Today's Reading
Nash stopped the truck next to the house and cut the engine. Neither of us moved to exit the vehicle. I glanced up to the second-floor window over the porch. Mama's. Muted yellow light shone through the curtain.
Is she truly dying?
I'd avoided that question for four days. Refused to think about it. Even went so far as to accuse my father of lying just to get me home. But here in the yard, gazing up at her bedroom window, I could no longer pretend I didn't know what was happening.
"How bad is she?" I didn't look at Nash, not wanting to see the answer in his eyes I feared would cross his lips soon enough.
He didn't respond right away. A heavy sigh came first, then he said, "Doc doesn't think she'll make it to Christmas."
I sucked in a breath at the sobering truth. I covered my mouth to hold in the cry that rose in my throat.
Christmas was only seven weeks away.
"She's a fighter though," he continued. "She didn't want your dad to tell you about the diagnosis. Not until, well, until it was close to the end."
I turned to him. "Why? I would have come home sooner. How long has she been sick?"
"They found cancer three months ago, but it was already advanced."
I sat, stunned. Three months? Didn't cancer take years to get to the point of death? "Can't they do something about it? Remove tumors. Treat it somehow."
"They tried, but like I said, it was already bad. Chemotherapy might buy a couple months at the most, but there were no guarantees. With the cost and traveling to the hospital in Nashville..." He paused. "She wouldn't do it."
I stared at him. "So she chose to die right before Christmas?"
His expression hardened. "Your mom didn't choose cancer, Mattie. She's not choosing death over life. Your father and she discussed their options and settled on the one that seemed best for them."
Anger began to build inside me. "Just like he discussed options with Mark about going to Vietnam. Look how that turned out."
The muscle in Nash's jaw ticked. "I know you and Kurt didn't see eye to eye before you left—"
"And I doubt we will now."
He shook his head, exasperation in the movement. "Mattie, his wife is dying. He lost his son. You disappeared. Kurt isn't the same man he was before."
I scoffed. "I've only been gone a year, Nash. No one can change that much."
He gave me a long study. "You're wrong about that." Without another word, he exited the truck and slammed the door behind him. He jerked my bag out of the bed and stomped toward the house.
I blew out a breath.
I sure didn't need Nash McCallum telling me how to feel about my father. He and his own dad hadn't gotten along. Mr. McCallum drank too much and couldn't keep a job. Mark once told me Nash was willing to go to Vietnam just to get away from his old man. I'd adamantly pointed out that wasn't a good reason to throw away one's liberty, but Mark said I didn't get it and walked away.
Heavy dread weighed me down as I climbed from the vehicle and stared at the house. I took in the green shutters, wrap-around porch, and Mama's rosebushes, while bittersweet memories flooded my mind. How many hours had Mark and I spent on that porch, playing games, reading books, or dreaming dreams as we sat side by side on the wooden swing? Mama declared us two peas in a pod, but Mark always called us wombmates, making me laugh every time.
The remembrance brought a soul-crushing hollowness with it. A deep void I'd endured since the day the telegram arrived, telling us my brother was never coming home. Nothing I'd tried the past year filled it. Drugs and free love masked it for a while. Yoga and Buddhist meditations hinted at peace, but the emptiness was always there. Dark. Dangerous. Pulling me toward a quick end to the pain.
Flashes from the night I'd given in to the darkness sent a shudder through me. If Clay hadn't come into our room and found me...
I took a shaky breath.
Someone peered out the kitchen window. I couldn't tell who it was, but they probably wondered if I intended to stand in the yard all night.
Rusty hinges on the back door squealed, announcing my decision. The warmth of the kitchen enveloped me, the welcome hug I had yet to receive. For a moment I felt like a kid again, coming in from feeding the horses with Mark. Mama would be busy baking cookies, canning vegetables from the garden, or preparing dinner, but she always stopped whatever she was doing to fix us a cup of hot chocolate or Kool-Aid, depending on the season. Mark would tell funny stories, making Mama and me laugh, as we snacked on oatmeal raisin cookies.
But it wasn't Mama who greeted me.
...
