Coming Up for Air

by Nicole B. Tyndall

  He sounds tentative. “Can I say something corny?” He plays with the end of my hair. “You can’t make fun of me.”

  I trace a finger across my chest, making an X. Cross my heart.

  “I kind of feel like…” His hazel eyes, steady and earnest, find mine. “I feel like…well, it means a lot to me. To share that with you.”

  Every corridor of my heart blows wide open.

  I don’t trust my voice. So I look at him, and I hope that the emotion on my face tells him what I cannot. He gives me a secret smile in return.

  I can’t find any words to describe how I’m feeling. I guess I could say I feel like, somehow, we’re more together than we were before and there’s nothing that makes me happier, or feel safer. I could tell him while there are plenty of technicalities we will work out in the future, today was perfect anyway. He was perfect. I could say that I love him in a way I didn’t know was possible. But I don’t say anything. He knows. So instead, I carefully move on top of him, as his arms wrap around me, and let our hearts beat against each other.

  Eventually, Braden kisses the side of my head and sits up, bringing me with him. “Hey, Hads, did you, maybe, work up an appetite?”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Because I’m starving. Have you had lunch? Want to go get a burger?”

  And after another fit of laughter, we get dressed, gathering the clothes from the floor and exchanging items across the bed.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Becca slaps two burgers down in front of us at my favorite booth at Belavinis. “Here you go, lovebirds.” Since we’re on spring break, and some of the few still in town, she’s filling in for one of the daytime girls who had a babysitting issue.

  “Thanks, Becs,” Braden says as he takes the lid off the ketchup bottle.

  While Braden tries to figure out a way to get ketchup onto his plate, I take advantage of his distraction and give Becca a look. She twists her head microscopically: What? I shift my gaze to Braden, who has a knife clinking into the bottle, and nod. She focuses on me, and then she looks between the two of us in a final, confirming question. I nod again, and she opens her mouth into a soundless, happy screech. Then she looks at Braden struggling and grabs a full bottle of ketchup from the table next to us.

  “Here, bud. Try this one,” she says before she walks away.

  My phone lights up seconds later. I hope he had more luck with you than he’s having with the ketchup.

  The laugh that moves through me is weightless. Braden looks up at the sound. He furrows his eyebrows. “Why do I feel like I missed something?”

  “You did. But it doesn’t matter.” I take a fry and dip it into the ketchup on his plate. “Eat. I seem to remember you working up an appetite.”

  He answers me by taking a savage bite of his burger. And I feel it; feel the click as my mind captures it. This moment—silly, sweet, and completely perfect—leaves a permanent imprint on my heart.

  * * *

  I come home in a happy daze. I set my purse down, remove my phone, and take off my shoes. Braden is already texting me: Come back. I smile at the screen.

  My family is sitting down for dinner. Remy and Judd just got back from Florida this afternoon, where a group of them rented a house on the beach. Even with how different they are, their friends get along weirdly well. I pull my chair out and sit in my usual spot. Dad sets the final tray down onto the table, and I look up from my phone once we’re all seated. Then I notice the expression on Mom’s face. Something’s wrong.

  “Guys, Dad and I have to talk to you about something.”

  And then the world cracks and breaks beneath my feet.

  For the next few weeks, I stare into space so often that focusing my eyes starts to feel like work. I move through school in a stupor, and I don’t get out of bed unless I have to.

  I ignore everyone. I ignore everything. I snap at my friends. I know I’m doing it, but I can’t stop. I stop everything else, though. I get my ACT score, which is higher than I hoped, but I feel no sense of accomplishment. It doesn’t feel important anymore. I stop doing homework. I know I need to keep my grades up, but I can’t seem to find the energy to care. I stop going to work. I don’t quit or call. I just stop going. Mom has to take a leave of absence, so I might as well take one too. Becca must have explained what’s going on, because after I miss four shifts, the restaurant stops calling.

  I sit in silence with Braden, who inexplicably keeps showing up. Braden, who after Mom told us, rushed over and held me in his car as I shattered into a million pieces.

  My body echoes hers.

  Mom doesn’t sleep; I don’t sleep.

  Mom doesn’t eat; I don’t eat.

  I didn’t know so much of me was made of her. I don’t tell her. I don’t know if I want her to know.

  I whisper the word cancer in the shower until it loses its meaning. I obsessively check my chest for lumps, pressing frantic fingers into doughy flesh, hard enough that it hurts. Salt water mixes with fresh as it runs down my face. I am made of her.

  I’m scared. And I’m the kind of angry that rattles my bones. I don’t even know what I believe in, but I’m furious with God.

  Mom is mine; you can’t have her. I tell him, her, them, whoever-whatever-might-listen. She doesn’t deserve this. But I still pray.

  I pray like I never have before. I pray she will live. I pray that her cancer is localized, that it hasn’t spread. I pray that they caught it early. I pray it won’t take her softness, her kindness. I pray simply: Please.

  I lie awake at night, seeing malicious cells dividing, taking over.

  She’s only forty-four.

  It doesn’t feel real. This happens to other people, not us. Except that’s not true. Because this isn’t even the first time it’s happened to us. And I’m so angry it’s not true.

  I pray for Dad. That he has the strength to see her in pain. That he can accept this powerlessness. I wonder sometimes if this is even harder for him, to watch her suffer. I hate myself for wondering that. She certainly has it the hardest.

  I pray for Remy and Judd. That they have someone to listen. That they don’t feel alone. And I hate myself for not being that person for them. I hate myself for not having the strength to reach out to them. I pray they reach out to each other.

  I hate that I can’t say any of this out loud. I hate that I can’t fight it and I can’t run fast enough.

  So for a while, I hide.

  “Hads, Remy, you girls ready?” Mom calls up the stairs to my bedroom.

  “Yeah, coming.” My voice is sharp, even to my own ears. I grab the nail polish, the shade of breast cancer awareness that I ordered online earlier this week, telling Mom that during her surgery, at least her nails could tell cancer to go to hell. A pink-painted middle finger.

  It’s been a month since she was diagnosed, and the surgery is tomorrow. The doctors are going to do a lumpectomy to remove the tumor in her breast, along with the lymph nodes under her arms. After the surgery, they’ll confirm the stage of her cancer: zero to four. Four being the worst. With that information, they’ll figure out the rest of her treatment plan. It’s all so clinical, except for the fact that we’re talking about Mom’s life. I swallow the emotion in my throat. I need to be strong for her. I steady myself and head downstairs.

  In the kitchen, Mom’s standing with her shoes on and her purse around her shoulder. My heart hitches. It’s jarring; looking at her yoga figure, her glow-y olive skin, and her shiny hair—she’s a vision of health. Except she isn’t.

  There’s this hopeful part of me that keeps thinking that none of this is real, and it’s that false hope, again and again, that knocks me over. It’s unrelenting, and it almost makes me want to stop looking at her seemingly healthy outside. But how could I ever do that? So I just let my heart break a little bit every time i
nstead. It’s not much compared to what she’s about to do.

  I shake the thoughts away and slip on my shoes before we walk out the door.

  * * *

  I can’t stop the what-ifs. They run along the bottom of every thought, scrolling like the evening news updates. They move faster and faster, torturing me with horrible possibilities. I roll over in bed, and the sheets tangle around my legs. I throw them violently to the floor. Then I sit up and close my eyes, trying to breathe. I’m not sure if I’ve fallen asleep. Not sure if these thoughts ever shifted into nightmares. It’s still dark outside, but I can’t be in this room anymore. I descend the staircase without turning the lights on, using my phone as a flashlight.

  Mom’s sitting in the dark at the kitchen table.

  At the noise, she turns. “Hadley,” she says, surprised.

  She can’t sleep either. Of course not. She’s the one who has surgery today. She’s the one who has cancer. I’m the healthy one. I have no right to be so scared. “You okay, Mom?” My voice is raspy from lack of use.

  “Yeah. Can’t sleep. I was just thinking…” She trails off.

  “Me too.” I try to shrug away the flood of emotions.

  “I think you guys should go to school today.”

  “What? No. We’re coming with you.”

  She shakes her head. “There’s no sense in missing school. This surgery isn’t dangerous, and I get to come home right afterward. And if we start pulling you out for every little thing—”

  “Every little thing? Are you kidding? Mom, you’re having surgery! That’s not little.” Mom used to call me out of school a couple times a year just so we could go to lunch at her favorite Chinese restaurant.

  She’s quiet for a moment before she answers in a heavy voice, “Hadley, please. I’ll just worry about you.” And when she looks up at me, her eyes are full of tears. We’re both fighting this so hard; it pains me to see her lose control. She never loses control.

  I wrap my arms around her. “Okay. All right. I’ll go.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I get it.”

  And I do. She’s always taking care of everybody else, and today she needs to focus on herself. I can get through the day. I will do anything that will help her do the same.

  “Do you want a glass of water?” Moonlight shines through the window, illuminating my pink fingernails against the dark cabinet as I pull two glasses from the cupboard.

  “I can’t have anything to eat or drink until after the surgery.”

  Shit. How could I forget that? “Oh, right.” I put the second glass away.

  “You should go back to bed, honey. It’s barely five in the morning. Do you have a ride to school? Or should I remind Judd to wait for you?”

  “I’ll ask him.” Normally, I like to ride with Braden, but if I can’t be with Mom, I’d like to be with my siblings. I drink all my water in a few gulps, and set the glass down into the sink. I pad back over to Mom.

  “You’re sure you don’t want us to come?”

  She nods.

  “Okay.” I pull her into a hug one more time. “Love you.” I squeeze too tight.

  “Love you too, hon. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Okay,” I answer, and move quickly up the stairs.

  * * *

  “Any bets on what this is?” Judd and I are standing in front of the fridge with the door open, staring at the stacks of Tupperware. It feels like everyone Mom has ever met has dropped off a meal. Which is so thoughtful, but I have to admit, none of them look all that appetizing. Judd’s got one in his hands, with the lid sitting abandoned on the island counter, next to where Braden and Remy are sitting.

  “I don’t know. Smell it,” I suggest.

  Judd pulls the dish away from his face. “I’m not smelling some mystery meal!”

  Remy reaches toward us. “I will.”

  I take it from Judd, walk over, and hand Remy the Tupperware. It’s sort of a brown, lumpy mush. “Maybe it’s sloppy joe?” she suggests.

  Remy passes it over to Braden. “What do you think?”

  He jerks his head back to attention. “What?”

  I study him. “Where’d you go, Brade?”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry.” He takes the container from Remy, leans into it, and grimaces.

  I wrinkle my nose, moving to pass the food back to Judd, who returns to rummaging through the Tupperware in the fridge.

  “How about we order Chinese?” I remember thinking of Mom’s favorite restaurant early this morning. “I bet they’ll deliver it if they know it’s for Mom. But if they won’t, Braden and I can pick it up.” His eyes are still unfocused. “Right, Braden?”

  “Yeah,” he confirms, a second later. “For sure.”

  Judd ignores our little exchange but takes my suggestion. “Chinese is a good idea.” He pulls his cell from his pocket and dials the number from memory.

  While Judd’s on the phone, I put the food away and move to Braden, leaning into him as he wraps a heavy arm around me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. These new meds are just taking a little getting used to.” Braden’s injury, now more than a month old, is still not healed. The doctor recently changed up his prescription—same type of thing, just a little stronger. I feel my face reflect my concern, but he brushes me off. “It’s all good, Hads. Totally normal side effects.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nods. “I’m the last thing you need to be worrying about right now.”

  I squeeze Braden’s hand as Judd orders enough for ten people, instead of five, and I hear him thank the owner as she offers to have it delivered.

  * * *

  It doesn’t take too long for the food to arrive. I unpack it, removing the cartons one by one, and set them out like a buffet on the counter. Judd pulls out plates and silverware, while Braden gets some water bottles from the garage. Remy puts on some music. The familiar routine is comforting, but I’m still nervous. My parents walk in as we’re finishing getting everything ready. My entire body starts at the noise.

  “Mom!” I exclaim too loudly as she walks slowly into the kitchen. I pull her into a hug, and she flinches. “Oh shit. God, I didn’t even…I’m so sorry.” I jerk away and take her hands instead. “How are you feeling?” My own body is nauseous and relieved.

  “Good.” I study her. “I’m fine, Hadley. I promise.” I look down at our intertwined hands and notice that her nails are bare. “What—” I start to ask, before Judd moves me out of the way.

  “Quit hogging her, Had.” Judd wraps Mom into a tight hug, and again she flinches. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, but looks relieved to see her.

  Remy opts to only squeeze her hands. “Glad to have you home.”

  Dad watches us for a moment, curls wild atop his head, before his eyes land on Braden. “Hey, guys. Mom’s tired.” Dad wraps an arm around her. Leading her to their bedroom gingerly, Dad says to her, “I’ll get your meds from the car after we get you situated.”

  “I don’t want those pills. I’m okay.”

  Dad objects, “Mia, the doctor said—”

  “Just get me into bed, please?”

  “Wait. We got you your favorite, Mom.” I gesture to the Chinese feast.

  “Oh, thank you, honey, but I’m just not hungry right now.”

  I nod as my parents disappear into their bedroom.

  “Well, I am,” Judd says as he fixes himself a plate and heads into the living room.

  “Me too.” Remy joins him.

  Braden moves to my side. “She looks good.” He kisses the top of my head and takes my hands in his. “Are you?”

  I lean into his chest.

  “It’s me, Had. You can say whatever you want.”

  “They took her nail polish off. We just got manicures yesterday. I was trying to cheer her up. An
d she doesn’t want the food either.”

  He presses his lips together. “Hadley. You’re doing everything you can. She knows that. It’s not about the nails or the food, not really. She knows how much you love her.”

  My stomach turns. “Okay.”

  He tightens his arms around me, looking down at my face, “But if you’re all right, I’m going to go. I don’t think your dad wants me here. This feels…like a family thing.”

  Braden doesn’t feel any less like family than anybody else in this house, not to me, but I didn’t miss that look from Dad either. It doesn’t seem fair, since my parents and the twins both have one another, but I know that Braden’s probably right. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you for being here.”

  “Always. Everything is going to be okay, I promise. I’ll have my phone with me, all night.” He kisses me, fingertips brushing my cheek, and walks out the back door.

  But then I’m alone in the kitchen, hanging on to a promise from a boy who has no way of keeping it. I want to join my siblings, but when I look at the cartons of food on the counter, the fried smell fills me with a wave of nausea. My mouth floods with thin, unpleasant moisture, and I run to the bathroom and hurl into the toilet.

  Three days later, the results are in: Mom has stage three breast cancer. She’s going to need six rounds of chemo, followed by four weeks of daily radiation.

  I pray some more.

  “What? I thought it looked sort of edible today.” Tyler defends the lunch special, chicken tenders with mashed potatoes, which I’m eyeing doubtfully. “Not all of us can get by on an apple and a Coke, you know.”

  It’s just the two of us at the lunch table. Braden is having his shoulder checked out again, and Becca and Greg are in the later lunch hour today. This afternoon, the caf is full of that wild, end-of-the-year energy. I can’t believe we have only a few weeks left of junior year.