The Road Home

by Erin Zak

“If I told you I find you incredibly sexy?”

  Lila’s breath catches. She feels frozen in place. The cool air seems to warm instantly.

  “All are true, by the way.” Gwendolyn picks her drink up, swirls the remnants of ice and whiskey, then brings it to her lips.

  Gwendolyn’s eyes never wander from Lila, and it’s making her sweat. Her palms, her pits, the backs of her knees, under her breasts… She blinks once, twice, three times before she pulls her vision from that penetrating gaze. She is too much, those eyes, the way she’s holding that plastic fucking cup, her fingers, her wrists, her forearm that has a pattern pressed into her skin from the top of the cast iron table. Lila pulls a deep breath in. She so cannot go there with this woman. She is Carol’s daughter. She is leaving tomorrow. She is not worth the heartache.

  She is so fucking gorgeous.

  “Last call!” The bartender’s voice breaks her out of her freak out.

  “Holy shit.” Lila checks her watch and laughs, so thrilled for the interruption and at the same time, disappointed. “It’s three in the morning.”

  “You have to be at practice in two hours.” Gwendolyn stands. “We should probably get out of here. You’re going to die tomorrow.”

  “I might.” Lila reaches for her drink, downs the rest of it, and stands. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Within walking distance. Do you need a Lyft?”

  “No, I’m going to walk. It’s not that far.”

  “It’s three in the morning, though. You’ll get arrested. Public intox.” Lila laughs. “That’d be a great end to your trip home.”

  “You might get arrested, too, y’know.”

  “True.”

  “I’ll walk you home, pray we don’t see a cop, then I’ll get a Lyft from your house. Deal?”

  Lila falters. Ending the night right then and there is a better idea than walking next to Gwendolyn, stumbling into her, brushing up against her.

  “I promise to not make any moves.” She smiles, and Lila feels the weight lift from the situation.

  “Fine.” She wants to say she isn’t sure she can make the same promise, but she resists the urge to plunge headfirst into an abyss which has no possible exit.

  * * *

  Gwendolyn has always been someone who says what she’s feeling. She doesn’t hold back, compliments of not having a filter. There’s no use in sugarcoating feelings and acting one way when she feels another. She’d spent her entire life hiding herself. When she left for California, she decided she would never again hide her sexuality or her feelings.

  Shouting them from a rooftop worked, occasionally.

  Most of the time, it backfired.

  Right now, she has no idea which scenario she’s staring down the barrel of. Lila is not freaking out, but she’s not exactly jumping at the opportunity in front of her. Probably for good reason, but at present, good reason isn’t what’s interesting to an inebriated Gwendolyn.

  There’s a part of her, a small part, that wants to take back everything. Just because she always speaks her mind doesn’t mean she never regrets it.

  Was her message received? Was it not? Should she keep going or stop completely? Being stuck in the space between not knowing if she should regret something and unequivocally fucking regretting it is not an ideal place.

  “So,” Gwendolyn starts, and before she can finish her sentence, Lila raises her hand.

  “Don’t,” she says, followed by a breathy sigh.

  “Okay.”

  “We shouldn’t. You know this.”

  Message received. “Okay.”

  “I mean, Carol is like—”

  “Your mom.”

  Gwendolyn watches Lila’s gentle nod, the soft, pained expression on her face. “Are we like, sisters?”

  Lila laughs. “No. My God, No.”

  “Whew. I was really freaking out there for a second.” She laughs along with Lila. “You’re not upset at me?”

  “Honestly?” Their arms brush, and it causes Gwendolyn’s stomach to bottom out. “I have never been upset with you. Not even when you were being a cunt.”

  Gwendolyn cannot stop a loud laugh. She slaps her hand over her mouth when she remembers it’s three in the morning. “Very funny,” she mumbles. “I am a mess sometimes. And my mess, as weird as this may sound, comes out as jealousy and hatred, when that’s rarely how I feel.”

  “Good to know.” Lila nudges her. “You could have been nice to me. I could never take your spot in your mother’s life. Your shoes are a tad too big for me to fill.”

  Gwendolyn’s heart flutters. Lila’s tone, her words, the warmth of her skin, it’s all causing her brain to short-circuit. The length of time since she’s had feelings for another person has been entirely too long. She doesn’t often have time in California for feelings. She keeps everything bottled and ready for auditions. And her quest to fulfill her dream has caused her to miss out on so many things she loves. This feeling inside her, for one. Is there anything better than the possibility of new love?

  Lust, she corrects. Apply the brakes, Gwendolyn. This is not love.

  Lila stops in front of a small but cute house on Napoleon Street, complete with a front porch and a swing. “This is me,” she says, her voice soft, low, and incredibly sensual.

  Their height difference is small, but in this moment, Gwendolyn feels as if she’s a giant. She holds herself back from the desire to touch Lila’s skin, her face, her jaw, her neck. She won’t get a moment like this again, but she hears Lila’s words echo through her mind: We shouldn’t do this.

  “I’m glad I got to know you a little better.” Gwendolyn offers her hand, the same as Lila did days earlier when she so rudely ignored it.

  Lila looks down, then back to Gwendolyn’s eyes before she slips a hand into hers. “Same to you.”

  “Take care of yourself.” She lets go and backs away a couple steps. She turns and feels the sinking feeling of regret washing over her.

  “Hey,” Lila says. “If you decide to stay, don’t be a stranger.”

  Gwendolyn laughs, “You’re basically my sister. I think we’d end up seeing each other.” She hears another laugh as she continues to walk, knowing full well she never intended on requesting a Lyft.

  * * *

  Why is opening a bag of Oreos at four in the morning so fucking loud? Gwendolyn chuckles as she peels the cellophane off as slowly as possible, hoping to God she doesn’t wake anyone. She is a teenager again, fearing the wrath of her parents as she sneaks in the house past curfew. Except she’s not a teenager, and she doesn’t fear her mother’s wrath. Not anymore.

  “Gwendolyn.”

  Her father’s voice startles her, causing her to fumble the only cookie she’s managed to get out of the drunk proof packaging, patting it around in the air before it lands with a thunk on the granite countertop. She slides her hand over it before making eye contact. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I was hungry.”

  “You’re very late.” He leans against the doorjamb. He’s still wearing the same clothes from last night.

  “Why are you up? Did you fall asleep reading?”

  He nods. “In my study.” His voice is deep, gravely, and it reminds Gwendolyn of the years he used to smoke cigars with his buddies in the backyard. She still hates the smell of cigars, but there’s something calming about his voice. “Did you have a good night?”

  She nods as she happily munches. She skipped the milk this time, knowing that opening and closing the refrigerator would surely wake someone up. She sort of wishes she had the milk now as the cookie becomes thick in her mouth. She swallows, clears her mouth, and nods. “Yeah, it was nice to hang out with Bella.”

  “She’s doing well with her business.”

  “Yeah,” Gwendolyn whispers. “Lila showed up, too, so we…” Her mind flashes back to Lila’s smile, her hair, her stunning dark eyes. “We chatted.”

  “I think you need to find a way to get along with her.�
�

  He looks very tired, not at all as if he fell asleep reading a book. Those are the eyes of someone who has either escaped sleep, or sleep escaped him. “What’s going on, Dad?” Her voice is a decibel higher, done so he knows she can tell something is up.

  “Your mother is sick.”

  She hears him. But she stares. Blankly. And cannot find a word to say in response. She heard what he said. She heard his tone, his delivery, his breath, the way his air puffed out before he spoke, and the intake of air as he finished. His teeth as he clamped them together. She heard it all.

  “Her cancer is back.”

  She blinks.

  “It’s not…” His voice cracks, and she feels it in her sternum. “I need you to not leave tomorrow.”

  The words slam into her. She never wanted to come in the first place, and now she’s being asked to stay? For a woman she has spent the last seventeen years running from? For a woman she only recently started to forgive and only then because it was the only way to heal? For a woman she knows is her mother but who has never been able to be a mom?

  “Gwen, honey, I need you to speak.” He pushes off the wall and covers the distance between them with hardly any steps, as if he levitated to her spot. All she can do is focus on the floor.

  “Dad…”

  “Baby, listen to me.” His hands are on her shoulders, and she can’t stop from shrugging them off.

  He lets out a low sob. She has only seen him cry one other time. Not when his mom died, not when his dad died. It was when her mother was diagnosed with cancer the first time. Seven years old and everything changed. But she beat it, and she kept on keeping on. Carol Carter is a formidable woman. There is no way she can’t beat it again, right?

  “Dad?”

  He rubs his face, looks at the floor, then back up to her. “You are staying. End of discussion.” He turns to leave. He stops, though, looks over his shoulder. “Her second round of chemo starts this morning after the first volleyball practice. Be ready to go at ten.”

  Is that it? Are you not going to say a word here, Gwen? “She’s going to volleyball practice first?” Her voice sounds foreign.

  His shoulders slump. “You know she’d never miss a practice.”

  It’s true. Her mother has never missed a practice. Not even the first time she was sick.

  “Gwen?”

  She pushes off the countertop and takes a step. A place deep inside is begging for something, a hug, a hand on the shoulder she promises to God she won’t shrug off this time, a small smile of encouragement, something. Anything. “Yes?”

  “Please don’t disappoint me.” He drops the words like a sailor would deploy a bomb from a submarine. They aren’t meant to cause devastation immediately. No. They’ll hit his target eventually. He knows it. And so does Gwendolyn. She also knows she cannot argue. How can she?

  Contrary to popular opinion, she isn’t heartless. She actually loves her family very much. The road she’s traveled to arrive at loving her family has been littered with numerous therapy sessions. And so many tears. So much talking. So much therapy, in fact, that last year, she had to ask her father for money to help pay her bills. A sane person would stay without question and would never give it a second thought. And after all that therapy, she’d like to say she is very much the sane person she paid to be.

  But she isn’t completely sane yet, and thoughts of not being enough and being a horrible person continue to swim in her brain. Thoughts her mother planted years earlier:

  You need to stop picking your zits, Gwendolyn.

  If you continue to eat those candy bars, you’ll get fat.

  Did you even crack your book to study, or are you really this stupid?

  I will not have that sort of behavior under my roof.

  Surely this is a phase, Gwendolyn.

  There is no way my daughter is a lesbian.

  You either keep it hidden, or you find a way to get past it.

  Do you hear me?

  Do you?

  The memories flood her brain. Everything ounce of therapy she went through has been to move past those moments. But being back here, in Vale Park, and being asked to stay, is causing her to falter.

  Why can’t she question it then?

  And give it a second thought?

  And make decisions based on her own mental health instead of her mother’s physical health?

  The Oreos have somehow become a horrible idea. She turns, runs her hand along the cellophane to reseal it before pushing it aside. She flattens her palms against the cold granite. Her whiskey induced buzz has waved buh-bye. Her chest is tight, making it hard to breathe, and the only thought in her mind is, “How can this be happening?”

  Chapter Eight

  The Oncology Center at Vale Park Memorial Hospital is cold. Very, very cold. The sweater Gwendolyn brought isn’t cutting it. She rubs her arms, adjusts the chair next to her mother, who is snoozing soundly, and tries to find a way to not focus on how cold she is.

  The nurse, Kelsey from Colorado, is so kind. She offered a blanket, but Gwendolyn felt awful accepting. The blankets aren’t for her. She isn’t the sick one. She’s a bystander.

  Standing by.

  Watching this whole process.

  Again.

  With different, older, and wiser eyes, but still, again.

  Her eyes drift over her mother. The pieces of the puzzle are coming together. This is why she looks tired. This is why she looks thin. This is why she seemed slower at volleyball practice. Her age isn’t the issue, although that would make sense.

  Cancer again.

  Lung cancer this time.

  Adenosquamous cell lung cancer, which, after Gwendolyn’s research for the past two hours, accounts for about four percent of all lung cancer diagnoses. Of course, Carol Carter has to be an anomaly. She can’t have a nice, easy, beatable cancer.

  Gwendolyn drops her head and tries shaking the negativity swarming her brain. Being positive is hard. And reading articles online is doing nothing good.

  This is going to kill her mother.

  “Gwen?”

  Her head snaps up. “Hi.”

  “Stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Thinking the worst.” Carol smiles a tired, small smile. “I can tell by the way your forehead is wrinkling.”

  Gwendolyn rolls her eyes. It was such a sweet moment until she had to ruin it by being her mother. “I’m fine.” She doesn’t mean to sound so irritated. She smiles to distract from the tone. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m freezing. But cold seems to be my new normal.” She pulls her hand out from under the blanket and rubs the area beneath her port. The port Gwendolyn didn’t notice the other night. She wants to roll her eyes again, but this time at herself for being so self-centered, unaware, and disgusting.

  “I can get another blanket from Kelsey.” She starts to stand, but her mother waves her off.

  “No, no. It’s almost done.” She holds her hand out. “Can you help me situate myself different. These chairs…”

  She eyes her mother’s hand, the pronounced veins, her delicate wrists, short nails, long, nimble fingers. Volleyball hands, through and through. When she takes the hand, it’s warmer than anticipated. Her mother holds her a couple beats before she squeezes. Gwendolyn feels emotion stirring in the pit of her stomach, which hasn’t happened in years when it concerns her mother.

  “Okay, you come here,” she says. “I need leverage.” She grips Gwendolyn’s forearm and pushes up, maneuvers into a more upright position, then slumps. “There we go.”

  “You look even more uncomfortable.”

  “Well, chemo ain’t comfy, my dear.” She winks, and Gwendolyn chuckles.

  “Good one, Mom.”

  “Well, well, well,” her mother says softly. “Look who’s coming to visit.”

  Gwendolyn raises her head as she hovers. Lila is standing near the nurses’ station speaking with Kelsey; about what, she has no idea. But she has black
spandex shorts on and damn, she looks good. “Why is she here?”

  “She’s been, um.” Her mother clears her throat. “Lila has been here through the whole thing.”

  “What whole thing? How long has this been going on?”

  “I found out about three months ago but didn’t start right away. We were in the middle of travel volleyball, and our team went to nationals in Tampa and—”

  “You knew for three months, and you didn’t tell me?” The reality of the situation slams into her: she is undeniably not part of this family anymore. And it’s not her mother’s fault. Is it?

  Her mother locks eyes with her. She’s sad, but she waves off the question and says softly, “Oh, don’t be dramatic, Gwen.”

  “Hello, you two.”

  Gwendolyn hears Lila’s voice but doesn’t acknowledge her. Lila leans over, kisses her mother on the cheek, smooths a hand over her forehead, and smiles.

  “How are you? Hanging in there?” Lila asks, and her voice is soft and soothing, as if she completely understands everything her mother is going through, as if she’s been there for her since day fucking one, as if she’s the person who should have given up her life to help Gwendolyn’s mother.

  “I’m okay,” her mother answers. “I’m cold, and my ass is hurting.” That makes them laugh. Together. As if they’ve been laughing together for years.

  Which, honestly, Lila and her mother have been laughing for years, and the thought that Gwendolyn will never have a relationship this strong with her mother begins to rot inside her stomach. She can’t help but stare at the look her mother gives Lila. Nothing but love on display and the words, “Oh, don’t be dramatic, Gwen,” echo through her mind as Lila gets the fucking red-carpet welcome. Lila turns, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “How are you?”

  She wants to scream that she’s had better fucking days. Better fucking months and years. But it wouldn’t make a difference. Lila would still be the person who brings the calm to her mother’s face and the ache to Gwendolyn’s heart, and son of a bitch, why do all of these feelings have to be so…so…suffocating?

  Namely, the jealousy, which is resembling a blanket wrapped around Gwendolyn’s feet. Claustrophobia starts to manifest in her brain as she swallows a lump formed at an alarming pace. “I’ll be back.” She turns, rushes through the oncology center, and pushes through the exit, ignoring the panel to make them open automatically. She realizes almost instantly that the oncology center is at least ten degrees warmer than the rest of the hospital. Why is she so cold? Why is her head throbbing? Why does she feel as if she’s holding back vomit? Why, oh why, did her dad not tell her any of these details?