Page 96 of Things I Wish I Said
My ears perk, chest ballooning with a hope I know deep down is probably futile.
“I don’t know. In truth, the doctor told me it was a wild card, a long shot. In Ryleigh's case, it won't even be funded. The trial is meant for stage-one cancers, but the doctor is good friends with the sponsor. She said she could get Ryleigh in, but we'd have to pay our way. Still, she thinks it might be worth it.”
My stomach sinks.
“Jill—”
“I know what you’re going to say, and no, I won’t take your money.”
“You can’t keep doing this,” he says, his tone soft. “You’re barely keeping your head above water now.”
I squeeze my eyes so hard, I see stars behind my lids.
I think about the bills I found. All of the debt and the second mortgage on the house. The backlogged payments.
“I know,” she says in a tiny voice. It’s so soft, it barely soundslike her.
“Where does it end?”
“She’s my daughter, John. I know I can’t keep doing this. I know. But I can’t . . . I just can’t give up on her. I won’t. As long as there’s air in her lungs, I’ll keep fighting.”
“Have you even asked her what she wants?”
She scoffs. “It doesn’t matter. She’s a kid.”
“She’s eighteen. Old enough to make her own choices,” he points out, and it’s probably the first time I agree with him.
“Even if she’s done fighting, I’m not.”
“You can’t fight this for her.”
Silence is followed by a soft keening sound that makes me glad I can’t see her.
I lift my head and let it lightly thud against the wall again. And again.
I want to do it harder.
So hard it draws blood.
So hard it hurts like I’ve hurt my mother.
Dying would be a mercy. Mom could grieve me and move on. As long as I’m here fighting, she’s holding on to hope only to be disappointed over and over again. Grieving the life she thought I’d have when I’m not even gone yet.
After a moment, the keening turns into sniffling.
“I wish you’d just let me help,” John says, breaking the silence.
Though I never cared much for John, I start to wonder if maybe I’ve been too hard on him, maybe I’ve been biased.
I want to yell at my mother. To scream and tell her to accept his help in the hope it might ease the burden of guilt I’m carrying.
I hate what I’ve done to her—how I’ve made everything so much harder. And as long as I’m breathing and my heart’s still beating, Mom’s pocketbook is bleeding.
I'm a tumor on her side—a burden.
And if someone doesn’t amputate me soon, she’ll never recover.
“I already told you,” Mom says, and it dawns on me this isn’t the first conversation they’ve had about finances. “I took all this debt on. It’s on me.”
