Page 2 of Things I Wish I Said
“So, if I end up purchasing one, how does that work?” I ask.
“Well, we can either work with a funeral home or we can ship to wherever you like.”
I nod, taking this in. “That’ll work,” I say. “Do you have a card or something?”
He pulls a business card from his front pocket and hands it to me. I take a long look before tucking it into the pocket of my jean shorts.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the driveway to find my mother’s rusty old Toyota waiting on me, and know I’ll have to lie about where I’ve been. The bare-naked truth is more my style, so anything less than complete brutal honesty takes some form of mental preparation.
Inhaling, I muster the energy it’ll take to get from point A to point B, and push my door open. Some days are better than others. Occasionally, I have a rare twenty-four hours where I feel almost normal, where I can pretend I’m not sick. Today is a bad day. Breathing feels like a chore. Maybe it’s stress, induced by discovering the second mortgage. Or maybe this will be the new norm. It’s hard to say.
I slowly make my way over the cobbled sidewalk, lined with smooth round stones my mother painted in wild colors and intricate designs, and up the stairs to the pathetic imitation of a front porch where I lean against the doorframe to catch my breath.
My lungs burn, legs ache.
Fuck me, cancer sucks.
I’m a shadow of my former self, a fucking ghost.
Teammates, coaches, and sport broadcasters alike used to call me The Missile because I could run down the length of a soccer field so fast, the colors of my jersey blurred on myback. Now I can barely make it from my car, up the front porch, and to the door.
Isn’t life grand?
Licking my lips, I feel the rasp of dry, flaky skin against my tongue, and not for the first time, I tell cancer to go to hell.
Once I’m ready, I turn the knob and push the door open to the telltale sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. As much as I’d love to duck out and avoid my mother, I know it’s impossible, so I head in the direction of the racket to find her beaming at the sight of me, as if I don’t look like the fucking Grim Reaper.
“Hey, honey. Where were you?”
“A movie,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue.
“Oh. How was it?”
I give her a halfhearted thumbs-up on my way to one of the chairs at the dining room table. “Great,” I drawl. “And bonus, I’m not dead yet, so . . .”
My mother casts me a disapproving look, which I avoid by bowing my head. I’d like to say it’s because I’m ashamed of my smart-ass comment, but it’s only because my skull is starting to pound and I need a second to recalibrate.
“I didn’t think you were going out today. Thought you didn’t feel well,” Mom says, interrupting my quiet agony.
“Huh?” I ask, blinking my eyes open.
“This morning, before I went out, you said you didn’t feel well.”
“Oh, yeah.” I shrug. “I don’t, but I got bored and decided I wasn’t too bad.”
Mom says nothing as she sets a pot on the stove.
“So . . . what culinary masterpiece is for dinner?” I ask, picking at the grapes in the fruit bowl and hoping to divert the topic of conversation from me.
“I’m making this chicken dish with fresh peaches and onion, with a side of roasted veggies.”
I hum a noncommittal sound, unsure of how well chicken, peaches, and onion pair together. Truthfully, all I really want is to go up to my room and take a nap.
“Oh, John and Katie are coming, too,” she adds. “They should be here within the hour.”
And just like that, I can forget going to bed early.
I can also forget about my good mood. If you could call it that.
