Page 12 of Things I Wish I Said
“You’ve lost yourself this year. Sometimes I barely recognize you anymore. The bitter, sullen boy in front of me is not the man I raised.” She pauses, then: “I failed you.”
And I failed him.
I bow my head.
“But my eyes are open, and I’m not going to fail you anymore. If I’m wrong about this, fine. You do your job and complete the wish, and at the end of the summer, the money is yours. You can go to school or drink it all away. Whatever you want.”
I grit my teeth.
I’m going to play baseball.
Nothing has changed for me, and it never will.
I’ll get out of this house, play ball, and figure the rest of it out later, even if a part of me feels like it’s a lie.
But I say none of this. Because the truth in her words haunts me.
“I think the guilt of ignoring your father’s wishes is eating you alive.”
“What’s the wish?” I surprise myself by asking.
“It’s from a young lady diagnosed with stage II lung cancer. It appears to be acute and aggressive, even if doctors aren’t labeling it so. It didn’t respond to early treatment, but she’s going through more chemo now and hoping for the best.”
I know enough about cancer to last me a lifetime, and anyone with acute anything and treatment-resistant chemo is as good as fucked where I’m concerned.
“And?” I wave her on, not wanting to hear the details.
“And she’s never had a boyfriend before. She wants one for the summer.”
I blink at my mother, unsure if I heard right because she can’t be serious.
I point at my chest, laughter sputtering from my parted lips. “And you want me to . . .?”
“Date her for the summer.”
I choke. “You’re joking?”
“I’m not.”
I snap my mouth shut, staring at her with wide eyes.
She’s lost her damn mind, clearly. I always wondered how long it would take after losing Dad for her to snap, and now I have my answer—four hundred nine days because no way in hell am I spending the next three months pretending to be the boyfriend of someone with the same fucking disease that took my father.
I rein my anger in, trying to be rational as I say, “Do I look like boyfriend material right now to you?”
“You’re handsome and charming and—”
“I’m fucking up right and left. You said so yourself.”
“Then snap the fuck out of it!” she screams.
I stare at her, mouth agape. My mother never swears.
“Ma, I know you said you see what’s happening here, but do you? I graduated senior year by the skin of my teeth. I drink myself numb, and when that doesn’t work, I smoke enough grass to make Willie Nelson forget his own fucking name.”
And I’m doing other shit you don’t know about, too.
Worse shit.
