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“Really?” I ask, following close behind as she walks back toward the kitchen. Big Breakfast is usually reserved for holidays and birthdays. Today is neither, so I’m not sure why we’re having it.
With dread, I suddenly remember that therewasone time when we had Big Breakfast on a regular day. It didn’t turn out to be a regular day, though. It was in sixth grade, when our parents broke the news that Mom had cancer.
We walk into the kitchen to find Mom and Dad huddled together, speaking in hushed voices. They spring apart when they hear us. One look at their expressions, and alarm bells go off in my head.
They quickly put on happy faces, and we exchange a round of hugs. After I hug my mom, I stand back and look at her, assessing, trying to see if anything is wrong. She looks the same as ever: four inches shorter than me, brunette hair in that shoulder-length mom cut, lean but not overly skinny. She catches me appraising her and gives me a tight smile.
When I hug my dad, I speak to him in a low voice. “What is going on?”
Avoiding my eyes, he claps me on the back. “Come get some food.”
Lilly seems blissfully unaware of the tension in the air. She starts talking about something that happened at school yesterday as she grabs a plate. On the counter are all the usual trappings of Big Breakfast: chocolate chip pancakes, bacon, omelets, fruit. My stomach growls involuntarily as nausea rises in my throat.
We load our plates, letting Lilly talk. There’s an unspoken agreement between Mom, Dad, and I to let her enjoy herself for a few minutes longer.
When we all take our places around the dining room table, Lilly tucks into her food, and silence falls. My parents exchange a look. I want to open my mouth and pick up the thread of useless chatter, just to delay the inevitable. Instead, I stare down at my heaping plate and wait.
“Well,” Mom begins finally. “We have something that we need to tell you.”
My stomach roils. Lilly chews her food, watching Mom without a trace of worry in her eyes.
“I’ve been having some symptoms lately,” Mom continues, “things that I experienced when I had—when I was sick before. I’ve been in and out of the doctor trying to figure out the cause, but this week I found out that my cancer has come back.”
Lilly, who was too young to really remember the first bout with cancer, gasps loudly. Dad winces at the sound, and after it fades, the room is cloaked in heavy, oppressive silence.
When I can’t take it anymore, I raise my head and look into my parents’ mournful faces. “When are you starting treatment?” I ask, my voice flat.
Mom purses her lips. “I’m waiting on the exact date. Within two weeks, though.”
Lilly begins to cry, her food forgotten. Mom stands up and shepherds her into the living room. My dad and I stay seated, mechanically eating our food to the sound of my sister’s sobs. When we finish, we begin gathering up the leftovers.
“It’s gonna be okay, Mav,” Dad tells me quietly, watching wearily as I ladle fruit into a plastic container. “The doctors are optimistic.”
I hate that descriptor.Optimistic. It’s code forshe’ll probably survive, but we make no promises.
After going to check on Lilly and finding her asleep with Mom on the couch, I retreat to my room and stay there for the rest of the day. I open an assignment to work on, but I can’t focus. I get a couple of texts from Callie, inviting me to see a movie with her and Azalea later. I reply shortly, letting her know that I’m home for the weekend and including no other information. Callie sends me a crass GIF that I know she’ll be mortified about when she finds out what’s happened.
Azalea texts me, too, about the movie. My fingers hover over my screen as I contemplate messaging her back and spilling everything. She’s the only one I would consider talking to right now. In the end, I don’t send anything because my thoughts are still a jumbled mess. I just put my phone on silent and slip it into my dresser drawer.
Then I end up on Google, which is never a good idea when it comes to medical stuff, but I can’t help myself. I go down the rabbit hole of stats, options, testimonials of people who survived a recurrence of breast cancer. People who didn’t.
Eventually, I’m called to go downstairs for dinner. The four of us eat, play a board game, and then watch TV for a while. It’s clear that Mom and Dad are trying to maintain normalcy, but the conversation is strained and muted. I can’t stop looking at Lilly’s puffy, red-rimmed eyes.
Sunday goes by in the same haze. I think about driving back to school, but in the end, I can’t make myself move to the front door. Lilly goes to school on Monday, though, and my dad goes to work. That leaves me alone in the house with Mom.
She comes upstairs a little after noon, holding a plate with a sandwich and chips on it. “I made you lunch.” I watch from my bed as she comes into the room and slides the plate onto my nightstand. “Ham and cheese.”
“Thanks,” I say, suddenly swamped with guilt. I should be doing things for her, not the other way around. Instead, I’ve been up here brooding all weekend. What a shitty son.
Mom lowers herself onto the edge of my bed. It makes me feel like a little kid waiting for his bedtime story. “We asked you to come home this weekend to tell you the news in person,” she says. “We didn’t mean for you to stay. We know you have things to take care of at school.”
Do I? It all pales in comparison to this. “I can miss a few days.”
“Look at me.” She gestures vaguely to herself. “I feel fine. I’m completely myself. This is treatable. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’ve beat it once. I can beat it again.”
“I’m not Lilly,” I tell her. “I don’t need you to put on a front for me.”
Mom sighs. “Maverick, I’m not. I’m as scared and as devastated as you are. I don’t want to go through this again. But I also don’t want you to lose sight of the things you need to do. We want you at school. How are your grades, anyway?”
