Page 35 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter twenty-one

RYLEIGH

I jolt awake, heart pounding through my chest.

Shadows dance over my bedroom wall as my lungs tighten.

A cough rips through my chest, lungs rattling as my entire body jerks upright and I fight for breath.

A guttural rasp claws at the back of my throat like an animal seeking to be let out.

Each spasm leaves me breathless, echoing in the stillness of the room while I clutch at the shirt I’m wearing as if I can somehow choke back the gnawing ache flaring to life behind my ribs.

My eyes water as a thin sheen of sweat collects on my brow, and I briefly wonder if this is how I’ll die. Right here, in my bed. Alone. Scared. Fighting for breath.

A few more excruciating seconds pass before the hacking begins to subside. I pull oxygen into my lungs, and all at once, the vise on my chest releases its death grip.

“Fuck,” I moan .

A glance at my alarm clock reveals it’s just after one o’clock in the morning. I listen intently to the sound of a settling house and the crickets outside my window before my dry throat beckons me to get up.

I begrudgingly push myself out of bed, my throat raw and chest aching from the coughing marathon I just performed, but somehow, my stiffness eases with each step down the hallway.

I’m halfway there when I pause at the sound of my mother’s voice, thick and raspy in the dark.

She’s been crying.

I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s barely stopped since we left Dr. Hammond’s this afternoon.

Closing the distance, I bypass the bathroom and pause at the end of the hallway, risking a peek around the corner into the living room where I see her on the couch, tucked into John’s side.

I wonder how long they’ve been up, then decide it doesn’t matter. If I can’t sleep, Mom probably can’t either.

I swallow and close my eyes for a brief moment and debate what I should do. Stay and listen, or go?

I allow my head to fall back against the wall with a gentle thud before I slide against it to the floor. Stay.

My arms wrap around my legs, and I press my cheek against my knees and listen.

I know I shouldn’t. I should go back to bed and give them their private moment—this time together—but I so rarely get to hear my mother’s unchecked thoughts.

I never know what she’s really thinking.

Whenever I’m around, she refers to my cancer with manufactured optimism, platitudes and positivity.

For once, I’d like to know what she’s truly thinking.

I want to know if she thinks I’m as fucked as I do.

“Seven months to a year, John. That’s how long we have if we don’t do something,” she says, her voice trembling.

“Is that what the doctor said?”

A sniffle, followed by silence. I can only assume she’s confirmed his question with a nod.

“And this trial you told me about, how promising is it?”

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 sounds like 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.”

Jealousy she’s confiding in John and not me stabs me like a hot poker.

I wish she would’ve told me she was in trouble months ago, before the chemo. Maybe I could’ve helped.

By dying?

“You have Katie to think about,” Mom continues, “and I won’t pull you down with me. I won’t do that to you.”

“I’m here with you, regardless. Like it or not, I’m in this for the long haul, and eventually what’s yours will be mine, debt and all.”

Mom hiccups on a sob, but my mind is reeling, too preoccupied with processing the implication of what he just said.

I remember back to when Katie was in my room a couple weeks ago, the night I went to Kip’s party, how she asked about our parents getting married and if I thought they’d have to move into our house.

My stomach lurches.

Feeling nauseous, I rise to my feet only to find my legs feel like jelly. Katie must have known something I didn’t.

Suddenly, I’m certain my mother and John have talked about getting married. Not only that, but for Katie to know, they’ve talked about it with her, too.

Betrayal slices through me like a knife as I turn and make a beeline for the bathroom.

I stumble inside, gripping the porcelain sink with two hands as I dry heave once before clutching my stomach, urging it to calm down.

I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

But when I close my eyes, I can see the future perfectly and it looks a lot like tonight, only John will live here because he’s moved in, and I won’t because I’ll be dead. Katie will take my room. The soccer memorabilia will be replaced with dance stuff, the walls painted a bright pink.

Mom will spend her nights after the funeral grieving in John’s arms on the couch, until eventually, the pain lessens a little, and the memories fade.

And I should want that for her.

I do.

I want my mother to be happy.

I want her to move on and build a new life.

I just didn’t expect her to do it right under my nose.

I poke at a piece of fruit with my fork while my mother eyes me over the rim of her coffee cup.

It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I overheard her and John in the middle of the night, and I can practically feel the thoughts brewing inside her head as she holds them in.

It’s driving me crazy, but I won’t ask her about it.

I’m almost certain I know what it’s about, and I’m not sure I want to hear it.

My gaze flicks to hers, and I note the dark circles beneath her blue eyes, the wrinkles that never used to be there.

She no longer sleeps. I know this because I wake throughout the night, and when I do, I can hear her in her studio, puttering around with the soft swell of music trickling beneath the basement door.

It was the same when I was little. If I had a nightmare and woke her, she never could fall back asleep, and so after she’d soothe me back into bed, she’d retreat to her studio where the mellow sounds of Mozart seeping through the floorboards lulled me back into a peaceful sleep.

I no longer have nightmares, but I wonder if she does. I wonder if she’s had a night of peace since my diagnosis. Maybe every day, every night is one big nightmare for her. Judging by the look of her, I guess I’m right. She’s aged five years in the last six months, and I’m completely to blame.

Finally, the silence gets the better of her, and she asks, “Have you spoken to Grayson yet? ”

You mean, have I told him yet?

I try to keep the emotion from my gaze as I shake my head. “No.”

“Oh, well . . .” She trails off, seeming to let it go, and for that, I’m grateful.

I can’t imagine telling Grayson. Just the thought pains me.

Though if I’m dying, it strengthens my resolve to convince my mother to allow me to travel to LA for the awards.

She’ll be even more reluctant now, considering the news.

Not only am I not better, but I’m worse off than I was before.

She’ll refuse to see this as a last wish, and instead, she’ll think of it as a risk I can’t afford to take.

Which is why the wish is more important now than ever. Grayson is my only hope of gaining her approval.

I wonder what it’s like to be someone’s only hope and feel a pang of sympathy for him.

Mom sighs in a way that lets me know she’s done with the quiet, and when she puts her cup down in front of her, I brace for impact. Whatever’s on her mind is about to be on mine.

“I spoke with Dr. Hammond again this morning,” she says, toying with the handle of her mug.

She’s going to ask me about the trial; I know it.

“Oh?” I shove a chunk of melon in my mouth, so I have an excuse not to say more.

She nods. “There’s a new experimental trial she thinks you’d be a great candidate for. ”

I stare at her, long and hard. In truth, I don’t want to participate in this trial. Nothing thus far has worked to minimize the cancer in my chest. There’s no reason to think this experiment will, either.

My fight is over. She knows it, and I know it. She just doesn’t want to admit it.

“As long as there’s air in her lungs, I’ll keep fighting.”

“How much will it cost?”

Mom starts at the question, her fork clanging off her plate. Clearly, cost was the last thing she expected me to ask about.

Until now, I never brought up the cost of my treatment. Mom acted like it was a nonissue. An inevitability, when really, spending the money on treatment was a choice, one that’s put her in so much debt I’m not sure she’ll ever recover.

Mom forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, well, I’m not sure,” she hedges. “It’s a combination of holistic treatment paired with a new drug, so I think the drug company is funding it.”

“So it’s free?” I ask, arching a brow.

Mom nods, unable to meet my eyes, which is how I’d know she’s lying even if I hadn’t overheard her. But if I say no to treatment, she’ll fight me on it.

When I played soccer, Mom always marveled at my tenacity, my determination and desire to win. It was as if she never knew where it came from. But I did. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, only Mom’s determination lies in two things: her work and keeping me alive .

“I’ll think about it,” I say, because I know it’s the only thing that will get her off my back.

Mom shifts in her seat, picking her mug back up and gripping it until her knuckles turn white. It’s not the answer she wanted, but it’s also not a no, so I can tell she doesn’t want to press me on it. At least not yet.

“What about the trip to the awards in LA?” I ask. “Have you given that any more thought? It’s only three weeks away.”

She takes a small sip of her coffee, and I can tell by her pinched expression she wants to dismiss it, but she’s worried if she does, I won’t consider the trial. It’s exactly the reaction I wanted. “I’ll think about it,” she says.

And here we are, at a stalemate. Both of us waiting for the other to give.