, steeping some of her mega-antioxidant matcha tea. Yoga tights gone baggy hang off what’s left of her butt; a Windsor Prep hoodie that used to fit gathers in a saggy pile at her waist. She’s got a blanket around her shoulders, clutching it with one hand while minding the tea bag with the other.
This is when I should mention it’s already ninetydegrees out, and my sister and her wife aren’t big air-conditioning people. But Mom’s shivering like she’s just traversed the Rockies.
Cancer sucks.
SUCKS.
Worse, it’s triple-negative breast cancer. Which means it doesn’t respond to many of the treatments available. Even worse, it reoccurs more often than others. Which is where we’re at now. Mom was first diagnosed four years ago. But last year it came back, more aggressive this time. Stage three, not stage four, but it’s been bad enough all the same. This go-around it was a full mastectomy and chemo, paid for with money we don’t have because we’re still paying off the last round.
Mom looks up from her tea, blue eyes lighting up her thin face. Cancer has made her a husk of what she was even a year ago, but it hasn’t taken her sparkle. It will never take that.
“If it isn’t Peyton Manning,” she says.
Jeez, Mom,burn. “Funny. Because he’s retired.”
She frowns. “I didn’t know that. I thought he was still playing.”
I laugh and lean into the counter, fiddling with the tea box. “Wait, so that’s supposed to be a compliment?”
Mom places a hand on my wrist, and my fingers immediately freeze. I meet her eyes and there’s a strength there that isn’t in her grip. “Your father is upset because he’safraid you’ll get hurt. And he’s hurt that you lied to Danielle and to us by omission.”
There’s suddenly a lump in my throat, and never mind food because I’m going to throw up.
I’m usually so open with my family. It’s what we’re good at.
Mom catches my chin with a finger. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not proud of you. You’ve always been fearless and loyal, and I have no doubt you led that team like… who’s a good quarterback who isn’t retired?”
I laugh again—clearly Mom has completely tuned out Dad on the Sunday afternoons he’s parked in front of the TV yelling at the Chiefs. “Let’s go with Marcus Mariota.”
She brings her tea to her lips and cocks a brow. “That answer was quick enough that I assume he must be cute.”
“Mom.”
Undeterred, she whips her phone out of her hoodie pocket and starts googling. “How do you spell Mari—oh, wait, there it is. Heiscute! Who else is cute?”
“MOM.”
“What? Indulge me. I know you didn’t join that team without doing your research. You probably spent hours watching YouTube videos. Wait, does Marcus have a YouTube channel? Let’s look. And don’t you dare ‘MOM’ me again—this is bonding.” She grabs her tea. “Let’s go sit on the deck.”
I follow her outside. She melts into an Adirondack chairmade of sun-bent plastic, her weight barely registering on its cracking facade. I know the other one will wobble on three legs, so I snag Heather’s yoga mat from the corner and roll it out alongside Mom. Then I lie back and shut my eyes to the sun and to the corner of Grey’s house I can see over the trees.
I think Mom is just messing around on her phone, but then I hear her swallow a sip of tea. “So, how cute is the boy?”
“You saw him—Mariota isn’t bad.”
“I meant the coach’s son.”
My eyes spring open and I sit up. “Mom, I did not join the team because Grey’s cute.”
“I know my youngest daughter well enough to knowthat.” She finally takes a sip. “But, still, is he?”
