Chapter 114 One day at a time
Michael had volunteered to go grab the food from the car, naturally, but I’d stopped him with a hand on his arm. I said I'd go, then turned to my mother and asked if she'd come with me.
She’d nodded immediately, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before she smoothed it into a smile. I looked back at Michael, who gave me a small, understanding nod.
Now Mum and I are walking side by side toward the car, the gravel crunching under our feet in slow, uneven rhythm. She’s walking extra slow, and I’m trying to figure out the words, the way to start this conversation, because I doubt I’ll have another chance today.
Halfway there, my steps slowing with hers, I finally tilt my head and say lightly, “We can walk faster, Mom. I won’t shatter if the wind picks up.”
She doesn't speed up. She turns to me, eyes scanning the path, adjusting the strap of her bag with careful precision. “I’m just enjoying the view, Ryan,” she says quietly.
The silence returns, heavy and stagnant. I let out a long sigh. "My next infusion isn't for another week."
"I know," she says, nodding. "Michael told us everything. He’s been very helpful."
"I really like that you're here," I say, and I mean it.
A faint, tired smile curls her lips. "Me too, Ryan. Me too."
I look away, toward the distant line of fir trees. The words tumble out quietly, "But I need to know that you’re living your lives, too. If you and Dad keep staying because you feel obligated, it’s going to make me feel like I’m holding you both hostage."
She pauses, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. We’ve never talked like this...this openly, without the buffer of small talk about weather or neighbors. I can see the friction of it in the set of her shoulders.
"You’re scared that if you leave, you’ll miss something," I say, my voice dropping. I look down at the car keys in my hand, the metal cold against my palm. "I guess it’s the 'something' people don’t talk about."
We reach the car, the scent of hot asphalt and pine needles swirling around us. She turns to me, her expression suddenly fierce. "I'm your mother, Ryan. How do you expect me to just leave you?"
"Leaving isn't abandonment, Mom," I brace myself against the trunk of the car. "It’s an act of faith. And I need that faith more than I need another home-cooked meal. I need to know that you believe in my ability to be okay without a constant witness."
She stubbornly shakes her head. She was like this the first time too, hanging up her entire life like a coat she didn't need anymore. I know it’s partly my fault, I’ve always been bottling things up, so she felt like she needed to pay extra attention. Like she had to overcompensate with her presence to make sure she didn’t miss anything.
"You didn't come to visit your son," I say, the words necessary. "You came to monitor a condition. I need you to go home eventually, not because I don’t want you here, but because I need to know that your world hasn't stopped just because mine has hit a detour."
We’re facing each other now, the car between us and the rest of the world.
"I can't help but worry, Ryan," she whispers, voice breaking slightly.
"I know." I say, "But I need you to breathe your own air. Come back frequently, but come back as the people who raised me, not the people who are terrified of me."
Her eyes are brimming with tears now, shimmering in the afternoon light. I reach out and hold her hand tightly in both of mine. "I have Michael," I remind her.
She smiles, a small, genuine curve of her lips. “He’s wonderful.”
“He is,” I agree, voice low, haunted with a truth I rarely speak aloud. “I need you to trust him. And more importantly, I need you to trust me.”
Her hands squeeze mine as she looks away.
"Go back home, mum. Continue cleaning the basement. Travel with your friends. Come back when you miss me, not because you’re afraid of a tragic phone call. I need to feel like a person who has a family visiting him, not a tragedy that needs a 24-hour guard."
She looks at me, and I think she's trying to believe me. “You really will be okay?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“I really will,” I whisper. “I’m tired, yeah... but I’m fine. And I want you to breathe too, Mom. You deserve that.”
She reaches up, the soft wool of her cardigan sleeve damp as she clumsily wipes at her eyes. She takes a shuddering breath, her shoulders hitching. “I looked it up, Ryan,” she says, her voice trembling, stripped of the cheerful facade she’d been wearing all morning. “What you have, I looked it up. And I...”
I shake my head, cutting her off before the numbers can settle between us. I step closer, closing the final inch of distance to pull her into a firm embrace. I rest my chin on the top of her head, my fingers tracing the familiar texture of her hair, stroking it in a slow motion I hope is as much for her as it is for me.
As I hold her, I find myself thinking about Michael. I think about the way I’ve caught him deep in medical journals, his brow furrowed in that intense concentration. It’s most likely the reason he hovers. It’s the reason he looks at me with that devastating, watchful hunger. He’s seen the same data she has. He knows the footnotes.
He knows that, on paper, the odds are not in my favor.
“One day at a time, Mom,” I tell her, my voice muffled against her hair. “That’s the only way the math works. And today, the math says I’m okay. A little tired, but I’m standing right here.”
She clings to me then, her hands bunching the fabric of my jacket with a quiet desperation. She’s still crying...the kind of silent, racking sobs that make a person feel like they’re trying to hold onto a handful of sand. I squeeze my eyes shut, my own throat tightening until it aches.
“Let’s get the food,” I murmur, pulling back just enough to look at her, my hands steady on her shoulders. “Before they worry.”
She nods as she takes one final, deep breath. “Okay.” She reaches up, kissing my cheek. “I love you,” she says.
“I love you too,” I reply, letting the words hang between us before I turn to unlock the car.