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“What is the way, Mum?” I ask. I take her hand, her skin soft and warm against my own dry, cold fingers. “I take you guys? So you can make sure I’m eating? And taking my meds? Let you push me around in a wheelchair, and wipe the drool from my mouth?”
“We can take you to see whatever it is you want to see—”
“What I want from this, you can’t give me, Mum,” I respond, my voice soft. “You don’t get it, and that’s okay, because up until now I haven’t really either.”
“Then explain it to me,” she demands. “Tell me why this is so important to you and why we can’t be there for you. I’m your mother.” She stops, her voice breaking. “I don’t understand why you’re pushing me away.”
“This trip isn’t about sightseeing.” How do I put into words why I need this? “I don’t want to just see. I want to live. I want to feel. Because up until now, all I’ve done is what I think is going to help me later in life. And what use is that now?”
“And you can’t do that with us around?” Mum presses. If anything, I’m impressed with her persistence.
“Honestly? No. I can’t.” I’m amazed at how firm I’m being. Standing up, I pull Mum to her feet and wrap my arms around her. “I love you guys more than anything, but you can’t help me through this. I can only help myself.”
“Erin—”
“Please don’t say anything, Mum. Just go home and process everything and we can talk about it tomorrow. I’m tired and I have to get up early for work.” She opens her mouth but I hold up my hand before she can speak. “Don’t even start on that. Go. I love you. See you tomorrow.”
I all but push them out the door, resting against the back of it.
There. It’s done. No turning back now.
It’s been a hell of a day, and I’m tired. All I want to do is fall into bed, but I’m dying to know—for lack of a better phrase—if there has been any interest in my ad. I grab my laptop and turn it on, navigating my way to my email.
Mailbox full. My eyes widen at the message that pops up on the screen. I click okay. I only just created the account yesterday. How many replies have I had? My eyes stray to the little New Messages icon. Four thousand new messages.
What the actual fuck?
My heart pounds. I’m sure I’m hallucinating. Maybe it’s a side effect of the tumour? There is no way in hell four thousand people read, let alone replied to my ad. But I’m not imagining things. It’s right there in front of me.
My hands shake as I click on the first email.
Sorry to hear about your situation, I just wanted to wish you good luck.
The next few are almost the same: “I’m sorry, I wish I could help.” The support from total strangers is overwhelming. I carry the laptop into my room and curl up on my bed. My eyes are getting heavy, because it’s been a long day and I get tired quicker than I used to, but I’m determined to get few more.
I wish I could help you but I couldn’t take that much time off work. I hope you find what you’re looking for. Your story is an inspiration to me.
Just as I’m beginning to wonder if there are actually any takers, they begin to pop up, in all sorts of weird and wonderful responses.
You sound like a real sweet chick who I’d be happy to show a good time to. When do we leave?
And
I’m always up for a free trip, so long as I know you’re not gonna die on me. I’m not good with dead chicks.
Laughing, I close my laptop, my head buzzing. I know I need to sort through them, but I can’t concentrate at the moment. At this rate I’ll still be going through emails in a month. There is no way I can get through all of these alone. My pho
ne buzzes. I pick it up and see a text from Calli.
Calli: How did it go?
I grin, knowing a hundred percent that the first thing my mother would’ve done after leaving here was call her.
Erin: Really? You’re going to pretend she wasn’t begging you to change my mind?
Calli: You caught me. She’s just worried about you. We all are. Let me come with you.
I groan and dial her number, my fingers too tired to text anymore.
