Page 140 of When Hearts Ignite

Mom squeezes my hand and lets the comment slip by. We both know time is the one thing she doesn’t have. Lymphoma. Terminal stage. Her third bout of this horrific disease. I can feel her slipping away some more each time I visit, and I’m helpless to stop it.

Life is so unfair.

I gnash my teeth together at the thought and force myself to relax, to play pretend.

“So, are you excited about the first day of your new school?”

“Considering it’s the middle of the school year of my senior year and I’m older than the rest of my class and wearing this clown outfit, not particularly.” I’m switching schools only for her, because I know it’s something she always wanted.

“You’ll love it. It’ll open so many doors for you, even though you’re only there for a few months. It’s worth the hassle.” She pats my hand, forcing me to glance up at her. Mom’s lips curve into a smile, her face lighting up with joy. Despite her sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes, Mom still radiates life…or whatever amount of life she has left. “I had some of my most memorable years there, but of course, my best memories are with you, your dad, and Millie.”

I nod, smiling at her as I squeeze her fingers gently, a touch of reassurance so she can hopefully worry less about us. I don’t tell her how Dad is barely holding it together most days. I also don’t tell her how Millie has become more withdrawn these last few weeks. It’s as if we all sense the end is near.

“Do tell me about your first day later, okay, sweetie?” Her eyes are unfocused, taking on a faraway look as if she’s reminiscing about the long-gone days of her youth before everything happened.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A series of knocks interrupts our conversation. Moments later, a short man with thick, black glasses and a clipboard walks in. Sweat beads on his forehead and he grimaces.

“Um. Excuse me, ma’am. Is this a good time?”

Mom nods and adjusts the cap on her head.

The man pulls out a few sheets of paper from his clipboard. “We don’t normally do this, but we couldn’t get a hold of your husband and we’ve tried a few times already. Um. Your hospital bill is overdue.” He glances at me, his hand twitching as he fidgets, and continues, “Perhaps the originals got lost in the mail, so we thought we’d bring copies to you just in case.”

Heat rises to my face and washes over my body. He’s a debt collector. Dad must have forgotten to settle the last installment payment.

“I-I’m sorry for the delay.” Mom retrieves the sheets from him as her head dips. As if she needs to apologize for inconveniencing everyone because she is fucking sick.

Gritting my teeth, I snatch the papers from her. This is the least of her concerns right now. “We’ll take care of it.” I level a hard stare at the man, who seems to shrink under my gaze, and he stammers a thank you before leaving the room.

Aside from time, I also need money.

Not for cars, or fancy clothes, or taking chicks out on dates, but for the necessities. And apparently to pay the hospital and the doctors for keeping my mom alive while she suffers.

I glance at the figures, and my heart drops to my gut in a swooshing free fall. Fifteen thousand dollars. Shit. I have my job after school. Maybe I can think about cutting out some other expenses or take up my best friend Jack’s offer.

“Sweetie, Adrian, Adrian!”

My eyes flicker up at Mom while my brain is working on overdrive on how to earn more money for all these expenditures.

“Yes, Mom?”

“Your dad won’t tell me when I ask him. He just says not to worry. Are things going okay at home? We don’t have the money, do we?”

I pat her hand and force a reassuring smile on my face, a mask I’m better at wearing when I’m around her these days. “Things are fine. We have this in the budget. Don’t you worry about a thing.” This should be the least of her concerns. If hopes and wishes do work, I’d wish I were ten years older, with a degree or two, climbing up some corporate ladder, and making enough money so the people I love no longer need to suffer and worry about the necessities.

But we all know hopes and wishes are figments of imagination. Stories we tell little kids.

Reality is far uglier.

I take out a DVD from my backpack, Romeo and Juliet, the classic 1968 version, and place it on top of her soft blankets, hoping to cheer her up. “I found this at the grocer’s the other day. Your favorite. Maybe you can ask the nurses to play it for you later.”

She grips the package tightly and smooths her fingertips on the cover. “My sweet boy. You always know what I like and need. Your dad and I watched this on our first date…” Her voice trails off.

I lean in and wrap her bony body in my arms, careful to not squeeze too hard. Her body trembles, shaking like a leaf under the wind. She seems so fragile and is always in pain. Closing my eyes, I bask in her warmth and am transported to a memory of her wrapping me in a big hug when I was little, remembering how safe I used to feel in her presence.

It’s my turn to protect her now. It’s my turn to take care of her.

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