Page 68 of This Could Be Us

When Lindee opens the door, her face brightens immediately.

“Hi!” She gawks at all the stuff crowding their front porch. “Oh, my gosh. Whatisall this?”

“Did you not tell her we were coming to clean, Lupe?” I turn concerned eyes to my daughter. I don’t usually like people coming to my house unannounced. I certainly wouldn’t want to spring this on Cora.

“She did. I just didn’t expect…” Lindee waves her hand at the bags of food and mounds of cleaning supplies. “All this.”

“My mom is a general. Cleaning is war,” Lupe says. “And we’re her soldiers.”

“Not exactly how I would put it, but close enough.” I smile at Lindee. “Could we come in and get started?”

She steps back, waving us into the foyer. “Of course.”

A boy, maybe a few years younger than Lupe, comes down the stairs. He, like Lindee, has golden-brown skin and dark, curly hair. His is cropped close.

“What’s going on?” he asks, eyeing my cleaning supplies and the items still on the porch.

“They’re here to clean, George,” Lindee offers cheerfully.

“Does Mom know?” He frowns and glances up the stairs. “She’s resting.”

“We’ll be quiet.” I turn to Lindee. “Or if you want us to come back another time—”

“No.” She shoots her brother a pointed look. “Mom does know and was happy. She’s fine and will appreciate the help.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” I say, looking questioningly at the scowling boy. “Maybe you could help us load some of this stuff into the house?”

With dragging steps, George goes out onto the porch and grabs a few bags of food. It’s obvious the house has been neglected. The kids have probably tried to help, but what I’ve seen so far is in need of a deep clean.

I peer into the fridge. My fingers itch to scrub this thing from top to bottom.

“Okay.” I turn to the four young people watching me. “Everybody ready for their assignments?”

The girls nod, eager to get started, while the semisulky boy stands off to the side.

“What about you?” I ask him. “You wanna help? You don’t have to if you—”

“I’ll help.” He shuffles his feet and surveys the kitchen. “Tell me what to do.”

Over the next two hours, we work together to get the house sparkling and smelling fresh. I usually like to clean alone, but I sense that George might need to talk. He resists my first tentative attempts to draw him out, but after a few minutes starts sharing a little at a time. He’s a good kid, but confused and scared. I remember feeling that way, and I was an adult when my mother was diagnosed. I can only imagine how unmoored he feels by the threat of losing his mom this young.

“We’ve cleaned every room but Mom’s,” Lindee says, parking a bucket of supplies by the fridge and blowing her bangs from her eyes.

“We can do that another day,” I say. “I don’t want to wake her up.”

“I’m up.”

Cora Garland stands at the kitchen doorway, and if I weren’t in her house, I would never have placed her. She looks so different from how I remember, from the glowing woman with the lustrous hair in the photos gracing the mantel and walls. Her skin is dark brown andashen. Her hair—gone. She’s not wearing a wig or a turban or a cap. She is bold bald, with no lashes or eyebrows. Her body, once round and pleasingly thick in all thesistah girlplaces, is reduced to a bony frame drowning in a sweatshirt that readsF*ck Cancer.

“Got it the first time I beat this bitch,” she says, touching the letters across her chest. “Still holds true.”

“I have several of those,” I admit.

“You a survivor?” Surprise lights her expression.

“No, my mother had cancer.”

“Did she make it?”

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