Page 28 of The Story of You

Darius pulled something from the fridge and strutted by me. In his hands was the cake I’d made. He grabbed two forks and set the cake on the table. “What are you doing? Put that back. We’ll have it tomorrow.”

“You made this forme, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but we had cake already.”

“You had cake, I didn’t. I wanted this one.”

“Why would you want my cake over Bilheimer’s?”

“Because this one’s real. And you fucking made it for me.” Tears streamed down his face as he stabbed his fork into the cake, crunching the shaved chocolate, piercing the layers of cake, and whipped icing. “You wanna know what I wished for?”

I wasn’t sure that I did but I grabbed a fork and sat with him, letting Oliver sleep on my shoulder while we ate cake together. “For Mama to get better?”

“Last year, I would have. Maybe that’s what a good person would do. I wished for the three of us to be far away from here.” He stuffed more cake in his mouth.

“But you got a miracle for your birthday. Mama’s, Mama again.” I thought it would be a sign of good things to come. Maybe we’d gotten through the worst of it. The whole time Mama’s medication had been wrong and once it was fixed, we would be too.

“If that’s what you think, you’re a fucking idiot, Sye. I know you’re not an idiot.”

“Then what was it, doucheface?”

He smirked. “Better.” He ate mouthfuls of cake before he answered. “This is fucking good by the way.” He stabbed his fork at me in the air. “That wasn’t a miracle. It was a cruel joke. Just wait, Silas. The other shoe’s going to drop.”

“I don’t understand. You looked like you enjoyed being with Mama and you’re not that good an actor.”

“I didn’t act. I enjoyed the fuck outta her. I tried not to think about it ending but good things don’t last. Not for me.”

“You don’t make any sense.”

“I make all the sense, Silas. I’m the only one that makes sense anymore. But let me explain it to you. This, us three, this is all we’ve got now. I don’t even want it … whatever that was today. Yeah, I enjoyed Mama, but it didn’t have the same feeling as before. It’s been tainted. But you and Oliver haven’t been. You two don’t feel weird to me. Or dark. Or awful. I want you two. This fucking delicious cake. Forever. That’s it. You’re making this for me again next year by the way.”

He was twelve but he seemed a hundred.

He was also right.

By Monday, Mama returned to her vapid self. Father took her to the doctor mostly because he was one, but also because he’d always done things like that for her. They returned with a white paper bag of new medication and Father looked like he had seen a ghost. He helped her to bed, and he came into the kitchen to talk to me. Oliver was passed out in his playpen; Darius was at school. I wore the pink neon crop top, the one I knew Father liked best even though he’d never said it. My hair was long again and brushed out. I tried to wear it down as often as I could, but it was a bitch with an eleven-month-old who liked to pull it, so it often went up when Father was at work.

First Father’s face crumpled. Then the tears ran free. It was instinct for me to grab him and offer comfort, my mid-drift pressed against his shirt buttons. “She’s got … she’s got glioblastoma.”

She had the most aggressive and deadly of the brain cancers and she didn’t know it yet. Her doctor told Father privately. Father was a long-time member of the old boy’s club. Stuff like that happened back then, hell, it happens now, but I like to think it happened more so back then and we’ve evolved—at least a little. They’d taken blood samples at the hospital when I took her to the emergency. When our family physician saw the results, he caught something the other doctor hadn’t. He had her submit more blood and because Father’s well-connected in that community, he shared his hypothesis with Father.

“It sounds like there’s still a chance she might not have it,” I said.

He squeezed me. “Maybe but it’s slim. That’s what he thinks the real reason for the memory loss was.”

I got caught up in his hysteria. I cried too. We cried together until I felt his palm spread like a fan across my chest. I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I froze. If I pushed him away, he’d be pissed. Of course, I had every right to, but it didn’t feel that way at the moment. Yet, leaving the hand sent the wrong message—it’s okay. I had to do something, but I didn’t know what.

Thank fuck, Oliver woke up. I broke away like a falling bridge. Oliver was already standing at the side of his pen, reaching for me. “Baba. Baba.”

“Big brother’s here, Oli.” I crushed him to me hoping it would get rid of the sensation Father’s hand left behind.

Father watched us. “We won’t tell her until I know for sure.”

I kissed Oliver’s head as I hushed him. “Of course, not, sir.”

“Or Darius. He’ll flip out and that’s all I need.”

I agreed. I didn’t see the harm in waiting to tell Darius until we knew for sure. It even felt wrong thatIknew. I thought Mother should know first. I left that up to him.