Page 99 of The Facade

I’d never thought of being haunted by a ghost in a positive way before, but if such a thing was possible, I’d do anything to have her stick around. Or in the very least, visit every once in a while.

I smoothed my hands across her bony back, resting my head against hers as I tried not to say the words I’d had bouncing around my brain for months. Tried not to say them because I knew they were selfish and would only bring her more pain.

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

But I couldn’t not say it. Because even though she was more herself than she’d been in weeks, something told me this really might be the end.

“I don’t want you to say goodbye, Mom,” I whispered into her hair. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

She lifted her head from my chest to meet my gaze with her dark-brown eyes. “You’ll live, my darling boy.” She brushed my cheek and gave me a smile that I’d try to recreate in my mind forever. “That’s all I wish for you. That you’ll live each moment that you’re given—the ones you want to run away from and the ones so good you want time to stand still for. Feel them all. Because that’s really all we’re here for anyway. To live.”

31

Mack

Dad cameinto the room a little while later and requested some time alone with Mom. They chatted for about an hour, and while he was in with her, I researched miracle healings from glioblastoma multiforme brain tumors online.

Even though my dad had said that we were at the end, I couldn’t believe that Mom would be so vibrant and coherent if she was going to die in a matter of days.

But as I was scouring the Internet, I came across an article that triggered something my dad had mentioned several months ago when I’d asked him what to expect. And as I read more, I realized my mom might actually be experiencing what some people referred to as terminal lucidity—a period where patients with neurological disorders can have a sudden and unusual improvement in cognitive function days or hours before death.

I held my breath over the next day, feeling like I had a huge anvil hovering over my head as it waited for just the right moment to drop on me. But when one day turned into two, I started to wonder if maybe my initial thoughts of my mom being miraculously cured had actually been on point.

I asked my dad when we were alone Wednesday night if he thought it was possible, but he just shook his head and said, “I don’t think so, son.”

It rained all day on Thursday and Friday, and even though I didn’t usually mind stormy weather, I couldn’t get over the feeling of gloom and impending doom weighing on my heart.

My mom’s family came to visit again, and I overheard them discussing some funeral plans with my dad Friday afternoon, telling him some of the extended family in other states were wanting to have an idea of when to book their flights. And I had to lock myself in my mom’s room when they started talking about those things because I didn’t want to think about who might be speaking at her funeral, what songs they should play, or what clothes they would dress her in when she hadn’t even died yet. Why talk about that stuff when she was still alive?

“Will you open the curtains for me?” Mom asked an hour later, after we’d listened to a few of her favorite songs on her playlist. “I want to watch the rain.”

“Of course,” I said.

I opened the light-blue curtains wide and watched the late autumn storm through the huge windows that overlooked our backyard and the flower gardens I’d planted for her last spring and summer.

“I love the rain,” Mom said with a faint smile on her lips.

“I know you do,” I said, remembering how she had danced in the rain more times than I could count growing up.

“Whenever it rains, I want you to think of me, okay?” Mom said, her gaze sliding away from the window and over to me.

“I will.” I swallowed. “You know I will.”

The rain let up a little while later and my mom asked me if I could get her some ice to suck on since her mouth was feeling dry.

So I padded into the kitchen, the tile floor cool against my bare feet. I grabbed a plastic, child-size cup from the cupboard and a spoon to feed the ice to her with, and then filled the cup with pebble ice.

“Here’s your ice,” I said when I walked back into my parents’ room, shutting the door behind me to block out the noise coming from the living room. But when I turned to look at my mom, I found her slumped in her bed with her eyes closed.

I walked closer and set the cup on the table beside her. “Mom?”

But she didn’t respond.

“Are you asleep?” I asked quietly, not wanting to wake her if she was. But when I looked at her, something seemed different. The energy in the room had shifted.

I touched her shoulder, gently nudging her as a sense of dread gripped my heart. “Mom?” My voice cracked.

She still didn’t respond. Her eyelids didn’t even flutter.

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