Page 1 of Things I Wish I Said
Chapter one
RYLEIGH
I glance into thesilver casket with its stark snow-white interior. I bet most people don’t envision their own funeral at eighteen. I wonder if I’ll be planning mine sooner rather than later.
The salesman drones on in my ear about the difference between their metal and wood caskets, hardwood and softwood.
I’m not really listening. I’m too busy imagining my body encased between the satin, skin slightly orange from the mortician’s makeup, lips and brows painted on.
I wonder what they’ll do with my hair and if they’ll have me wear a wig?
I reach a hand to my head, where it glides over the smooth surface.
I’m as bald as a cue ball. Have been since my first round of chemo months ago. According to the doctor, once I finish chemo, it could take months more to grow back.
I grimace. I miss my hair, but I’ve grown used to the silk scarves I tie around my head, like the one I’m wearing now. Itried wigs for about a week before I decided they were too itchy and cumbersome, and now I only wear them when I have to. Not to mention they were ridiculous for me to wear when I was still desperately trying to kick a soccer ball around a field, clinging to my life pre-diagnosis. Besides that, they make me paranoid, like everyone knows I have something to hide when I wear them, and one thing I’ve learned over the last six months is there’s no hiding cancer.
I peer inside the casket one last time and shudder.
“Whatever,” I say to the man beside me. “It’s not like I’ll need a lot of bells and whistles. I mean, I’ll be dead, right?” I grin up at him and he stares at me like he’s unsure how to take me. It’s a common occurrence these days.
I ignore his gaping and tap the top of the coffin. “How much would this bad boy set me back?” I ask, knowing my mom would have a conniption if she knew I were here, pricing caskets.
“This particular model is on sale?”
“You’re kidding,” I interrupt.
“No. It’s an amazing deal, actually.”
I bark out a laugh, and his brows rise. “Sorry. I just find it funny that a coffin would go on sale. I mean, were there not enough dead people this week? Is there some kind of strike on metal silver coffins I don’t know about?”
He glances from me to the coffin and starts to stammer out a response, but I wave him off. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. How much is it?”
“It’s one thousand even.”
“Wow! That’s a steal.” I drum my fingers on the side of the metal casket beside me. In all my four years of high school, I never had a job. I’d been far too busy with soccer, so to know I can find a casket so affordable if the time comes, gives me a sense of inner peace that’s not been present in a while. Especially since I came across Mom’s mortgage statement yesterday.
Unbeknown to me, she took out a second mortgage on the house. I shouldn’t be surprised. Immunotherapy, surgery, and months of chemo aren’t cheap when you have the bare minimum for insurance and you’re living off money made as a potter and waiting tables. But the second mortgage isn’t the only problem; she’s also late on payments. The paltry amount I’ve managed to squirrel away in my bank account from Christmases, birthdays, graduation, and award money from various soccer competitions can’t touch the debt she’s accrued.
If my treatments are not successful, it would be best for her if I had a quick death, and it’s comforting to know I can at least take care of this one small thing when the time comes.
“I always did love a good bargain.” I smile, but it doesn’t quite fit on my face. “If things go south with my treatment, hopefully this rot box will still be on sale.”
The man gapes at my crassness. I would take pity on him if my thoughts weren’t already drifting back to my mother.
God, she’d be mortified if she saw me now. Beyond mortified. She’d be pissed, actually. I know because I broached the subject of what she’d do if the chemo didn’t work just the other day and she all but lost her shit. Mom doesn’t want to talk aboutit. She’d rather ignore the fact that immunotherapy only made me sicker and, after the first four cycles of chemo, I showed no improvement. If this final round of chemo fails, I’m not sure what I have left, but Mom would rather pretend there’s another option out there, some magic bullet, than face reality.
But I know better.
I can feel it. The way my bones ache. How a simple walk down my street leaves me winded. The exhaustion and fatigue. Not to mention, my evening and morning cough has returned with a vengeance these last couple weeks.
All signs pointing to nothing good.
I don’t need some stupid scans to confirm I’m not getting better. My “good” days are becoming less frequent while the “bad” ones have become the norm.
But Mom’s eternal optimism makes it impossible to talk about. The only outcome she’ll accept is success. She won’t address the what-ifs. No worst-case scenarios, even though my head is full of them.
I only wish she understood that avoiding the inevitable won’t keep it from knocking on my door.
