Six

It was the day after her birthday when my brother Jack called. I was sure he was going to ask if I called to wish our mother a happy birthday, so I didn’t answer. I was done with his lectures, even if this was only way I could avoid them. Instead, I waited for him to leave a message.

     ”Will, it’s Jack. Give me a call as soon as you get this. It’s important.”

     There was something odd in his message. His tone was too soft; not demanding. He almost sounded…sad. I stared at my phone, trying to deicide if I should call him back. And then I remembered Mom always got a mamogram around her birthday.

    But, he couldn’t be calling about that, could he? There’d be more fear in his voice. She’d call.

     I called Mom.

    ”Happy Birthday,” I said, trying to sound normal, whatever that sounded like.

    ”Thanks kiddo,” she replied. I could hear the smile in her voice.

    ”Sorry I didn’t call yesterday. The day kind of got away from me.” A lie.

    ”That’s okay.” She lied back. “I was having too much fun to talk anyway.”

    ”Jack called.”

    ”Ohh,” she said, “what’d he have to say?”

    ”He didn’t leave a message.”

    Silence.

    ”He sounded worried though.”

    More silence.

    ”Mom?”

    ”It’s not good,” she finally said.

    ”Whaddaya mean,” I asked.

    ”I thought it was just a pulled muscle. I thought I was just exhausted.”

    ”The mamogram?”

    ”Breast cancer,” she replied.

    ”Just breast cancer?” My voice rose, as if I could will into existence the answer I wanted. “I mean, that’s not that bad. We can handle it. They can take care of it.” 

    ”It’s spread,” she said.

    ”What? How do they know already?”

    ”I had a scan yesterday.” She paused. “It’s in my liver and spine.”

    ”But they can get it. I mean, they caught it early, so they can cure you, right?” I feigned nonchalance.

    I heard her trying to choke back the fear, but she failed. “I’m so scared.”

    She started crying.

    ”It’s okay,” I said, uncomfortable with the sudden emotion. “We’ll get through this.”

    She sniffed a few times and then there was silence.

    ”Will?” I heard the gruff, matter of fact tone of my dad’s voice on the line.

    ”Hey,” I said, then asked, “how’s it going?”

    What kind of question was that you fucking idiot?

    ”It’s pretty bad,” he replied.

    I don’t know where my indifference came from, but I was suddenly incapable of appreciating the severity of the situation. “They caught it early enought. It’ll be fine,” I said, deeply burying my head in the sand.

     ”We go in for more tests tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll call when we know more.”

     ”I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, “keep me posted.”

      Only now, thinking back to that day, after forcing my memory to recall the event that would slowly precipitate all that was to follow, do I realize how callous and obscene my reaction was. I wasn’t trying to protect her from the unbearable pain, I was trying to protect myself. And as her disease consumed her, I pulled back even further- desperate to shield myself from the pain I knew was imminent. Becuase things weren’t going to be okay. Because the pain would be total and the loss would exceed the scope of my comprehension. 

     So I went on as if everything was fine. Mom didn’t have cancer. She wasn’t going to die. We wouldn’t talk about it.

     Problem unacknowledged. No problem to be solved.