Page 54 of Holiday Love
Unimpressed, he folds his arms. “That doesn’t explain the bruise.”
“I slipped off the board,” Helen says, her voice softer now. “Banged my leg on the coffee table.”
Her explanation does nothing to ease the tightness around her dad’s mouth. He stares at her leg, then at me. Unease coils in my gut. I’d hoped to win him over, but so far I look like a reckless idiot who body-checks his fake girlfriend into furniture. Not exactly the first impression I was hoping for.
“Teddy,” says Linda, her voice loud in the awkward silence. “Come help me make the salad.” I send her a relieved smile and move to her side. Helen asks her dad something about the hospital, and they wander off in conversation filled with words I don’t understand, but Helen is lit up, focused, completely in her element.
Linda watches them go with a fond smile. “Two peas in a pod,” she murmurs. There’s warmth to how she says it, but also sadness and maybe longing? It reminds me of myself, of how much I adore my family and how even though they love me back, I sometimes feel left out, like they’re all tucked into a cozy house together and I’m outside, looking in through the window. I know the feeling of being loved but lonely.
After a moment, Linda turns her attention back to me.
“Thanks,” I tell her under my breath, remembering how she just saved me.
“Don’t mind Phillip. He gets overprotective,” she says in a hushed tone. “We both do. Helen’s struggled occasionally in the past. Friends. Grades. We’ve had to jump in from time to time to help her out, and it’s made us trigger happy when it comes to shielding her.”
That description doesn’t match what I know about hypercompetent Helen. “I thought she got straight As? She’s so smart.”
“She did once she got to college and medical school, but back in elementary and even junior high school she didn’t talk much. Refused to answer questions. Failed tests because they were on topics that didn’t interest her.” Linda sighs, shrugs. “Eventually she figured out the system, but it took a long time to convince her that sometimes you have to jump through other people’s hoops just to get where you want to go.”
Stubborn, I think. That tracks. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? She’s rigid when it comes to fairness, to doing things the “right”way. Structured. Literal. Thoughtful. Honest in ways most people aren’t.
“Well, she talks to me just fine,” I say, feeling a little defensive on Helen’s behalf.
Linda looks at me for a long second and then smiles gently. “Good. It means she trusts you.”
That lodges somewhere deep in my chest.
Linda’s wearing another loose dress today, this one pink with purple flowers. Now that I’m not distracted by the fact that I’m wearing a fuzzy bathrobe, I notice how her blonde hair is thin and there are dark shadows under her eyes. I know that look. It was on my father’s face during the six months from his cancer diagnosis to his death.
Long-forgotten dread skitters down my back. I’ve never really gotten over my father’s death—no one in my family has. The thought of watching another family go through that kind of grief makes me want to run out of the house screaming, but I clamp down on the panic. I won’t abandon Helen at a time like this, not that she needs me, but still, this is a chance to prove maybe I can evolve, become a stronger version of myself. More grown-up and responsible. The man Gwen and my mom want me to be. The manIwant to be.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Linda, maintaining steady eye contact. “I hope you don’t mind that Helen told me about your diagnosis.”
Her eyebrows hit her hairline. “She did?”
I nod, then hesitate, unsure how much to tell her. I don’t want the grimness of my dad’s story to discourage her. “My dad passed away from cancer. Colon, though, not breast.”
“Oh.” Her eyes soften. “I’m so sorry. How oldwere you?”
“Twelve.”
She sucks in a breath. “So young to deal with something so heavy.”
I hang my head. “Yeah. It was tough.”
Tough.
What an understatement. Sorrow, decades old, crawls up the back of my throat, burns the back of my eyes. This is what I know about grief. It comes in waves, like the ocean. Right now, it’s a tidal wave. I angle my body away, fix my vision on the water outside the window and let it ground me like it always does.
Linda must sense my distress because she gracefully directs the conversation away from the loaded subject of my dad and back to her. “I’m doing okay. Some days are better than others.”
A moment of hesitation, then I ask a question that’s always bothered me, but that I was too young to articulate when my father was sick. “How do you handle it? Do you think about it all the time?”
I remember my dad being so sick he couldn’t get out of bed but still playing card games with me. I’d balance on the edge of his mattress, begging in my high-pitched voice for one more round of Uno, and he’d always agree, at least until the last couple of weeks. At the time, I didn’t give it much thought, but I think about it now, how that probably took a lot out of him. He never complained, though.
We see so many examples of heroes on TV, in movies. They look strong and get into loud fights with guns and swords. The older I get, the more I realize true heroes aren’t like that. They’re quiet. They don’t need to draw attention to their strength, don’t need to boast about their accomplishments. They’re just there for the people who need them. Day in and day out, they show up. That’s what being a hero has begun to mean to me.
I see it now in Linda’s kind smile, her soft eyes. I see her bravery. She’s a hero too. She answers my question, “It’s always there,like a radio playing in the background. Sometimes the volume is so loud, like when I’m waiting on a test result or on treatment days, that it’s all I can hear. Most days I work hard to turn down the volume, so I don’t waste a single moment on things I can’t control. I ignore it so I can enjoy my time with my family, friends, simple things that bring me joy. It’s funny how a cancer diagnosis makes you get rid of the fluffrealquick. Before I was a pushover, always saying yes to things I didn’t want to do because I was afraid of hurting someone’s feelings. I’m not like that now.”
