Page 11 of Knot Really Engaged
“Okay, sick how? Like, flu sick or . . .?” I press, though part of me isn’t sure I want to hear the answer. My stomach twists, a sense of dread settling like a lead weight.
Dad takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “It’s breast cancer, Son. They caught it early enough, but the risks of complications are higher because of her age.”
The words land like a punch to the gut, knocking the air clean out of me. My breath catches, trapped somewhere between my lungs and the open air as I struggle to wrap my mind around the concept. I can feel my knees buckling, and I grip the edge of the counter for support.
“But they can try to save her, right?” I ask, my voice sounding small and childlike even to my own ears. The words feel foreign and unwelcome, a desperate plea against the inevitable.
Mom nods, a single tear escaping down hercheek. “They’re going to do everything they can, but . . . she’s not that young and her body might not be able to withstand the treatments, Liam. We have to prepare ourselves for whatever the outcome.”
I feel like I’m underwater, the world around me muffled and distorted. This can’t be happening. Not to Grandma. I swallow past the lump in my throat, my vision blurring with unshed tears.
“She wanted to wait until after the anniversary party to tell the rest of the family. She didn’t want to ruin the celebration.”
A humorless laugh escapes my lips, the sound harsh and grating. “Of course she didn’t. That’s just like her, always putting everyone else first.”
I push off from the wall, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the small kitchen. “I . . . I need some air. I’m going to take a walk.” My heart races, the urge to escape overwhelming. I need to get out, to breathe, to process this news away from the suffocating sympathy in my parents’ eyes.
“She is going to start treatment,” Dad says, ignoring what I just said. His voice is steady, but I can see the cracks in his composure, the way his hands tremble slightly at his sides. “Next week we . . . I have to go to New York. To help her and your grandpa.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I ask, myvoice rising, accusation lacing each word. I can feel the anger bubbling up inside me, a hot, prickly sensation that threatens to consume me.
“Grandma didn’t want us to tell you over the phone,” Mom explains, her voice a soft whisper now. She reaches out to me, her hand hovering in the space between us, as if she’s afraid to touch me. “But we thought you should know before she gets here. Give you time to adjust and really process this.”
“She’s at peace with it, Liam. Mom wants us all to be at peace with it, too.” Dad’s words are meant to be comforting, but they feel like a slap in the face. How can anyone be at peace with this?
“Peace? But she’s getting treatment, isn’t she?” I choke out, tasting the bitterness of the word. How can anyone make peace with losing her?
I’m pacing now, in an attempt to outrun the ache in my chest. The room feels smaller, like the walls are inching closer with every labored breath. I need air, space, anything to dilute this suffocating grief.
“Mom, Dad, we can’t just sit here. There’s gotta be something we can do, right? Some trial, or experimental thing?” The words tumble out, tripping over each other in their haste. I’m grasping at straws, desperate for any shred of hope to cling to.
My parents exchange a look that says they’vetried this before, worn the path down with their own frantic searching. So this—my reaction—is really nothing new to them.
“How . . . how long have you known?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I’m not sure I want to know the answer, but I need to ask, need to understand why they kept this from me.
“Two weeks,” Dad interjects, his tone heavy with apology. “We’ve known for two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” My voice rises, a note of betrayal sharpening the edges. “You waited two weeks to tell me?”
Their expressions crumple a little more, if that’s even possible, and the weight of their decision presses down on the room. I can see the guilt in their eyes, the way they shrink under the force of my anger.
Mom steps forward, her hands outstretched in a placating gesture. “Liam, honey, we wanted to tell you in person. We didn’t want you to be alone when you found out.”
“As we just told you, Mom didn’t want to worry anyone, Son. And she especially didn’t want you to cancel coming back for the anniversary party. She’s been talking about seeing you getting married since you were in high school, you know that.” Dad runs a hand through his hair, his eyes distant, lost in pain.
“Grandma always said she wouldn’t miss my wedding for the world,” I murmur, more to myself than to them, as I try to latch onto something, anything, that feels solid in this quicksand of despair. The words feel heavy on my tongue.
“Exactly,” Dad chimes in, nodding vigorously. “And she meant it. So we thought, let’s have one last big family gathering, full of love and joy, even if it’s not your wedding—and the family is the McCallisters.”
“It would be great if it was indeed your wedding—or if at least you were serious about someone.” Mom’s words are gentle, but they cut deep, a reminder of all the expectations and hopes that rest on my shoulders.
I try to understand their reasoning. Their practicality is admirable, wanting to maintain normalcy for her sake and ours. But it leaves me feeling torn, aching to make the most out of these dwindling moments. Should I move to New York to spend time with her or just start to search for the best oncologist to treat her?
“Don’t you have a girlfriend or someone we could invite?” Mom continues. “We’ll pay for her trip from San Diego. It’s just to give your grandma some hope.”
I stare at her slightly confused.
“Stop, Susie,” Malcolm says. “You can’tpressure him to find someone. What’s next? Suggesting he hires an actress?”
