Page 21 of Things I Wish I Said
Robbed. Depressed. Pissed.
Hell, I’d be fucking furious.
Yet there she was, cracking jokes and laughing about it. She’s a better person than I am, that’s for damn sure. I snap my MacBook shut, knowing what I must do.
Guilt is no longer my only motivation for sliding my cell phone out of my pocket and dialing my mother.
She doesn’t answer, but her voicemail picks up, so I wait until the beep and leave a message.
“Hey, Ma, it’s me. I’ll do it.”
I hang up, then open my text thread with Dustin. Granting this wish might be the hardest thing I ever do, but at least I can get a little something to take the edge off.
I type out a new text and hit send.
ME:
Can you meet up? I’ve got cash.
DUSTIN:
You ready to try something stronger?
I grind my teeth, knowing Dustin thinks selling weed is a waste of time. He prefers the shit rich kids like me are willing to pay more for.
ME:
I’m not a junkie.
DUSTIN:
LOL Whatever, bro. I’ll be here when you’re ready.
ME:
Be there in five.
Chapter six
RYLEIGH
The familiar hum ofthe hospital surrounds me as I settle into the bed, already itching to leave despite the next forty-eight hours looming over me. The nurse has already done my bloodwork, and the doctor made her appearance and placed my order. Now, I’m just waiting on today’s dose of poison.
Mom lays another blanket over me, knowing how cold I get during treatment with the hospital’s arctic air-conditioning on full blast. Already, she’s fretting and fluttering around me like a mama bird, and already, I’m tired of it.
“That’s good, Mom.”
She steps away from my bed, wringing her hands out in front of herself.
She’s always nervous on treatment days, but today even more so, and I know why. Somehow this one feels like the most important because it’s the last. After, I’ll have scans in a couple weeks and my fate will be laid out for us. Good news or bad.
I try not to think about it too much, but my mortality is all I have to focus on these days, so it’s a littletough not to.
My mom opens her mouth as if she might say something, but snaps it shut at the light knock on the door. A second later, Nurse Anna bustles into the room with my IV bag and chart in hand, grinning ear to ear like we’re at a discotheque and not the oncology wing of the hospital.
“This is it,” she says as she gets to work, setting up my drip. “Last session, and you’re home free. I bet you can’t wait to get out of here, huh?”
“No. Quite the opposite, actually,” I deadpan. “In fact, I think I’ll come back weekly so I can have some of those mystery nuggets the cafeteria calls chicken.”
