Page 54 of No Room in the Inn

“Hi, Mom,” I say, doing my best to sound like I didn’t just get stitches because a Christmas tree fell on me. From the corner of my eye, I see Nixon look over at me, but I ignore that. I know how he feels about my relationship with my parents.

Not that he really has a right to have feelings about it at all, but whatever. I understand where he’s coming from. Especially now that I know his parents are out of the picture completely.

“Sweetheart?”

“Oh,” I say, blinking in surprise. It’s my dad. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi.” He pauses, which feels slightly ominous, because my dad isn’t really the kind to hesitate. “Sweetheart…” he says, trailing off.

And now I’m starting to get properly nervous. “What?” I say, swallowing hard. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, now, I don’t want you to worry, but—”

“What happened?” I say. And when will my parents stop calling me with bad news? I see Nixon glance over at me again; I’m sure he can tell that something’s off.

“Well,” my dad says. “Myrtle is…she’s struggling a bit.”

Ice. My insides turn to ice. Without thinking I reach over and clutch Nixon’s arm. His hiss of pain causes me to loosen my grip, but I don’t let go completely.

“What do you mean, she’s struggling?” I say. Fear is suddenly pumping through me, each beat of my heart sending jolts of panic throughout my system.

“I mean,” my dad says slowly, “it might be good if you came to see her.”

I don’t even think. “I’ll be right there.”

I hang up, my brain in a fog as I say, “I have to go to my parents’ house.” My voice is weirdly calm considering the tornado of fear inside me.

Nixon, to his credit, just nods. “Where do they live?”

I give him directions, and we drive in silence for the next few minutes.

What did my dad mean when he said Myrtle was struggling? Is she dying? Did she swallow another quarter like when I was in high school? Or did she try to eat a sock again? What’s going on?

The car hasn’t even pulled all the way into my parents’ driveway before I’m jumping out, slamming the door shut behind me. I leave Nixon without saying a word, though I do remember to wave my thanks over my shoulder. I don’t know if he’s going to stay or go, and right now I don’t care. All I can think about is Myrtle.

I don’t knock on the front door; I just go straight in. “Dad?” I call. “Mom? Myrtle?”

“We’re in here,” my dad says, his voice filtering in from what sounds like the living room. I rush through the foyer and around the corner to see my mom and dad sitting on the couch, Myrtle curled up on my dad’s lap. More ice shoots through my veins, and suddenly everything appears to be moving in slow motion. I can almost see myself as though from outside my body, making my way to the couch, where I sink down next to my father.

“Dad,” I say. I swallow. “What’s wrong with Myrtle?”

“What happened to your eye?” my mom says, looking at my stitches.

“Just a little cut,” I say, brushing her question off. “Dad, what’s going on?”

He sighs, scrubbing one hand slowly over his face. My heart drops further, which I didn’t realize was possible. My father is a strong, outspoken man. He’s not a man of hesitation or faltering. Seeing him searching for words is…wrong, somehow. I wait silently for him to speak, unable to make myself hurry him along.

He sighs yet again before finally speaking. “She has cancer,” he says.

I hear a slight rustle from behind me, and I turn to see that Nixon is here, hovering just outside the room, looking at me with sympathy. I don’t know how long he’s been here, but I wish he weren’t, because I don’t want him to think of his mom’s cancer and be sad.

And anyway, Myrtle doesn’t have cancer. She can’t have cancer. “What do you mean?” I say to my father. I look at Myrtle, still curled up on my father’s lap. Now I pick her up gently and pull her to my lap. She’s frighteningly limp; I can feel the shallow rising and falling of her little belly, but if it weren’t for that…

My father sighs yet again, but it’s my mother who speaks. “She has cancer, Willow. She has a tumor in—”

“No,” I cut her off, shaking my head. “No.”

My mom goes on as though I haven’t spoken. “She has a tumor in her hip. We’ve done every—”

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