I stop as soon as I'm able, clenching my muscles so they won't shake and seize. I wipe my eyes over and over again. As soon as I'm under control, I shut the water off. Before I slide myself under my sheets, I grab a bag of peas from the freezer downstairs. Maybe I can stop the redness on my neck from getting worse.
A few hours later, I come downstairs at a normal Saturday time, which means I've been stuck in my room for hours. I spent the time with my iPod earbuds jammed in my ears, volume turned up so it hurt my eardrums, re-folding my tshirts, dusting, arranging my books, feeding my goldfish, Tristan and Isolde, and even starting an outline for my essay on the symbolism of light and darkness in Wuthering Heights. All of which haven't done anything to stop me reliving every awful moment. I make sure to check my neck before I got downstairs. It's a little red, but not too noticeable. I throw on a hoodie to cover it up, just in case.
“What's new pu**ycat?” My mother says as I emerge into the sunlight of the kitchen. This morning the cheery yellow colors burn my eyes as she grabs me and starts crooning in a horrible Tom Jones impression.
“Ugh, it's too early.” I pretend that I've just woken up. In reality, I'm so beyond tired it's like I'm only functioning with half my brain. The other part is either sleeping or abandoned me after last night. My stomach rolls once, remembering.
“Did you shower? Your hair's wet.” Me and my stupid thick hair that takes hours to dry. I'd gotten that from my mother. Her own hair had fallen out slowly, and she'd clung to every strand until it was gone, screaming and banging her fists against the mirror. She thought I couldn't hear her, but I could. My mother wasn't one of those women who shaved their heads without fear.
She's got her everyday wig on, which almost matches her real color.
“Yeah, I forgot to last night.” Can we please talk about something else?
“You want some pancakes, ma fleur?” Normally I would have smiled at the nickname, at her pride in her French Canadian heritage. She also has a thing for nicknames, and aprons. She's wearing the one that makes her look like she stepped out of a 1950s commercial about white bread. All starched white and frills without a spot on it, which defeats the purpose of an apron.
“Sure.” I'm not going to eat them, but I could push them around my plate and hope she doesn't notice. “Where's Dad?” It takes more effort than normal to haul myself onto one of the stools at the bar. She just keeps humming Tom Jones tune as she flips enough pancakes to feed several small African countries. Ever since Dad bought her that griddle pan that makes eight at once, she's been pancake crazy.
“He's been very mysterious. He got up really early and was banging around doing something. I have no idea.” She smiles to herself, sliding another pancake onto a plate already towering with them. The kitchen reeks of cinnamon. It makes my already unsettled stomach curl up. I wonder if she's going to bring up the dinner. I hope she doesn't. I seriously want to pretend it never happened.
As she cooks, I notice how the apron hangs on her, like a coat on a rack. It makes me want to hug her and hold her.
“Here you go,” she says, plunking a plate with five giant apple and cinnamon pancakes in front of me. They're made in the shape of Mickey Mouse, with the large round head and the two round ears on each side.
“Thanks.” I know she isn't going to eat with me. She doesn't eat much anymore, because she's too sick from the drugs. Dr. Chase also had her on this diet that means she can't have much of anything that she used to love. No cake or pie or butter. All the good things, she says.
“You look tired, baby.” She's got her chin in her hands, elbows on the table so her face is level with mine. Her forehead does that wrinkle-worried thing. I hate it when she looks like that.
“It was kind of a big night.” The ball's in her court. She can deflect if she wants.
“I know.” I think she's going to hug me, but she just wraps her hands around her coffee cup. Not quite a deflection. I decide to take the plunge.
“How long have you known?”
“A few weeks.” She takes a calm sip of coffee.
“A few weeks!” I stab a mouse ear with my fork.
“We weren't absolutely sure, so we waited until all the test results were in. You were so busy with school and work and everything, we wanted to wait to tell you.” The excuses fall from her lips like rain.
“So you've known for weeks that this was going to happen and you didn't tell me?” I keep repeating it, hoping she'll deny it.
“I didn't want to disrupt your life. I wanted things to be as normal as they could be.” Something hits me in the gut. I want to roll up in a ball and hold onto myself so I don't fly apart in a million pieces. She won't look at me and I know why.
“You weren't going to tell me, were you?”
“It was your father's idea to tell you.” She glances down at her wedding band.
“You weren't going to tell me.” I push my plate away. I'm not going to pretend anymore.
“What difference would it make, knowing?” Her gaze rises to meet mine.
“It makes all the difference.” How could she not know that?
She shrugs. “I'm still going to die. I don't want to go with the memory of you being worried all the time, and thinking of it. I want to remember you happy and free.” Her hands flutter around her coffee cup.
“So lying to me seemed the way to go.” I feel like a horrible bitch for talking to her this way, but I can't help it.
“I didn't think–” She's interrupted by Dad's car in the driveway. She looks up, a smile stretching her face. One hand goes to make sure her wig is secure.
“Surprise!” He comes in, brandishing a bouquet of tulips in yellow and red. Her favorite. They're still damp with water the supermarket sprayed on them to keep them fresh. He also pulls out a box of chocolate caramels. I wanted to slap him in the face, because she'll never be able to eat them. They'll make her sick. He should know that.
“Oh, Sam, they're beautiful.” She melts and hugs him, the flowers getting water in her hair.
“You're welcome, Taylor.” She smiles and ducks her head into his chest at the nickname. Taylor is her maiden name. I feel like the oldest person in the room. She leans into him, her body folding like a piece of paper.
He looks exactly like you would think a loan officer should look. Tall and pressed and straight and dry. I inherited his bony limbs, and looking at his face is like looking at my own, except his features are softened by my mom's in my face. Thank God.