Page 34 of Still Yours
Stone is another story, asking after every bite, “It’s delicious, isn’t it?”
I’m ready to toss my licked-clean spoon at him to shut him up when Mrs. Stalinski lets out a small moan.
It was tiny, not meant for our ears, but being with her all these months has made me attuned to every wince and whimper.
“Mrs. Stalinski?” I ask.
Stone pushes away from his third helping. He stands and puts a hand on her lower back.
Mrs. Stalinski waves us both off. “Don’t fuss, you two. I need some rest is all. Your little pissing contest took the last of my energy.”
“Rigged pissing contest,” I add, but I also slide off my stool with concern.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Mrs. Stalinski insists.
She moves to set her feet on the floor, then buckles. If it weren’t for Stone, she would have fallen. He catches her in his arms.
“Guess I had too much to drink,” she jokes. Mrs. Stalinski maybe had two sips of wine.
“You’re not making it up the stairs,” Stone says at the same time I jump into action and say, “It’s time for your nighttime medication. That should help.”
“I told you both—I’mfine.”
Mrs. Stalinski doesn’t protest as Stone leans her into his powerful body. I’m fully aware of the weight she’s lost and how frail she’s become, but next to her tall, powerful, and incredibly fit son, she turns into a broken bird.
A rock lodges in my throat. Swallowing it down, I open the cabinet above the fridge and pick out her necessary meds. I get her a glass of water and hand everything to her, which she takes without protest.
“There,” she says. “Once these babies hit, I’ll be snoozing and snoring, and you two can bicker long into the night.”
A note of pain laces her tone, and I immediately wish there was a bedroom on the first floor so she wouldn’t have to navigate the stairs. I assumed it would have to happen eventually, but with the way this clinical trial is progressing, it might be sooner than anybody imagined.
Stone solves the problem for me when he lifts his mother into his arms.
“William!” she protests. “You do not need to carry me like a darned baby. Put me down this instant.”
“Not a chance,” Stone says, his face grim. The muscles in his jaw pop and undulate, holding a frustrated roar prisoner.
Without glancing in my direction, he strides out of the kitchen and to the stairs, Mrs. Stalinski batting him on the shoulder and demanding to be released the entire way.
I should leave them to it. Mrs. Stalinski is in expert hands with Stone, but there is a pull to follow them I can’t ignore.
Maybe she’ll need me, I rationalize as I pad behind them in my socks.Or needs help in the bathroom. She won’t want Stone for that.
All things Mrs. Stalinski could probably do for herself, but I’m staying overnight as her nurse. Not as her friend or Stone’s ex-girlfriend. The dinner allowed the three of us to dismiss my role for a time, but cancer never likes to be overlooked. It’ll push itself back into the spotlight at every turn.
When I reach Mrs. Stalinski’s bedroom door, Stone is laying his mother gently on the bed and pulling the duvet over her. His fingers shake as he does it, the blue veins down his forearms bulging.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen him in person, yet I can spot his battle to keep himself under control a mile away.
I come up behind him. “Let me. It’s why I’m here.”
Stone glances at me with his expression a mixture of guilt and relief. Relief that there is someone in the vicinity who knows exactly what to do, and guilt that he doesn’t want to, or can’t, do it.
“Thanks.” His throat bobs. He moves away.
“Allow us ladies to get prepared for bed,” Mrs. Stalinski says, her eyelids drooping. The fentanyl patch works fast. “Go clean the kitchen, since you made such a mess of it.”
“I thought the rule was the chef cooks, the gluttons clean.” Stone tries for a joke, though it falters around the edges.
