As I stand up again, I stitch myself together. My stomach climbs up my legs, my rib cage uncrushes itself, my throat no longer burns. I expect to find her at her desk with her ass parked on the edge of it, her arms crossed, her scowl firmly in place because I was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.
My gaze trips over her slouched form on the white sofa, staring at her phone. She doesn’t even acknowledge me. I creep forward slowly, placing the files on the table, her coffee in front of her.
“Ms. Blunt?”
Her eyes are red, her cheeks blotchy. She quickly looks away.
“Is...” I swallow past the lump in my throat. My twin sister is my best friend and also the most dramatic person I’ve ever met. In other words, I’m used to—and comfortable with—women crying.
But seeing Ms. Blunt cry is different. Seeing Ms. Blunt cry is like acknowledging the truth I’d tried to let myself forget: that she is not only a human being but one who can be hurt. One whohasbeen hurt, even unintentionally, by me.
Also I need to text Amy immediately to tell her that Ms. Blunt does, in fact, have tear ducts.
“Are you all right?”
The question feels like a lie. I already know that she isn’t. Fuck Richard for playing fast and loose with something like this.
Devastating news should only be shared by the people it devastates.
“My mom,” she warbles. Quickly, she swipes her palm across her face. “She has ovarian cancer. We found out last night.” She takes a shuddering breath. “I just told my brother.”
Hearing it again doesn’t get any better. I feel off-kilter. My knees weak.
I have something to tell you, my mom said when we got home from school. She’d made cookies and set out milk, like she used to when we were kids. But my dad sat at the kitchen table and he was never home that early on a Wednesday. That’s when I knew my life was about to change. I sat down, relieved because I’d thought my parents were going to tell us they were finally getting a divorce.
My body thuds into the armchair with no arms, a delayed response to when Richard first broke the news. “I, uh. I’m sorry.” My voice still sounds like someone’s hand is wrapped around my throat.
She nods, once. Sniffles.
“Do you need to go see her or something?”
My hands started shaking at some point so I clench them into fists. I can’t fuck this up. I can’t make this worse for her. “I can cancel your presentation and—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “No. They’re in Minnesota. She doesn’t want me to come. Not yet.”
I nod, slowly.
Your mom is sick. She has cancer, my dad said. He started crying.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
I say the words louder than I intend, trying to keep the memory of my father’s sobs out of my head. I’d had no idea he cared that much.
Ms. Blunt startles.
“Your mom,” I say again. “What’s her name?”
She studies me. Long enough that I think she won’t answer. “Linda,” she says in a choked whisper.
The air in my lungs leaves me in one great gust. I smile, even though I really want to cry. I look away when I feel a prickle in my eyes.
“My mom’s name was Laura.” They’re not the same, of course, but right now they’re close enough that my stomach hurts.
This is the sickest déjà vu I’ve ever had. Why thefuckwould the universe think I need to relive this?
She blinks once, twice. “Oh god. I’m so sorry. Oh god.” She drops her head into her hands. “Your mom was sick, too.”
When my mother was diagnosed, our family rallied around her. Amy and I were in our senior year of high school and Dad was working sixty-hour weeks. But he cut back to take her to all her appointments, drive me to baseball practice and Amy to ballet. And when Mom received a clean bill of health, only a year and a half later, he took us all on vacation to Hawaii.
