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I forgave her for the first one, but we never recovered the second time around. It doesn’t matter how many times she’s tried to explain herself or apologize.
“Well, thank you for being here,” I tell her politely while pivoting away. “Have fun tonight.”
“Hannah, wait. Come on. I know we’ve had our differences—”
“Differences?” I laugh as I shoot her a flabbergasted look. “Oh, on the contrary, I’d say our tastes are far too similar.”
Faith gasps dramatically like I just slapped her. Honestly. What did she expect? That now that I’m dying, I’ll just forgive and forget everything?
I’m far too petty for that. I’m taking this grudge to my grave, clutched tightly in my cold, dead hands.
With the perfect timing my mother always has, I hear her step up to the stage and tap the mic to see if the sound is working properly.
The thumping resounds from the speakers, and I shuffle forward a few steps, directing all my attention toward my mom.
“Hello, everyone,” she starts, bestowing the crowd with her warmest expression. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate every single one of you. You’re our community. Our village. Over the decades, the town of Asheville has kept this farm running. Every time you show up to buy syrup or honey, you purchase something in our gift shop, or you pick out your pumpkins for Halloween… you’re supporting our small business.” She blinks as she begins getting emotional. “And here you are again. Here to help Hannah. This is scary for us, and we need you now more than ever. It feels like we’ve been living in a nightmare. We don’t have a diagnosis yet, but we’re hopeful. Please enjoy the all-you-can-eat pancake buffet, and don’t forget to check out the items on the silent auction table along the back wall.” She points to her left. “Many local businesses have donated gift baskets of their goods and services. There’s also a donation box with Bobby if you’d like to give cash or checks, or you can visit our website and donate electronically.” When Dad gives her a signal after he lifts the lid off a giant vat of cooked bacon, she grins excitedly and ends her speech with, “Dinner is served.”
People move around me, several offering to bring me some food, but I tell them my dad is already on it.
While he fixes a plate with all my favorites, I decide to put myself in a spot where I can see all the action in the room. That happens to be a table near the door.
The evening air is starting to cool off, and the breeze feels nice when it ruffles my hair.
As I watch the people milling about, I realize there are two types here. First, the ones who don’t know what to say to me, and to avoid any awkwardness, they choose to sit as far away from me as possible.
Then there are the ones who want to know all my business, so they set up shop at my table. There’s a lot of, “Did you Google it?” and “Have you gotten a second opinion?” and “I know Doctor such-n-such, and he’ll be able to fix you right up.” My favorite is someone’s claim that a new type of candle made with essential oils can cure “just about anything.”
They mean well. I know they want to help, but I’m starting to get overwhelmed by all the suggestions.
When my dad brings my dinner, I send him a grateful smile as I begin shoveling bites of fluffy pancake into my mouth. If I’m busy chewing, I don’t have to talk.
Unfortunately, I hear thatclick, click, clickagain.
“Oh, an open seat by the belle of the ball.” Faith is suddenly right next to me, totally oblivious to the way I tense up when she scoots onto the end of the bench.
Wonderful. “Hi, again.”
If she detects any malice in my voice, she doesn’t show it.
She seems to think if she pretends nothing is wrong long enough, maybe she can manifest that shit into existence.
“It’ll be so good to catch up, Hannah. Plus, you’re, like, the only person I know here.”
I hum out a sound of agreement, but I don’t ask her any follow-up questions about where Cooper is. Because I’m really not interested in a conversation about her and my ex.
But of course, she doesn’t take the hint and keeps dishing out information anyway. “Just so you know, Cooper and I are over.”
That’s news to me, but sadly, not a surprise.
“What a shame,” I deadpan around a mouthful of bacon.
“Thanks. I was pretty broken up about it a few months ago, but I’m looking to the future. No one is holding me back. I can do anything. Go anywhere. The possibilities are endless, you know?”
No, I don’t know.
And my brooding silence is enough to prompt Faith to say, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be going on about all the things I’m going to do when you can’t…”
Oh, she just had to get in a dig of her own.
