Page 106 of I’m Already Gone

“It’s okay. I’m here,” I murmur, rubbing my hands up and down her spine, trying to ground her, to provide any comfort I can.

“Oh, God,” she cries, a fresh wave of tears.

When her stomach finally settles, I grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe her face. She slumps against me, and I lean back against the cool tile wall, cradling her against me like a baby.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles.

“Stop, Lily. If you say sorry one more time, I’m going to have to spank you,” I whisper against her hair.

A small, faint smile dances across her chapped lips.

“You’d like that too much, wouldn’t you?” I ask teasingly.

She gives three slow nods, her smile still in place, until she succumbs to the weight of sleep, her eyes fluttering shut.

Lily

As I stretch my arms above my head, I hear a satisfying pop in my upper back, releasing the sleepy tension that had settled deep in my bones. I sink into the plush softness of my mattress, blinking away the remnants of sleep as the morning light floods the room.

It has been two days since my last chemo treatment, and for the first time in what seems like forever, I feel decent. Not great, but definitely better. The gnawing nausea has receded, and the pervasive fatigue is a little less heavy. A glimmer of hope blooms at the prospect of hearing good news when I see my doctor in a few days. But for today, I am going to worry less about the what-ifs.

I push the heavy covers aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Something small and brightly colored catches my eye on the nightstand. I reach for the cupcake-shaped sticky note, my fingers tracing Ethan’s handwriting.

Morning, Sunshine. Put on your robe. P.S.: It’s on the edge of the bed. Easy for you to reach.

A smile slowly spreads across my lips.

I grab the robe, slip it on, and head to the bathroom. Flipping on the light, I let out a little laugh as I spot another sticky note right in the middle of the mirror.

Take a shower and come down to the kitchen. P.S.: Take your time.

“So bossy,” I mutter with a chuckle as I slide out of my robe and pajamas, the cool air raising goosebumps on my arms, and turn on the water. The spray hisses as I wait for the water to warm, steam beginning to fill the room. Stepping beneath the cascade of warmth, I close the curtain and let the steam envelop me like a cozy blanket.

After a refreshing wash, I step out, towel in hand, and face my reflection in the mirror. A sigh escapes my lips as I take in the changes in my body. The effects of chemo are evident. A sharp pang of grief twists in my gut. Pushing back the tears that threaten to spill, I refuse to let myself break down. Not now. Not when I’m still here, alive and breathing, and still able to be a mother to my kids.

“Stay strong. You can do this,” I whisper to my reflection.

I step out of the bathroom, and the sight before me makes my breath catch. My bed is neatly made, the pillows fluffed, and an outfit laid out.

A sticky note perched atop the chosen clothes catches my eye.

Almost done, Sunshine. I’ll see you downstairs. P.S.: It’s humid out. You won’t need to cover up.

Warmth spreads through me at the thoughtfulness he put into picking out my clothes. He knows I need comfort, so he has laid out gentle fabrics that won’t irritate my skin. I slip on the soft wireless bra and purple underwear. Then I pull the lavender off-the-shoulder shirt over my head and slide the cotton shorts up my legs.

I head out of the room and down the stairs, gripping the railing for balance. My heart flutters with childlike anticipation. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in years, and it carries me all the way to the kitchen.

The aroma of sizzling bacon, hash browns, and coffee fills the air, causing my stomach to rumble in protest. I’m surprised the kids aren’t already down here, drawn like magnets to this deliciousness. As I approach the counter, my eyes land on the familiar curve of my favorite cupcake-shaped mug beside the Keurig, and another sticky note.

Pour yourself a cup and meet me on the patio.

A small, knowing smile plays on my lips. Doing as I’m told, I reach for my mug and place it under the machine. Once the cup is full, I head out to the patio.

The moment I step out, the warm, humid air smacks me in the face. I turn to see Ethan, looking unfairly handsome even at this early hour, seated at the patio table.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he says. His smile, that crooked, sexy smile I remember so well, widens as he quickly rises. He walks toward me, closing the distance. The scent of his mint aftershave, clean and invigorating, reaches me before he does.

“Morning,” I reply, my voice a little breathier than I intended. “Where are the kids?”