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“Cancer”—MyChemicalRomance
As I sat at my mother’s bedside, head bowed and holding her hand, I fought to control the helplessness that culminated in a barely contained rage. The woman who three weeks ago had been a vibrant force to be reckoned with had aged astronomically and was weak as a newborn.
“Sloane, look at me.” Her voice was hoarse, and she softly coughed. Immediately, I reached for her cup of water and lifted it. Dry and cracked, her lips barely closed around the straw. When she stopped, she closed her eyes—exhausted from the act of drinking. Once she reopened them, her lavender gaze was bright.
“Mom, you should rest. We can talk later if you’re tired.” My silver bangles tinkled as I set her cup down again.
“No. This is important. I don’t know how much time I have left,” she insisted as her fingers wrapped tightly around mine in a surprising show of strength.
My brows dropped as I frowned at her adamant tone. “Okay?”
“You must go to your brother.”
Jesus. I knew she’d gone downhill, but I didn’t realize she was delusional. My heart broke.
“Mom,” I started kindly, “I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“You were never supposed to know,” she whispered.
My heart began to pound. The room seemed to spin, and I held onto her hand and the side of the chair. Feeling like I must be dreaming or in an alternate universe, my lungs seized, and breathing became nearly impossible.
“You gave up my brother?” I gasped through the tightness in my chest.
“Psh! No!” For a moment, she sounded like her feisty self. “Your father,” she sneered.
We never spoke of my father. All I knew about him was that he was an evil man, and my mother had fled to Texas after she found out she was pregnant. My heart was pounding as I searched for words. To find out at the age of twenty-three that I had a brother I knew nothing about was something I couldn’t process.
“Why do I need to find him? I can’t see why, after all this time, I could possibly need him.” My mother and I had a very successful metaphysical store that was nestled between a western store and a shabby-chic boutique. To the average tourist or shopper, we sold an eclectic blend of crystals, stones, herbs, incense, and home décor. To someone who knew us, we sold things that you wouldn’t find displayed on a shelf in any store. We were comfortably well off, and I didn’t need a man to help me bear my burdens in life.
“You will need him to help you. They are coming for you, and they will stop at nothing to gain control of the book. Take it to him—he can help you keep it safe.” Those words had me pausing. A chill skated down my spine and spread out to my limbs. “But no one knows where it is,” I whispered in a barely audible tone.
“They found us, didn’t they? It’s a matter of time, and I know your brother can keep you safe and protect the book.” Her words slurred; she’d worn herself out.
“Don’t worry about this now. I’ll ensure the protection of the book. You concentrate on getting better.”
A sad smile curved her lips as she gave me a look of such resignation, I wanted to cry.
“We both know I’m dying. There is no getting better. You must be cautious of who you trust. Be cognizant of your surroundings at all times. Vigilance will be your ally. You have a destiny to fulfill.”
“But—” I began before she interrupted.
“In my closet. Loose board. Find him—he has a full file, so you won’t miss him. Show him what’s in there.” Those few words strung together were evidently too much for her, because she began to violently cough. The tissues I handed her quickly darkened with blood.
“Ms. Fontenot, your mother needs her rest,” the kind dayshift nurse said as she came into the room to hang another bag of fluids that would slowly drip medication into Mom’s veins that would never help. I’d lived in denial for the last few weeks as I pored through fragile page after page of every book I could, trying to find something to help. But reality was beginning to sink in, and it was a black and bitter pill to swallow. My mother was in constant agony from her head to her toes.
Reluctant to leave because, despite my refusal to acknowledge our situation, I was afraid if I left, she would die while I was gone. With a deep breath, I stood, placed a reverent kiss on my mother’s head, and sighed.
“I love you, Momma.” But she didn’t hear me. She’d already dozed off thanks to flagging stamina and the IV pain medication. The steady beeping of the monitor told me her heart was still beating. I gathered my things and left the room with a single backward glance to the woman who was but a tiny bump in the hospital blankets.
As I stepped onto the elevator, my phone rang. I switched my jacket to the other arm and pulled it from the back pocket of my jeans.
“How did you know I was leaving?” I asked.
“Because it’s nearly six, and I know the nursing staff will be making their last rounds before shift change. Your mom is usually tired, and they kick you out for her to rest,” my friend and trusted employee replied, and I could hear the sound of her closing out the register. The smirk I knew she was making also carried over the line, plain as day.
“True,” I conceded.
“Meet me at the Atlas.” She didn’t ask, knowing damn well I’d find an excuse not to, but my shoulders drooped from the mental exhaustion. I might actually need a drink.
