Page 39 of On the Edge

I feel her arms move against my stomach and then they’re wrapped around my waist, squeezing tightly as her chest heaves. I hold her while she clings to me, her shoulders shaking as she cries. She tucks her head against my neck, and I rest my cheek against the bun at the top of her head. I should know exactly what’s happening with her mom. I should have been there for her through this. I should have let her be there for me when my mom died.

My younger self was a damn fool, too full of pride to make good decisions and I’ll spend forever making things right if that’s what it takes.

After a few minutes she starts to pull away, but I put my hands on her hips. “Here, hop up,” I say as I lift her onto the countertop of the large island.

She wipes her wet face with the sleeve of her sweater. “I should go,” she says, but makes no move to leave.

“I have something for you,” I tell her. “It may help a little.”

She raises one eyebrow, her curiosity obviously piqued.

“But first,” I say, “can you put this on my back?” I hold up the heat pack I’d set on the counter before she fell off the barstool. She takes it from me, tearing it open and peeling the backing off to reveal the sticky side. I slide my shirt up and she positions it along the lower left side of my back right where it’s still sore.

When she’s done, I turn back toward the enormous restaurant-style standing freezer. Sitting all by itself on a shelf inside is a small pint of ice cream with a note that reads “Vegan—Don’t Eat” rubber-banded around it. I turn toward her with the pint in my hand and I can see her lips turn up at the corners when she recognizes her favorite brand of ice cream.

“Wait, why doyouhave ice cream?” she asks, the accusation clear. She honestly can’t wrap her mind around me being vegan.

“Just keep an open mind until you’ve tried it.”

“Oh God, it’s not ice cream, is it? It’s going to be some nasty nondairy concoction that’s going to make me wish I’d never tried it.” It’s worth letting her give me shit to see the playfulness in her tearstained face.

“Don’t rush to judgment. You haven’t even tasted it yet.” I grab two spoons from the drawer near my hip and step up next to her. I set the carton and spoons on the counter next to her. “Let’s give it a few to soften up.”

She eyes the pint warily, but then her eyebrows raise. “Caramel almond brittle,” she says, and I can see that she’s hopeful. Caramel is her favorite food group.

“Do you want to talk about what’s going on with your mom?”

“Not really.” She looks away, over my head, instead of making eye contact. I can read her face easily if I can just see her eyes, and she knows it.

“Do you need to go home? Should you be there instead of going to Finland?”

“No.” She shakes her head lightly. “She just started chemo. They’re doing the treatments at Danforth-Hitchcock,” she says, referencing the hospital near Blackstone where my mom received periodic dialysis treatments during the winters while we were up there skiing in high school. “She just has to go back to Dana-Farber in Boston once a month for her regular checkups. Besides, I’ll be home in less than two weeks for Thanksgiving.”

“So, the cancer is spreading again?” It’s so hard to know how to word the question in a way that will keep her talking instead of shutting her down.

She nods.

“Fuck, Jackson, I’m so sorry.” I put my hand on the back of her neck and she doesn’t flinch at all. “What can I do?”

“There’s nothing to do. We just wait.”

“Promise me you’ll tell me if you need anything? Or if you need to go home to spend time with your parents?”

“Sure.” She shrugs. “Is that fake ice cream ready to try yet?”

“We’ll see,” I say, pulling my hand back from her neck and removing the lid from the container. The spoon slices through it and I dig out a bit with caramel and a big chunk of almond brittle for her.

She takes the spoon, eyes the ice cream suspiciously, and slides the spoon into her mouth, closing her lips around it. She slides the spoon back out, then swirls the ice cream around her mouth, her face thoughtful like she’s judging a fine wine.

“That doesn’t suck,” she says. “At all.”

“See?” I say, using the other spoon to scoop some out for myself. But she grabs it from my hand and shoves it in her mouth. She laughs when I lunge for the spoon and she leans back to keep it out of my reach.

She’s lying back on the granite countertop, holding my spoon over her head and laughing with a mouth full of ice cream as I lean over her, my hands planted on either side of her head. My voice is a low growl when I tell her, “That was a mistake.”

“That ice cream ismine. All of it,” she insists through a mouth full of ice cream, unable to control the giggle that bubbles up out of her. There’s ice cream on her lips and there’s nothing I want more in this moment than to lick it off.

“Oh, yeah?” I challenge, leaning down close to her ear. I’m about to say something completely inappropriate, but warranted, when movement at the entrance to the kitchen catches my eye.

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