Page 97 of Things I Wish I Said
Jealousy she’s confiding in John and not me stabs me like a hot poker.
I wish she would’ve told me she was in trouble months ago, before the chemo. Maybe I could’ve helped.
By dying?
“You have Katie to think about,” Mom continues, “and I won’t pull you down with me. I won’t do that to you.”
“I’m here with you, regardless. Like it or not, I’m in this for the long haul, and eventually what’s yours will be mine, debt and all.”
Mom hiccups on a sob, but my mind is reeling, too preoccupied with processing the implication of what he just said.
I remember back to when Katie was in my room a couple weeks ago, the night I went to Kip’s party, how she asked aboutour parents getting married and if I thought they’d have to move into our house.
My stomach lurches.
Feeling nauseous, I rise to my feet only to find my legs feel like jelly. Katie must have known something I didn’t.
Suddenly, I’m certain my mother and John have talked about getting married. Not only that, but for Katie to know, they’ve talked about it with her, too.
Betrayal slices through me like a knife as I turn and make a beeline for the bathroom.
I stumble inside, gripping the porcelain sink with two hands as I dry heave once before clutching my stomach, urging it to calm down.
I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
But when I close my eyes, I can see the future perfectly and it looks a lot like tonight, only John will live here because he’s moved in, and I won’t because I’ll be dead. Katie will take my room. The soccer memorabilia will be replaced with dance stuff, the walls painted a bright pink.
Mom will spend her nights after the funeral grieving in John’s arms on the couch, until eventually, the pain lessens a little, and the memories fade.
And I should want that for her.
I do.
I want my mother to be happy.
I want her to move on and build a new life.
I just didn’t expect her to do it right under my nose.
I poke at a piece of fruit with my fork while my mother eyes me over the rim of her coffee cup. It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I overheard her and John in the middle of the night, and I can practically feel the thoughts brewing inside her head as she holds them in. It’s driving me crazy, but I won’t ask her about it. I’m almost certain I know what it’s about, and I’m not sure I want to hear it.
My gaze flicks to hers, and I note the dark circles beneath her blue eyes, the wrinkles that never used to be there. She no longer sleeps. I know this because I wake throughout the night, and when I do, I can hear her in her studio, puttering around with the soft swell of music trickling beneath the basement door.
It was the same when I was little. If I had a nightmare and woke her, she never could fall back asleep, and so after she’d soothe me back into bed, she’d retreat to her studio where the mellow sounds of Mozart seeping through the floorboards lulled me back into a peaceful sleep.
I no longer have nightmares, but I wonder if she does. I wonder if she’s had a night of peace since my diagnosis. Maybe every day, every night is one big nightmare for her. Judging by the look of her, I guess I’m right. She’s aged five years in the last six months, and I’m completely to blame.
Finally, the silence gets the better of her, and she asks, “Have you spoken to Grayson yet?”
You mean, have I told him yet?
I try to keep the emotion from my gaze as I shake my head. “No.”
“Oh, well . . .” She trails off, seeming to let it go, and for that, I’m grateful.
I can’t imagine telling Grayson. Just the thought pains me. Though if I’m dying, it strengthens my resolve to convince my mother to allow me to travel to LA for the awards. She’ll be even more reluctant now, considering the news. Not only am I not better, but I’m worse off than I was before. She’ll refuse to see this as a last wish, and instead, she’ll think of it as a risk I can’t afford to take.
Which is why the wish is more important now than ever. Grayson is my only hope of gaining her approval.
