Desperately Seeking Epic

by B. N. Toler

  Another pause.

  “Oh . . . okay.”

  Pause, again.

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  Pause.

  “Okay. See you later. Bye.” After a few seconds, she hangs up.

  I listen for another minute or two. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Who was she talking to? The only friend I’ve heard mentioned is Mills, and that was by Paul. Was it Mills? Did he just reject her? Shit. That’s all she needs right now. I know it’s a crush, but she could use a friend closer to her age. Even if it’s a high school kid. She’s barely wanted to get out of bed the last two days, and now this. Finally, I open her door. She’s standing in front of her full-length mirror, shoving tissues in her bra. As I enter, she rushes to her bed and grabs her pillow, covering herself. “Can’t you knock, Mom?” she snaps, her voice quivering with anger.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I stutter. I look to the floor, unsure of what to do here. Should I leave or should I stay and discuss what I’ve just seen?

  “I’m a teenager. I deserve privacy.” She’s upset with me. And embarrassed. But she shouldn’t be. All women have been there at some point; been that young girl desperate for womanhood, but stuck in that in-between stage where our bodies don’t look as sexy as our minds think we should or as sexy as society tells us we should. She’s not doing anything wrong. I just want her to understand it’s normal to feel this way.

  “Sweetie, I didn’t mean to—”

  “You’re always doing that!” she shrieks. “You’re always just walking in without knocking. I’m not a little kid anymore.” Her voice cracks with emotion, her lip trembling. Then . . . the tears start. She flops down on her bed and yanks the tissues out of her bra, tossing them on the floor.

  I take a moment to pick my next words carefully. I’m pretty sure no matter what I say, she’s going to yell at me. Looks like we’re having one of those classic teenage daughter-mother moments. If it meant she’d live, I’d take a million a day just to keep her here. “You know, boobs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” I murmur as I take a few steps inside of her room. “Bras are so damn uncomfortable and boobs just want to flop around when you run or work out.”

  She doesn’t look at me as she uses the back of her hand to wipe at her nose. “I don’t care,” she gripes. “I want them.”

  “I know you do. Every girl your age wants them.”

  “Yeah, well I’ll never have them so it doesn’t matter. I’ll be dead before I even have a chance to grow boobs.”

  I close my eyes. Keep it together, Clara. “You don’t need them, honey. You’re beautiful. Boobs don’t equate beauty.”

  She flies off the bed and flings the pillow to the side. She’s wearing a tiny, white bra and pajama pants, revealing her frail body and thin arms. Each one of her ribs is defined, her pale skin stretched across them. “Look at me, Mom!” she shouts, her eyes glossy with tears as they stream down her face. “Look at me!”

  My throat is tight and I blink as tears form in my eyes. “I’m looking at you, Neena,” I insist, my heart cracking.

  “This,” she motions at herself, “is not beautiful.” She dances her fingers under her sunken eyes, before dropping them to her lips, that no matter how much ChapStick she puts on, always seem dry and cracked. “This is . . .” she turns and stares at herself in the mirror, “this is ugly. This is me.”

  “Neena . . .” Her name comes out as a desperate plea. I need her to see what I see. I need her to understand she’s the most beautiful person in the world to me and to so many people. Inside and out. She rubs the dark fuzz on her scalp. Her hair has just started to grow back. “I’m tired of looking ugly,” she whimpers. She stares at herself some more, her eyes red with tears.

  I furrow my brows in concern. Maybe this is a classic teen moment. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe she’s depressed. Understandably so. Or maybe she’s sick. Sick and tired of what she’s going through. All I know is she’s in pain and her sadness is palpable. But her being ill is my first concern. Instead of responding verbally, I go into mother mode and within seconds have her head in my hands, my mouth to her forehead. She pulls free from me before I can really tell if she has a fever or not.

  “I don’t have a fever,” she yells.

  “I just wanted to check. You seem agitated. And you haven’t been feeling well. You’ve been in bed for two days now. If it’s not a fever . . . Maybe you’re depressed. We have a prescription—”

  “I don’t need rest,” she groans loudly. “I need you to stop treating me like a baby!”

  “Neena,” I gasp. “I just don’t like seeing you like this. So upset. Why are you so angry with me? I only want to help you.”

  “Because you won’t just let me be sad! Every time I’m sad or angry you try to fix me. “Oh, Neena is upset, she must have a fever,” she mimics me. “Oh, Neena slept an extra hour, she must be depressed.”

  “I’m trying to keep you as happy and healthy as I can. I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Maybe I need to be sad, Mom.”

  I step toward her, but she backs away. “The doctor gave us a prescription for antidepressants. Maybe they will help,” I offer, desperate to help her. Desperate to make her sadness and hurt go away.

  “Normal people who aren’t dying have bad days. They sleep in sometimes. Maybe I just need to be sad and you just need to let me be sad and not try to fix me! I don’t need pills!”

  Tears are streaming down my face. Where did this all come from? “I’m just trying . . .” I shake my head as I roll in to full-on crying. “I just hate to see you sad, baby.”

  “Please, just get out of my room,” she requests, her eyes fixed on the floor.

  My heart feels as if it’s just thunked to the floor. I want to hug her, somehow heal her, but it seems the more I try, the more upset she becomes. I decide it’s best to leave and give her some time to calm down. “Okay, sweetie,” I whisper with a husky voice. “I’m here, if you want to talk.” I hiccup back my sobs as I walk out and close the door behind me.

  When I get home, Neena and Clara are both hiding in their rooms. Clara is curled up on her bed, balled up tissues surrounding her.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask as I sit beside her and squeeze her leg.

  She sniffles as she sits up and turns so she’s facing me. Her blue eyes are glossed over with tears, her nose red from rubbing. “Neena just had a breakdown, I guess.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know . . . she’s so sad and I just want to help, but she says I’m smothering her. So I’m giving her the space she asked for.” She stifles a sob. “I just want to take all of this from her, Paul. I want to be the one to carry that burden. She should be healthy and happy and living life to the fullest. She shouldn’t have to look at herself wishing she looked different for a boy,” she finishes.

  “What?”

  “I think that might be what spurred this,” she motioned her hand haphazardly, “her meltdown. I think she really likes Mills and he’s not interested. He could at least be her friend.”

  My insides twist with anger. How dare he not like my daughter? Asshole. Of course he’s too old for her so if he would, I’d want to beat the crap out of him. But it doesn’t cost a damn thing to be friendly. Yet I’d balked at them being friendly. Shit. Mills is pretty much in a no-win situation here, when it comes to Neena. Poor guy.

  “I’ll go and talk to her,” I tell her before pulling her toward me and kissing her forehead.

  Clara sighs and flops back on the bed and returns to her previous position. “Good luck.”

  When I knock on Neena’s door, she doesn’t answer, so I knock again. Louder this time.

  “What?” she yells. My head rears back at her tone. I’ve never heard her sound so . . . annoyed.

  “Uh . . . it’s Dad. Can I come in?”

  “Now’s not a good time.”

  “Neena, we need to talk, princess.”

  “Can we talk later, Dad? I’m tired.” I thud my head against her door in f
rustration. I understand Clara’s anxiety. I want to fix this. What is going on with her? Something’s up. I can feel it in my gut. Is this father’s intuition? Maybe. Either way, I’m going in.

  “I’m counting to three and I’m coming in,” I inform her. “One. Two. Three.” The door creaks as I open it and then my heart drops.

  Blood.

  There’s blood everywhere.

  The floor is covered with bloody tissues and Neena is sitting on the floor, her back leaning against her bed, holding what looks like a balled up shirt that’s stain with more blood.

  “Shit,” I gasp as I rush to her and drop to my knees. “What is it?” I ask, my panicked voice scaring even me. “What happened?”

  She rolls her eyes. Not the reaction I was expecting. “My nose. It won’t stop bleeding.” I pull the shirt from her face for a moment to find she’s right. Her nose is gushing. “Fuck,” I breathe out. This isn’t good. My stomach is in a knot with worry, but I’m upset too. Why is she hiding in here?

  “Princess . . . Why didn’t you call for your mother?”

  “Because I just yelled at her,” she whimpers, her eyes welling up. “She’s mad at me.”

  “No, she’s not,” I insist gently as I scoop her up in my arms and stand. “Clara!” I yell. I carry Neena out into the hall where Clara meets us. As soon as she sees us, all of her sadness vanishes and she goes into mother/paramedic mode. “How long has it been bleeding, Neena?” she questions.

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Is there anything else that’s wrong?” Clara presses her hand to Neena’s forehead.

  “My stomach. It hurts.”

  Clara looks at me, her gaze riddled with worry. “Get her in the car. I’ll call her doctor and let him know we’re on the way.”

  “Because her platelet count is abnormally low, the nosebleeds will be more frequent. She may notice her mouth and gums bleeding. Her stomach swelling is from cells gathering in her liver and spleen, among other areas. She may experience back pain from her kidneys swelling as well,” Dr. Jones explains.

  My hands are clutching the armrests. I hate how he’s talking about her . . . so cold. So unfeeling. Clara must sense my tension because she reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing it. Marcus is on the other side of her, inclining in his seat, his expression stoic. He’d met us in the parking lot. I’m glad Neena is resting in one of the exam rooms. The nurse that attended to her seemed nice enough.

  “I feel I should warn you, it’s only going to get worse. She’ll begin to experience breathing issues from the swelling of her lymph nodes, along with bruises and joint pain. Her appetite will decrease significantly.” Well isn’t he just a ray of fucking sunshine? He pauses for a moment, leaning back in his desk chair. “Clara.” He says her name firmly as he gives her a pointed look. Clara meets his stare. “Have you contacted hospice?”

  Her face contorts as a wave of sheer sadness hits her. But she doesn’t make a sound. She shakes her head no adamantly. My insides feel full of lead. Just the word hospice depresses me.

  His gaze drops for a moment, seemingly disappointed by her answer, before meeting mine. “I would strongly recommend you do this immediately. I know it’s difficult. But you will need hospice. You want someone to be familiar with the family before things get too bad.”

  It’s not his fault, but I kind of want to shoot across his desk and punch him. I clear the emotion from my throat and straighten myself in my seat. The doctor jots something down and tears off two scripts from his pad. “If she’s in pain, give her these. She needs to be comfortable.”

  “How long?” Marcus pipes up.

  My breath hitches with his question. I hate that he’s asked, but on the other hand, I want to know the answer.

  Dr. Jones’ mouth tightens for a moment before he answers. “It’s hard to say, but if I had to guess, two months maybe . . . three at most.” My vision begins to blur as I stare blankly at the clock behind his head, willing time to slow down.

  When we get Neena home, we move into strategy and execution like we’re about to make a military strike. First mission: lessen her exertion. We rearrange the living room and move her bed downstairs. Neena, of course, hates it. She does not want to move into the living room, but it’s one of those times where we have to do what’s best for her, not what she wants. Clara, knowing Neena may want some privacy, rigs a curtain so Neena can close herself off from the room if she wants to. We hang her Masters of the V posters up, which seems to make her a little less angry. Marcus left to pick up a few things and returns with a video monitor so we can see and hear Neena at night when we’re in bed. Neena makes us promise not to use it until things get really bad.

  After we get Neena settled, Clara looks exhausted and emotionally drained. I feel so powerless. I can’t cure Neena; take her pain and illness away. And I can’t take Clara’s sadness and worry away either because I feel the same way. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes closed, head in her hands. She doesn’t have a lick of makeup on, her long hair is braided to the side and yet, somehow, she looks amazing. But she looks worn out and I wonder when was the last time she had a day for herself. Her nails and toenails are plain; no paint. Her shirt has a blood stain on it from Neena’s nosebleed. She deserves some pampering. More like she needs it. She needs a little reprieve.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nice, hot bath?”

  She smiles tiredly. “Yeah, that would be nice.” Standing, she kisses me chastely before walking morosely out of the kitchen. Digging through the kitchen junk drawer, I find her address book.

  It takes two calls and thirty minutes later, I’m dialing the airline company as I hold my credit card, ready to pay.

  Clara is going to love this surprise.

  And something tells me, Neena will too.

  We put off the interviews for over a week or so to focus on Neena. I think the bloody nose incident paired with Dr. Jones’ extremely dismal news brought everything into focus. We’re in the final weeks of my daughter’s life. I feel lost but I power through like always. Bowman and Larry have stepped up and are helping with running the managerial part of the business and I couldn’t be more grateful. We need as much time with Neena as we can get.

  I called hospice and they sent a lovely woman by the name of Karen over to meet with us. She has a daughter Neena’s age who also loves Masters of the V so she and Neena really hit it off. But last night Neena reminded me Paul and I had not finished telling the story of how we came together. She wants to know. Badly. She wants us to see Ashley again. Paul couldn’t meet with her today for some reason, but I agreed to. She insisted we meet earlier this time. We normally meet around five, but I didn’t question it.

  “You holding up okay?” Ashley asks as I walk in. Before I can answer, she hugs me. Tight. Like a family member would. I can’t deny, I’m a little thrown off by it, but I hug her back. It’s been two weeks since Neena’s bloody nose issue and it’s happened several more times. Since then, she rests most of the day and has little bouts of energy here and there, but they are very short-lived, causing my worry to go through the roof. Paul and I have taken shifts, sleeping in the living room, but Neena has hated it.

  “I’m okay.” Maybe if I keep saying it, it will be true. I’m okay. My daughter is dying, but I’m okay. It’s such bullshit.

  “I know with everything going on, it must be difficult to do this, but . . .” She pauses and bites her lip as if questioning her next words.

  “But what?”

  Her gaze meets mine and she inhales deeply. “First off, I’m sorry for being so direct. I was hoping to have everything finished before Neena . . . passed away. She really wants to see this.”

  Clearing my throat, I wipe at my nose. “Then let’s get this done. I want her to see it, too.”

  We both take our seats and Zane clips my mic on.

  “Where’s Mills?” I ask. It’s odd he’s not here. Although, I’m not sure I want to see him. Doesn’t he know my beaut
iful daughter has a crush on him and he needs to be nicer? I know it’s not his fault, but I hate that she feels the way she does about herself because of him.

  “Couldn’t make it this morning. Had something to do,” Zane mumbles tiredly.

  “We last left off after Paul kissed you.” Ashely’s mouth curves slightly. “What happened next?”

  I have to chuckle a little. Not because it’s funny. What happened next wasn’t funny at all. But what else can I do but laugh about it at this point? “Paul left.”

  Ashley looks as if she’s trying to touch the ceiling with her eyebrows; she’s so surprised. “What?”

  “Yep,” I confirm. “For a month.”

  Her mouth drops open in shock. “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. I was so mad. But I wasn’t sure if I was mad at him for leaving after kissing me like that or for leaving me to deal with Marcus by myself.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Brazil.”

  “What happened when he came back?”

  I’d told myself it was just a kiss. When it happened, I was a foolish woman and my insides had turned to goo. In his absence though, reality set in and I realized he only did it because he felt sorry for me or something. And that made me mad. Incredibly mad. I didn’t need his pity. I didn’t need a pity kiss. I may have been whining a little that night, but that was only because I was vulnerable. Now Paul thought I was pathetic and I hated that.

  Being forced to work alone with Marcus didn’t help either. Paul never really stood up for me to Marcus, but he was at least a buffer between us and at times he played middleman, which eased the hostility.

  It was a Wednesday, and hot as hell, and the office air-conditioning unit was down. After calling five HVAC companies, the soonest I could get a repairman out would be the following day. I ran to Walmart and bought six fans, but it wasn’t helping much. Marcus made it halfway through the day, then bailed on me. If it hadn’t been for a big group of women coming in that afternoon for a jump, I would have left, too.