Page 4 of Things I Wish I Said
“I have to go to this,” I say, taking the letter back from my mother.
Her throat bobs, a distant look in her eyes that tells me she’s going to say no. She’s going to shut me down, my one request since this whole shitstorm started. “Even if I can find the money to send you, I can't afford to leave work for a week, and you can’t go alone.”
Making a living as a potter isn’t easy. Most of the money she earns is from stoneware, things like mugs and dinnerware sets, and more often than not, people don’t value quality, at least not with their dollars; they’d rather head to their local department store and buy something cheap that comes from China. Not that I blame them. Half of our belongings have come from thrift shops and flea markets, and Mom waits tables at Kit’s Kitchen just to get by.
“Maybe I can go with one of the girls from Federal Hocking,” I say, referring to my high school soccer team.
My mother’s gaze turns sorrowful.
I’m not fooling anyone.
I received a scholarship from Federal Hocking, an all-girls' school, in eighth grade to play soccer for them. We took it, knowing it would lead to better opportunities, but the only girls I’ve ever been remotely close to were Christy and Nadine, and they’ve already left to prepare for college soccer. The rest of my classmates and teammates saw me as better than them, on another level. Though that’s never the impression I projected; they set me on a pedestal I couldn’t quite climb down from. And even if they hadn’t, between spring leagues and summer travel teams, I didn’t have time for them. It’s a little hard to make friends when you’re never around.
Even the U-17 and U-18s treated me differently. It’s like the more skilled I became, the less they saw me as their peer. Instead, I became this idol, a person to look up to, and for a while I was okay with that. But when I got sick, I realized very quickly just how lonely it is at the top.
“Do you even still talk to them?” she asks, calling my bluff.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m sure any of them would die to go to this thing with me.”
Mom drags a hand through her dark hair, the same shade mine used to be, only hers is pin straight while mine curls when wet. Or, at least, it used to.
“I don’t know if I like the idea of you flying clear across the country in your condition, let alone with someone you barely talk to.”
“Mom.” My expression hardens. “I don’t think you understand. This award is given at the ESPYs.”
She blinks at me, her expression blank.
“It’s put on by ESPN,” I say, but still, she has no reaction. “It’s the biggest award ceremony in sports. They recognize professional athletes and their performance each year from all over the country. I can’t miss this. Besides, I’m already—”
“Don’t say it.” Mom holds her hand up, and I sigh. “You’re sick. Going on a trip that far from your doctors and flying on an airplane would be reckless, a suicide mission. If these most recent scans show progress, you might need more treatment, and—”
“I know, okay? But I also don’t care. Mom, this is my life we’re talking about, and however little of it I have left, don’t you think I should be able to live it how I want?”
Mom shakes her head and I want to laugh. “No?” I choke out.
She says nothing for a while, biting her lip so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t draw blood. Meanwhile, I stare her down, willing her to budge.
“Maybe if I could go with you, or if there was someone close to you I could trust, but . . .” She trails off, glancing up at me, her blue eyes liquid with fear.
How do I explain to her how much this means to me? How much I want this?
“Mom, I might not have much longer left.” She holds a hand up for me to stop, but I don’t. She needs to hear this. “Please. Can’t you give me this one thing?”
She swallows, her voice a scratchy rasp when she says, “Not if it means the risk of losing you sooner.”
I endure a long dinner with John and Katie, glad for once I have an excuse for the exhaustion that’s plaguing me. Despite the fact it’s only 7 p.m., it takes everything in me not to simply collapse into bed, close my eyes, and sleep until morning, but I can’t stop thinking about the Gatorade award and how I can twist Mom’s arm into letting me go.
I plop down in front of my desk and fold my arms over its cool, smooth surface, resting my forehead against them.
Something tells me Mom was bluffing when she mentioned going with a close friend or boyfriend. Even if she could take me and we weren’t in debt up to our eyeballs, she still wouldn’t want me to go. And not out of concern for germs and a lowered immune system, but because I know how much she worries any time soccer is the topic of conversation. She’s afraid focusing too much on everything I lost will send me into a depression I can’t climb out of, one that will affect my mindset, and in turn affect my progress.
Little does she know if I were going to fall apart, I would have already done so. I’m barely hanging on by a thread as it is, and soccer is the only thing holding me together.
The only way to get around a bluff is to call it. Which means I need someone she trusts to go with me to LA. Someone stronger than me. Someone that cares about me on another level, who has my best interests at heart, same as her. Someone . . . like a serious boyfriend.
I bite my lip as I mull this over.
It’s perfect, only I have zero male friends and certainly no prospects. Finding a boyfriend on short notice while finishing chemo and battling lung cancer doesn’t even seem possible at this point. Talking about vomit, shortness of breath, and how many rounds I’ve completed isn’t exactly the best icebreaker.
