Page 7 of Breaking Point (IceHawks #1)

Bella

LAYLA

I can’t believe my best friend is going to live out my hockey dreams before I do

BELLA

hockey dreams? Since when??

LAYLA

since books

BELLA

what do your books have to do with Ice Hockey?

LAYLA

you have no idea what you’re missing out on

B y the time I drop off the hefty manilla envelope to Layla’s father, who luckily in my case is a lawyer for the city council, I’m half an hour late to dinner with my mom.

The dinner she anxiously called me over.

Through all the excitement of today with the house—or should I say mansion—my new job offer, and the dozens of pieces of paperwork stating what I can and cannot talk about publicly and what my duties are, I’m ashamed to admit that the worry in my mom’s voice took a back seat in my mind .

Yet when I pull into her driveway to find her sitting on the veranda in her favorite rocking chair, sipping on a steaming cup of tea, the nest of anxious bees that had settled in my chest rises once again, swarming around my heart and lungs.

Once I put the car in park and collect my bag, my mom’s already standing in the open doorway, her arms open to welcome me home.

“Sorry I’m late, Mom. I had to stop at Layla’s quickly,” I explain by way of greeting.

As her arms wrap around me, my hands feel the protruding bones of her body and I can’t help but shiver.

“That’s all right, love. Come inside, you’re shivering!”

If only she knew that watching her wither away is what ices my veins.

Stepping inside, I’m greeted by the warmth of the fire blazing in the living room, the only comfort the house holds these days as I make my way to the kitchen that’s been turned into a pharmacy.

One countertop is covered in dozens of pill bottles, thermometers, blood pressure monitors, and a list of things I’m not sure I can even pronounce.

Swallowing the thick lump in my throat, I drop the bag of takeout I picked up on my way here.

“I got Cajun chicken pasta from Rafael’s.”

Her hands shake as she slides the dining chair out slowly. “Oh, my favorite. Thank you, my love.”

It seems I’m not the only one lying. My mom lost her appetite a long time ago.

She thinks I don’t notice her taking the tiniest of bites before spending the rest of dinner pushing her food around her plate. I keep purchasing and cooking her favorite meals in the hopes that one day she’ll get her cravings back.

It’s been months with no such luck.

Clearing my throat, I serve myself a large bowl and a small one for her.

“How are Joseph and Trisha?” she asks once I’m seated.

“They’re good as can be. They still haven’t heard from the hospital in Berlin. I think it’s making them all anxious, Layla included. ”

My mom shakes her head, sadness filling her gaze. “They don’t deserve the trials they’ve had to face.”

“Neither do you,” I admit softly, pushing my pasta around my plate. “Honestly, no one does.”

Her head cocks to the side. “Well…” She trails off, a hint of humor in her voice.

I can’t help but snort. “Which true crime documentary did you watch today?”

“Jeffrey Dahmer.”

A shiver wracks my body. “Again?”

She huffs. “A new show was released on the case and once I started, I couldn’t stop.”

“What about picking up one of your books? Surely you’re running out of documentaries to watch.”

Shoveling a forkful of pasta in my mouth, I have to stop myself from moaning. It’s truly the best pasta dish I’ve eaten, and that’s saying something because pasta in all forms is delicious. My eyes snag on my mom’s withered hand, shaking as she uses the fork to push the pasta around her plate.

Suddenly, the food doesn’t taste delicious anymore.

She waves me off, a sad smile touching her lips despite her forced cheery words. “I’m quite entertained with my shows.” Her gaze lifts to mine before quickly darting away, her fingers tapping her fork. “How come you had to stop at Layla’s?”

She’s stalling.

My mother is a saint, as close to one as you can get, so when she tries to put off telling me something her body shows the frustration and hesitation that’s building.

Despite the low energy she usually has, she can’t stop twitching.

Her fingers drum on the table, her foot tapping beneath it and her knee bouncing up and down.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” I blurt so suddenly she jolts.

Her head snaps up. “What?” she squeaks, her voice rising an octave. “Why would you ask that?”

I hold her gaze with a blank expression.

I’m surprised she’s held out this long, but I refuse to back down.

That, and I want to selfishly put off telling my mom I lied to her for a week straight.

In this household, I was raised to respect that the truth far outweighs the pain a lie will cause someone.

And haven’t I just gone and spat on the very thing my mother instilled in me?

Her shoulders sag before she sits back in her chair. “Fine, you win.”

I’d laugh if the heaviness weighing atop her wasn’t so obvious.

“I can handle it, Mom.” I reach out, gently squeezing her cold hand despite the warmth the fire exudes throughout the house. “I’ve been here since the beginning. I can handle it.”

Another lie.

But she doesn’t need to know that I cry myself to sleep every night.

Her lower lip begins to quiver, and I realize whatever she says next is going to change everything.

“It’s not working,” she says softly, so softly I wonder if I heard her correctly.

“What isn’t? The arrangement? Mom, I don’t care what I have to do. I’d sell a kidney to pay for your treatments. You have to let the guilt go.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

She seems to hold her breath for so long her neck turns a shade of crimson, and then she’s gasping, “The chemotherapy.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“Did you…did you have an appointment with your oncologist?”

She nods, silver now lining her gaze.

My throat burns, a boulder forming as the weight of her words settles. It takes three swallows for the lump to be forcefully shoved down, but then my eyes begin to burn and I’m clenching my jaw so tightly I might crack a molar trying not to cry.

I told her I could handle it; the least I can do is be strong when she needs me. I can hold it together until I get home and can break down in the privacy of my bedroom.

“Why didn’t you let me take you?” I ask .

“Because I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be a positive meeting.”

“We can talk about that part later,” I say pointedly before squaring my shoulders. “What did your oncologist say?”

She falls silent, my eyes dipping to her chest to check that it’s still rising and falling after a time.

“Mom?” I probe.

Her eyes lift to mine, full of despair, sadness, and unending helplessness. “My body has stopped reacting to the treatment.”

The words are a physical blow and yet my head is nodding along as if she’s just told me it’s going to rain this weekend. No one would guess that my heart keeps skipping beats as if trying to give my life force to her.

Control, control, control.

My brain is screaming at me to fix this, but this isn’t a marketing plan gone wrong or a simple hiccup on a canvas. This is my mother’s life .

“We knew this was a possibility. Dr Stewart said if and when the time came, he would up the dosage. Do you not want to do that?” I ask slowly—carefully.

Her eyes leave mine, sliding to a point over my shoulder as she lets out a shaky breath. “We’ve already changed the treatment plan to accommodate the issue…twice.”

Numbness and dread spread through my body.

The beehive that was flapping wildly in my chest falls to the bottom of my stomach. I barely feel the pain in my back as I slump in my chair hard enough to rock it.

I’m quiet for a long moment before I ask on a shaky breath, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She wrings her hands in her lap. “Because I was hoping it would never come to this.”

“And what is this ?”

A lone tear rolls down her cheek as she gasps for air. “Bella, my love… Short of putting my soul into another body, Dr. Stewart has warned me that the likelihood of my body magically reacting to the treatment again is slim to none.”

“W-what are you saying?” I stutter .

She swallows thickly. “That we need to start preparing.” She says the last word slowly, as if tasting it on her tongue.

The sound of my chair smashing to the ground behind me startles her as I rise. “No.”

“Bella,” she pleads.

But what is she pleading for? Death?

“I’m not giving up. I refuse to give up.”

She stands, rounding the dining table to hold my hand, and I don’t know why I haven’t noticed the depth of her fragility until now.

I knew she was sick—I saw the difference.

It killed me to watch her go downhill, but have I been in such denial recently that I refused to see just how much she has changed in the passing weeks?

The tears I tried to hold back spring into my eyes. “I know I said I could handle it and I can, but do not ask me to give up on you. There are no circumstances where I would ever willingly give up on you.”

My mom and I stand at the same height. It’s why, when we lock eyes with one another, I feel the blow of her next words so sharply. “I am not giving up, my love. I would never give up on you. But my body is no longer in alignment with my heart and soul.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it escapes with a sob.

“There has to be something. Please, Mom, there has to be something we can do.”

It feels like her words have reached right into me, wrapped around my heart, and pulled. Despair and helplessness suffocate me so strongly I clutch my chest, hoping I can stop the pain.

“Please,” I beg. “Please, Mom, don’t ask me to let you go. I can’t. I’m not ready yet.”

The tears filling her eyes fall as fast as mine as she wraps her arms around me. “Bella, I will do everything in my power to not leave you. I wish I could promise you I will make it, but it’s not looking good, my love.”

It’s taking every ounce of willpower and strength within me to stop myself from breaking right before her. She doesn’t need to see this; she doesn’t need the weight of my heartbreak on her shoulders as well as the fear of death.

But then she goes and whispers, “Let me take care of you, Bella. Let me be a mother to you. It is the greatest thing I’ve ever done.”

My heart shatters.

F or the first time since my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer seven months ago, I allow her to comfort me.

All this time I thought I needed to be strong, needed to be her rock and support system, especially after what happened with my father.

But until she whispered those words, I never realized I was robbing her of one of her most prized jobs in this life.

I need to let her still be my mom.

It’s why when two hours later we’re sitting on the couch before the fire with steamy cups of hot chocolate, I turn to her and blurt, “I was fired last week.”

She drops the TV remote and gasps. “What? Where have you been going every day? Are you just staying at home? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I hold up a finger. “First of all, that’s a lot of questions.”

She’s shaking her head as her wide eyes peer at me, a thousand questions passing through them.

“Before you panic, I already have a new one. That’s why I was late. I dropped my employment contract off with Joseph to have him read over it.”

Some of the tension leaks out of her body like a deflating balloon, but some still lingers. Her hands wring together and despite her adverting gaze, I know what she wants to ask but can’t bring herself to.

“It’s really good pay, Mom. More than good, in fact. You don’t have to worry about a thing. ”

By her lingering guilty look, it seems she still doesn’t feel comfortable with the financial situation.

But I refuse to send her into debt because, unlike her, I haven’t given up.

After all of this is said and done, she won’t survive cancer just to turn around and try and climb out of a mountain of debt.

“What’s the job?”

I look away uncomfortably. “A personal assistant.”

“Love, the last time you were someone’s assistant I had to talk you off the ledge every day from putting laxatives in his coffee and setting his house on fire.”

I snort. “To be fair, the guy was a dick. I’ve never worked for someone so self-centered and entitled in my life.” I pause. “And that’s saying something considering Jason was my boss for three years.”

“Well, with your history of employers, I’m sure I have nothing to worry about,” she says, the sarcasm evident.

A bark of laughter escapes me. “This man is paying me enough money to turn my cheek to just about everything. Whatever personality he has, I’ll deal with it.”

She dips her head, a small smile grazing her lips before she turns to the TV and searches for a crime documentary she hasn’t watched.

I thought about telling her who he works for, why exactly he’s paying me so much, and why I have to sign an NDA thicker than my forearm. But to bring up my father in front of my mom…she’s endured enough heartbreak for the day.

Though we never verbally acknowledged it, we both seemingly agreed to never speak about him. I suppose we didn’t want to waste our breath on such a coward. Hence why she doesn’t need to know I’ll be working for one of the members of her cowardly ex-husband's favorite ice hockey team.

As she settles on a local telling of an unsolved crime in Colorado from the 2000s, I turn to her, speaking before I truly think about what I’m saying. I don’t have to, not when this feeling in my gut is screaming at me to utter the words.

“I’m not going to renew my lease at the end of the month. ”

“How come? Did you find another apartment you like better?” she asks.

“I’m going to move in here.”

Her eyes widen, reading every emotion that flickers across my face.

I’m not sure what I show, either the panic that’s driving me to never leave her side, the longing for the life events I refuse to think I’ll experience without her, or the hope that she will say yes so I can spend my nights with her, soaking up every second possible.

Whatever the case, her features soften as she melts into the couch. “That sounds like the best news I’ve heard all day, my love.”