Page 1 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter one

RYLEIGH

I glance into the silver casket with its stark snow-white interior. I bet most people don’t envision their own funeral at eighteen. I wonder if I’ll be planning mine sooner rather than later.

The salesman drones on in my ear about the difference between their metal and wood caskets, hardwood and softwood.

I’m not really listening. I’m too busy imagining my body encased between the satin, skin slightly orange from the mortician’s makeup, lips and brows painted on.

I wonder what they’ll do with my hair and if they’ll have me wear a wig?

I reach a hand to my head, where it glides over the smooth surface.

I’m as bald as a cue ball. Have been since my first round of chemo months ago. According to the doctor, once I finish chemo, it could take months more to grow back.

I grimace. I miss my hair, but I’ve grown used to the silk scarves I tie around my head, like the one I’m wearing now.

I tried wigs for about a week before I decided they were too itchy and cumbersome, and now I only wear them when I have to.

Not to mention they were ridiculous for me to wear when I was still desperately trying to kick a soccer ball around a field, clinging to my life pre-diagnosis.

Besides that, they make me paranoid, like everyone knows I have something to hide when I wear them, and one thing I’ve learned over the last six months is there’s no hiding cancer.

I peer inside the casket one last time and shudder.

“Whatever,” I say to the man beside me. “It’s not like I’ll need a lot of bells and whistles. I mean, I’ll be dead, right?” I grin up at him and he stares at me like he’s unsure how to take me. It’s a common occurrence these days.

I ignore his gaping and tap the top of the coffin. “How much would this bad boy set me back?” I ask, knowing my mom would have a conniption if she knew I were here, pricing caskets.

“This particular model is on sale?”

“You’re kidding,” I interrupt.

“No. It’s an amazing deal, actually.”

I bark out a laugh, and his brows rise. “Sorry. I just find it funny that a coffin would go on sale. I mean, were there not enough dead people this week? Is there some kind of strike on metal silver coffins I don’t know about?”

He glances from me to the coffin and starts to stammer out a response, but I wave him off. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. How much is it?”

“It’s one thousand even. ”

“Wow! That’s a steal.” I drum my fingers on the side of the metal casket beside me.

In all my four years of high school, I never had a job.

I’d been far too busy with soccer, so to know I can find a casket so affordable if the time comes, gives me a sense of inner peace that’s not been present in a while.

Especially since I came across Mom’s mortgage statement yesterday.

Unbeknown to me, she took out a second mortgage on the house.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Immunotherapy, surgery, and months of chemo aren’t cheap when you have the bare minimum for insurance and you’re living off money made as a potter and waiting tables.

But the second mortgage isn’t the only problem; she’s also late on payments.

The paltry amount I’ve managed to squirrel away in my bank account from Christmases, birthdays, graduation, and award money from various soccer competitions can’t touch the debt she’s accrued.

If my treatments are not successful, it would be best for her if I had a quick death, and it’s comforting to know I can at least take care of this one small thing when the time comes.

“I always did love a good bargain.” I smile, but it doesn’t quite fit on my face. “If things go south with my treatment, hopefully this rot box will still be on sale.”

The man gapes at my crassness. I would take pity on him if my thoughts weren’t already drifting back to my mother.

God, she’d be mortified if she saw me now.

Beyond mortified. She’d be pissed, actually.

I know because I broached the subject of what she’d do if the chemo didn’t work just the other day and she all but lost her shit.

Mom doesn’t want to talk about it. She’d rather ignore the fact that immunotherapy only made me sicker and, after the first four cycles of chemo, I showed no improvement.

If this final round of chemo fails, I’m not sure what I have left, but Mom would rather pretend there’s another option out there, some magic bullet, than face reality.

But I know better.

I can feel it. The way my bones ache. How a simple walk down my street leaves me winded. The exhaustion and fatigue. Not to mention, my evening and morning cough has returned with a vengeance these last couple weeks.

All signs pointing to nothing good.

I don’t need some stupid scans to confirm I’m not getting better. My “good” days are becoming less frequent while the “bad” ones have become the norm.

But Mom’s eternal optimism makes it impossible to talk about. The only outcome she’ll accept is success. She won’t address the what-ifs. No worst-case scenarios, even though my head is full of them.

I only wish she understood that avoiding the inevitable won’t keep it from knocking on my door.

“So, if I end up purchasing one, how does that work?” I ask.

“Well, we can either work with a funeral home or we can ship to wherever you like.”

I nod, taking this in. “That’ll work,” I say. “Do you have a card or something? ”

He pulls a business card from his front pocket and hands it to me. I take a long look before tucking it into the pocket of my jean shorts.

Twenty minutes later, I pull into the driveway to find my mother’s rusty old Toyota waiting on me, and know I’ll have to lie about where I’ve been. The bare-naked truth is more my style, so anything less than complete brutal honesty takes some form of mental preparation.

Inhaling, I muster the energy it’ll take to get from point A to point B, and push my door open.

Some days are better than others. Occasionally, I have a rare twenty-four hours where I feel almost normal, where I can pretend I’m not sick.

Today is a bad day. Breathing feels like a chore.

Maybe it’s stress, induced by discovering the second mortgage.

Or maybe this will be the new norm. It’s hard to say.

I slowly make my way over the cobbled sidewalk, lined with smooth round stones my mother painted in wild colors and intricate designs, and up the stairs to the pathetic imitation of a front porch where I lean against the doorframe to catch my breath.

My lungs burn, legs ache.

Fuck me, cancer sucks.

I’m a shadow of my former self, a fucking ghost.

Teammates, coaches, and sport broadcasters alike used to call me The Missile because I could run down the length of a soccer field so fast, the colors of my jersey blurred on my back. Now I can barely make it from my car, up the front porch, and to the door.

Isn’t life grand?

Licking my lips, I feel the rasp of dry, flaky skin against my tongue, and not for the first time, I tell cancer to go to hell.

Once I’m ready, I turn the knob and push the door open to the telltale sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen.

As much as I’d love to duck out and avoid my mother, I know it’s impossible, so I head in the direction of the racket to find her beaming at the sight of me, as if I don’t look like the fucking Grim Reaper.

“Hey, honey. Where were you?”

“A movie,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue.

“Oh. How was it?”

I give her a halfhearted thumbs-up on my way to one of the chairs at the dining room table. “Great,” I drawl. “And bonus, I’m not dead yet, so . . .”

My mother casts me a disapproving look, which I avoid by bowing my head. I’d like to say it’s because I’m ashamed of my smart-ass comment, but it’s only because my skull is starting to pound and I need a second to recalibrate.

“I didn’t think you were going out today. Thought you didn’t feel well,” Mom says, interrupting my quiet agony.

“Huh?” I ask, blinking my eyes open.

“This morning, before I went out, you said you didn’t feel well. ”

“Oh, yeah.” I shrug. “I don’t, but I got bored and decided I wasn’t too bad.”

Mom says nothing as she sets a pot on the stove.

“So . . . what culinary masterpiece is for dinner?” I ask, picking at the grapes in the fruit bowl and hoping to divert the topic of conversation from me.

“I’m making this chicken dish with fresh peaches and onion, with a side of roasted veggies.”

I hum a noncommittal sound, unsure of how well chicken, peaches, and onion pair together. Truthfully, all I really want is to go up to my room and take a nap.

“Oh, John and Katie are coming, too,” she adds. “They should be here within the hour.”

And just like that, I can forget going to bed early.

I can also forget about my good mood. If you could call it that.

I fight to maintain a pleasant demeanor, but it’s a struggle.

I’m not in the right frame of mind to handle my mother’s boyfriend and his daughter today.

As mean as it sounds, John is a lot to handle.

He’s always trying to fill the gaps of silence with idle chitchat and trying to connect with me in ways that don’t work while Katie usually sits idly by, rarely saying more than two words anytime we’re together.

Frankly, I wish he’d give up. I’m not interested in whatever relationship he wants to have.

He already has a daughter, and I don’t need a male role model or whatever the hell it is he’s trying to emulate.

In truth, I can’t figure out what my mother sees in him.

He’s nerdy and reserved, while Mom is like a living, breathing watercolor.

She’s carefree and gregarious and charming, a free spirit if there ever was one. Polar opposites.

“Really? Again?” I try to hide the surprise in my voice, but something in my tone must alert my mother to my displeasure because she glances over at me, her gaze sharp.

“Sorry,” I grumble, diverting my gaze. “I’m just tired.”