When she was diagnosed a second time, my father split. It turned out that the whole time, since her very first doctor’s appointment, he’d been having an affair.
I felt so betrayed the day he moved out. I sat on the front steps, remembering the way he used to lift me up over his head, rubbing his beard into my neck just to hear me laugh when I was a kid. The pride that would fill my chest when he’d refer to us as his “little miracles.”
I called him a pig. Hurled the word at him as he folded himself into his car, the back seat filled with boxes of his clothes. He sighed at me, loud enough that I could hear it from the front steps. “Aren’t I allowed to be happy, Wesley?” he asked.
So I called him a pig again, afascist pig, even though he’s been a registered Democrat since he was eighteen, and went back in the house.
“It’s fine,” I assure her but I still don’t feel quite right; the same not quite right I felt the day my mom told us. I think I’ll feel like this for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of my life.
Tears fill her eyes again. I don’t think I’ve ever sat close enough to her before to notice her eyes. They’re like autumn. Gold and orange and red and yellow. They’re so pretty and something in them makes me reach out, clasp her hand in mine, and squeeze.
“Everything will be okay, Ms. Blunt.”
She laughs sadly, quietly. Her hand feels cold. “You can’t possibly know that.”
I shrug. “I can hope it, though.”
This time, when she looks at me, shelooksat me. She studies my face. I feel her gaze over my brow, down the bridge of my nose. I feel it touch my lips, move away, then touch my lips again.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Ms. Blunt? To help?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes linger on mine and for the first time since I’ve met her, I don’t want to shrink away from her. I don’t want to fidget with my hair or adjust my socks. My first instinct isn’t to fold in on myself and make myself smaller. It’s the ninth inning and I’m squaring off against the best batter in the league and this time I’ve got nothing to hide.
So I don’t.
I let her seeme. Let her see that there are no tricks up my sleeve, and that I’m not who she thought I was.
At the moment when my chest is cracking in two, I feel strong, stronger than I’ve felt in months. Strong enough for the both of us.
She sits up taller, mirroring me, like she’s feeling a little stronger, too. She picks up her coffee cup, flicking open the file on top of the stack in front of her, pulling her mock-ups into her lap. She transforms in front of my eyes, a metamorphosis into a badass butterfly.
“Yes, Mr. Chambers.” She takes a sip of her drink and scowls down at the cup. It’s probably cold by now. “You can get back to work.”
Everything will be okay, Wesley, my mom said.
You can’t possibly know that.I wiped at my face. I didn’t want my dad to know I was crying, too. My mom smiled and said,I can hope it, though.
Chapter 12: Corrine
The ding of the elevator reverberates through my skull. I wince and a wave of nausea rolls over me so that I have to lean my shoulder against the wall until it passes, while the echo of that sound ricochets around my brain. The doors close again and I only stop them by swinging my bag into the quickly shrinking gap. Something crunches inside as the elevator tries to crush it.
My migraines usually sync up with the hormone drop that comes with my cycle. But stress and fatigue—like finding out my mother has cancer, telling our family for her yesterday—bring them on, too.
I walk forward slowly, silently praying that no one speaks to me, no one needs my help, no one so much as looks at me. Even if they did approach me, I’m not sure I would see them coming. I can barely keep my eyes open. The light filtering through my sunglasses pulses. Waves of pain move through my skull in time with the beat of my heart. Sheer muscle memory gets me past the Pit, down the hall, and around the corner toward my office. Wesley is on the phone as I approach, watching me like one might observe a dying animal on safari.
“Okay. Thanks, Marisol. I have to go. I’ll call you back,” he says, his eyes still on me. He hangs up and rises from his chair, meeting me halfway.
My whole body is a clenched fist. My hair could only manage an anemic ponytail because my usual high and tight updo hurt too much. My shoulders draw up to my ears and no amount of deep breathing can bring them down. My brow furrows no matter how many fingertip massages I give it as I try to calm my nervous system.
I take a sip from my coffee cup and immediately regret it. The smell, the taste, even the temperature of the drink cause a wave of nausea and pain to move through me.
“Good morning,” he says and somehow, blessedly, he knows to say it quietly, softly. The pain only rolls through my head rather than stabbing.
I swallow down the vomit in my throat and manage a small, crooked smile back at him. Gently, he takes the coffee from my hand. My grip tightens around the cup for a moment before the muscles give up, shaking. I’m not sure when the shaking started.
“I’m not sure how to say this without sounding rude but...”
He gives me a rueful smile.
