Page 26 of Break Me
Dad must see all of this in my face because he pulls me into him, his arms wrapped around me, holding me close. I inhale, breathing in his aftershave, thankful he’s still able to at least do that. To at least get through some semblance of normal life.
The tears prick behind my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. Not right now. I take a deep, shaky breath instead, resting my head on Dad’s chest, and we just stand there, not speaking, because really, what is there to say?
We’re losing her.
When we make it into Mom and Dad’s bedroom, I slip in the sheets beside her, pulling the white comforter over both of us, our arms touching. She’s sleeping, and I hear her soft inhales and exhales, see the feeding tube in her nose. But even now, even at the end of her long battle with breast cancer, she’s so beautiful.
Her hair is blonde and long, a shade lighter than mine, thin and sparse. It’s fanned around her pillow, her eyes are closed, her nose straight and dainty, her lips full, even though they’re dry. She’s become half of the woman she was in terms of her size, but she’s twice the woman she was in every other way. Even though she’s battled this for over a year, she’s been my mother every step of the way. She’s always tried to coerce me into talking about school and boys and my friends, even though I’ve held back the past six months. She’s Facetimed with me when I’ve gone shopping, helping me pick out clothes, for both me and her.
She is the reason I stopped being an idiot last semester and drinking myself into oblivion and flunking all my classes.
She told me if I didn’t graduate, she’d never get over it, and if I became an alcoholic, she would probably die sooner, from grief.
Manipulation at its finest, and damn did it work.
But jokes on both of us. Because she’s going to die anyway.
Dad watches us from the doorway of their bedroom, his arms crossed, and a slight tilt of his lips to indicate he might be smiling, or maybe he’s just reminiscing about life before Mom’s diagnosis. Or even when we thought for sure she’d beat it.
I close my eyes, turn on my side and snuggle closer to her. I’ll stay here until she wakes up.
* * *
“What the hell,Ava? Are you okay? Is your mom okay?” Dumont’s words come out in a rush, and he exhales, loudly, through the phone. “I’ve been worried sick about you. I thought you were going to come over?”
I pace in front of my bedroom window, looking down on the immaculate grounds, lit by lampposts, the fountain in the front yard and the paved driveway that curves on either side of it. From here, we can’t see the road. It’s nice, feeling like I’m in a bubble.
Sometimes.
It was afternoon when Mom and I both woke up, and now it’s just past eight, and I have no desire to see Dumont, but I also don’t want to be here, either.
“I’m sorry,” I say absentmindedly, not really feeling very sorry. I pull my knees up to my chest on the alcove that juts off from my window, tracing my finger over the glass. “Mom isn’t doing well…” I trail off, feeling my chest constrict.
She was coherent enough for us to talk. For about one minute. She’s heavily medicated, and I know it won’t get better. It’ll get worse. I know it, and yet some part of me still thinks maybe there’s a chance. Holding onto that hope is almost the cruelest part.
I hear Dumont blow out a breath. “I’m so sorry, Ava. Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
The same reason I don’t call you James, I think bitterly. Because I don’t want to share more than I have to with my professor. Because this can never work out, even if we’ve been screwing each other since early summer, when we met at a bar and I climbed onto his lap and made him take me home.
“I dunno,” I answer instead, not really ready to deal with this shit right now. “I’m sorry, but I’m really tired.” A lie. “I’m going to head to bed soon. We’ll talk later, okay? I’ll be in class tomorrow.” Might be a lie.
“Ava, why don’t you meet me somewhere? Or, I don’t know, maybe I can sneak in?”
Is this dude for real?
I glance out at the expansive yard again, so far from the road. No way in hell Dumont could sneak in.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want to give my dad any issues.” And finding my English professor who is sixteen years older than me in my bedroom would be a very, very big issue.
“Okay, Ava,” Dumont finally says, and I can hear the edge in his tone. He’s going through this divorce, and probably wanting to jump into my arms because I’m sure no matter how badly things weren’t working out for him and his ex-wife, he still misses her on some level. I know he still loves her.
We hang up, and I set my phone down on the window sill, leaning my head against the glass.
Tess cancelled dinner to hang out with her stoner poet sometimes-boyfriend, and I don’t want to be here alone. I pick my phone back up, scroll through social media, try, and fail, to find Benji or Riley. Neither of them are anywhere to be found, and I’m pretty good at social snooping.
But then a text comes in.
Benji’s number.
