Page 56 of Breaking Point
Not that far from a lie. I was reviewing my mental list…before the note.
“You and your lists.” She chuckles. “And what’s on the agenda?”
Leaning back against the bathroom sink, my eyes do a quick sweep of her, noting the fatigue evidently present. “First order of business is asking how your meeting went today with your oncologist.”
I didn’t think it was possible but her body grows heavier, slumping. “Let’s at least sit down for this.”
A lump rises in my throat, emotion catching at the weariness in her tone. Maybe I should have left it for tomorrow, left today a happy celebration of Layla and her chance at recovery and answers.
Sitting perpendicular to her on the living room sofa, the crackle and pop of the fire fills the silence as we stare at one another.
In most people’s houses, the kitchen is the heart of the home, but for us, it’s always been the living room. The deep gray softness of the lounging chairs, the wooden coffee table my mom and dad built by hand, the family photos I tore down in a rage that horrible first week she was diagnosed, only for my mom to hang the frames back up.
I don’t know how she can stand to look at the photos but when she caught me with a black Sharpie in hand, she scolded me, telling me that just because our present has changed it doesn’t take away from the happiness we felt in the past.
It was the first of many things we disagreed on.
He altered everything, made me look back at memories and view them differently. He ruined our family, and there’s no part of me that remembers him with fondness. He placed a permanent black cloud over what used to be.
“Did you bring your art supplies in? I didn’t see them in your room,” my mom says, pulling me from my desolate thoughts.
I quirk a brow. “Delaying telling me news, are we?”
“Avoiding the question, are we?” she parrots.
Huffing, I nestle deeper into the couch, staring at my mom’s brown hair. It looks like her natural hair, but it’s a wig. The day the first hair clump fell out was the day she picked up the buzz cutter. She said cancer had grasped control of the reins of her life and she was tired of it driving her vehicle.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat at the memory, I admit, “It’s in storage.” Before she can harp on me about getting back into drawing, I lean forward. “Please, Mom, just rip the Band-Aid off. No more secrets, remember? What about your daily confession? Can this be it?”
Something weighted passes through her eyes. Her posture changes, as if she’s readying for battle. “It’s not bad news, per se.”
That has me straightening.
Rubbing her temple, she takes a deep breath and raises her brown eyes to mine. It’s like staring in a mirror, we’re nearly identical. “Dr. Stewart informed me that a new drug was released to the market.” She holds up her hand as a smile works across my face. “I had to turn him down today.”
“What?” I scream, jumping to my feet and instantly apologizing for the level of my voice as my mom winces, no doubt a headache pounding against her skull. “Mom, why the hell would you say no? Nothing else is working.”
“It’s not that simple, Bella. Because it’s a new drug, insurance won’t cover it.”
Every ounce of hope that was blossoming in my chest deflates in an instant. “H-how much is it?” I stutter, slowly sitting once again.
“Far too much to consider, and I refuse to put you into any more debt than you already are. We cannot afford it.”
“You can’t put a price on your life, Mom.”
“Well, you can and they have. It’s…a large price.” Her lips flatten into a thin line. “I’m sorry, Bella, but?—”
“How much?” I probe. She shakes her head, so I ask again, firmer this time. “How much?”
“It’s brutal, and the process is lengthy with the medicine requiring different dosages and forms of consumption?—”
“How much?” I repeat.
“Fourteen thousand dollars,” she whispers. And something blooms within me again until it’s crushed entirely as she adds, “A month.”
I’m earning a lot—enough to slowly pay off the hospital bills that have been racking up, enough to support my mother—but this? She’s right, I’d go into debt. I could scrounge up five thousand, maybe push to eight thousand a month and continue to let the bills and debt climb, but then I’d barely have enough to feed us.
Something deeply unsettling occurs as I watch the very hope drain from my mother’s body. I have known for months, and yet it only truly sinks in at this moment.
