Ignaw at my fingernails, fidgeting with restless energy as I try to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied, preventing me from unraveling in front of my mother. The waiting room smells of antiseptic, covering up the cloying reek of despair that hovers around us. I look around at the sunken faces with ashen grey complexions, letting you know that they are being destroyed from the inside out by an invisible killer, some more merciless than others.
Now seated beside my mother, her frail hand in mine, I understand that there is nothing to do but hope. Hope for a cure, news that our loved one is going to pull through, and that the words we will hear soon won’t break us. My mother underwent an endoscopic ultrasound to biopsy a suspicious mass that they saw on a scan. As the needle slipped adjacent to the probe and through the layers of tissue into the looming mass on the screen, cells were gathered onto a slide and sent to the pathology department. Now the hard part begins. We wait. I pray to a God I barely believe in, still close my eyes, hoping whoever is listening will give us good news. Yet the truth grips tightly around me like a crushing weight.
“Mrs. Andrade?” My head whips up, taking in the nurse standing before us with a clipboard in her hand. She holds open the office door, allowing us entry, a gesture that will determine my mother’s path forward. I nod and rise from the chair. Extending a hand to assist my mom up from her seat, her fingers feel so light in mine. It reminds me of all the times she held my hand to help me up when I was a child. Now, the roles are reversed, and I am the one helping her. After my parents’ divorce, she used to walk with such strength. Her head held high, knowing she had bettered her life, despite having to start over. But illness has a way of stripping pride away so easily, reminding us that life is fragile and that life is inevitably terminal. She has become so weak over the last few months. She insisted that she was fine, and told me this over and over until one day she wasn’t. Together we walk slowly to the door, one heavy foot in front of the other.
“Take your time,” the nurse says kindly as she patiently waits for us, propping the door open. Her eyes flick briefly over to the wheelchair, folded neatly against the wall. I catch the movement and shake my head no. She nods, saying nothing, but I can see that she understands. My mom already feels like her independence is being stolen from her, so she continues this slow, relentless walk. Making her way across the short distance means more to her than the action because it’s a declaration that she's still alive and still fighting.
The nurse places us in a small, sterile room, impersonal and devoid of color. The white walls and muted grey trim provide little comfort, and I wish that I could change the vibe. If I was delivering test results to patients, I’d want the room to be comfortable, with a warm tone and soft light. The temperature in here is too cold for patients who lack muscle mass and are in various states of fragility. I place my mom’s cardigan around her shoulders as she smiles up at me with gratitude in her eyes. Ireturn her smile, but inside, I just want to scream at the cruelty of it all, how illness strips your dignity and hope is the only thing that’s left.
The doctor walks in with a chart in his hand, and his expression tells me everything I don’t want to know. He is accustomed to giving this type of news, and I can tell it weighs heavily on him. His kind but tired eyes gauge our emotions as he provides a well-practiced speech. We leave the office without a word said between us. Even on the way home, no music or conversation ensues. Our silence persists, and when we get home, my mom quietly announces that she is tired and is going to bed. We don’t talk about what we heard. But the doctor's words keep echoing in my mind—she is terminal. He couldn’t give me a timeline of how long we have, just a vague estimate of the borrowed time left and options to prolong the inevitable. Some treatments that could extend her life are available, but they are costly. The only thing left to do is help my mom. I’ll be there for her, just as she has always been there for me.
I walk down the steps, glancing across the yard over to Vic’s house. It's still quiet, and that’s not surprising, since I left his bed around three a.m., careful not to wake him. I had to be up early this morning to take my mother to her doctor's appointment. The air is humid, and I can feel my shirt sticking to me as I make my way to the mailbox. I grab the small stack of mail and head back to the house. Inside, I begin sorting through the envelopes, placing the bills in the woven basket my mom has set aside for them.
And that’s when I see it. My breath catches in my throat when I see one stamped with the Dartmouth College crest. Vic and I both applied there, hoping to get into school together. We knew it was a slim chance we would both get in, but since both of our grades met the requirement, Vic encouraged me to apply.
I look at the letter before me, tracing the emblem with my fingertip. For a brief moment, I forget everything else. I open it with a large rip along the fold and remove the contents. My mouth curves into a stunned smile. I did it. As I read the acceptance letter, I feel the joy I haven’t felt in months since having to care for my mom and dismissing her illness as just a virus. But then it hits me, like a shot through the heart. I can’t go. My dream school with my amazing boyfriend is just that—a dream, because I can’t leave my mom. She needs me, so it’s no longer an option. Now the paper that I’m holding in my hands means nothing anymore. It’s just a paper.
I grab the lighter and the ceramic tray, turning the lighter over in my hand. Without another thought, I hold onto the corner of my acceptance letter and hold it to the flame. It catches quickly, and I set it onto the tray, watching it burn along with my future. The paper blackens and curls inward as the flame consumes it. My dreams go up in smoke with a quiet finality. I light the envelope next, and the flames take hold, slowly devouring the paper. Half of it is gone, and the flame is almost out. I grab the other end, just about to relight it, when there is a knock on my door, so I let it burn out. The room smells of smoke and the end of my life as I know it. I walk to the door with a heavy heart, knowing what I have to do.
FIVE
VIC
Ihold the letter with trembling fingers, quickly noticing it is from the college I applied to not long ago, but now it seems more like a lifetime ago. The green insignia etched along the stark white envelope of the esteemed medical school lies heavy in my palm, or perhaps it’s just that it holds the weight of my future, with the potential to crush it all. I notice it's thicker than I would expect, giving me a moment’s pause to feel hopeful. My breathing quickens in anticipation as I mentally prepare to read their decision. It would be thinner if it was a rejection letter, because brevity can be cruel and concise, needing only a few words to strike you down.
I tear at the folded edge, and the paper rips as the envelope flutters to the floor. I inhale deeply, bracing myself, before scanning the words on the page, but my heart stops when I read the first word.
“Congratulations,” I say aloud and then stop reading. My world stills, and my knees threaten to buckle. The room tilts slightly, but I force myself to refocus. I blink, as if the acceptance letter might disappear or their typed words rearrange to announce my rejection from the school instead, because I just cannot believe the words written in bold lettering before me. Ithrow my hands on top of my head with the letter still clutched firmly between my fingers. Leaning over, I let out my breath in a long, ragged sigh. Still clutching the letter like a lifeline, my grin spreads wider and wider as I force myself to read the acceptance letter in its entirety. All I can think of is that I can’t wait to tell Dani.
With that realization, I bolt out the door, letting it slam shut behind me. I race across the short distance to her house next door. I’m banging on the door before I stop moving, bouncing on the balls of my feet in feverish anticipation. I’m laughing manically because, despite all I have endured, I did it. I really fuckin’ did it. I am finally going to make my dreams come true.
I hear footsteps approaching, and I lean forward, ready to take her in my arms. I can already picture how this will go. She gets accepted, she throws her arms around me, and we celebrate. The door creaks open, and when she steps through the doorway, I thrust my acceptance letter toward her with a huge grin. Then I notice her face. Her eyes are red and puffy. Her skin is blotchy, like she’s been crying. My letter drops to the floor forgotten as I bring her into my arms.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” Her sobs are the only thing I hear shattering the silence as she clings to my hoodie. She fists the fabric and pulls me closer to her as if she is trying to climb onto me. Without thinking, I scoop her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist, latching onto me like she can’t get close enough, as she buries her face into the curve of my neck. I feel the warmth of her wet tears and the hotness of her breath against my throat.
My breath quickens as the monster within threatens to annihilate whatever dared to hurt her. I swallow the lump forming in my throat, thick with emotions flooding to the surface. Only she has that power to thaw the ice encasing my heart in its cold, protective exterior after years of seeing theworst in humans, exposing the beast within that would tear apart the world for her, yet stills at the sound of her sobs.
I cradle her tightly, one arm under her thighs, and the other strokes her hair with soft, gentle movements. I carry her through the house I know as well as my own, heading toward the worn couch that rests in the middle of the room. I sink onto it, still holding her like a child, whispering soothing words.
“I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.” She doesn’t answer and starts crying harder. I press my lips to her temple, gently coaxing her to tell me what’s wrong. “Talk to me. Please, tell me what happened, Dani.”
I wait patiently for her to speak. As her breathing becomes regular and the sobs abate into quiet shudders, I notice a tray smeared with ash. A half-charred Dartmouth envelope sits next to the ash alongside a lighter. It’s as if it didn’t finish burning, but the letter inside did.
I shut my eyes as the realization washes over me. And just like that, the joy I felt about my own acceptance slips away. Now, all I feel is a sense of sadness, and something far worse—loss. I’m filled with the weirdest feeling, a premonition that this is the instance where everything changes, so I need to stay and be there for her, just as she was for me, because if I don’t, my future is uncertain when it comes to her.
I pull her closer to me, not wanting to ever let her go. I would stop time if I could, so that we could live in the moment forever with her in my arms and not me moving to the East Coast, so far away. Unfortunately, we need to have a conversation about our future. I want her to understand that I will stay with her here. I will choose her.
I tilt her chin upward, imploring her to look me in the eyes, conveying all my thoughts. Instead, she drops her gaze downward, severing our connection. Something cold settles in the pit of my stomach. An unease I’ve never felt before from Danimakes me want to throw up my breakfast because I don’t want to hear her say those words.
“I’m not going without you,” I say resolutely, holding her by the shoulders as she averts her eyes. She shakes her head in protest, her body stiffening as I hold onto her before she returns my stare.
“Vic,” she whispers, lifting her hand to my face and brushing my cheek with a tenderness that feels more like a farewell. Her fingers tremble as if she’s trying to memorize me, knowing it might be the last time. I lean into her touch, letting her warmth seep into the coldness that is overtaking my body like a biting frost against my humanity.
She is the balm that soothes my soul, and without her, I’m afraid of what I am. She has been my anchor after my mom died, and the only constant in my life, since the incident with my father. That’s what we refer to it as “the incident,” so that we never speak of what happened again or bring up his name.
She opens her eyes, and with fierce determination, her words cut me like a knife. “You’re going to Dartmouth,” she says, as if it’s the only choice. We both know that's bullshit. I shake my head, fast and desperate, pleading with her. But she grabs my head, stilling it as I squeeze my eyes closed, refusing even to entertain the thought of leaving her behind. She’s my everything. Doesn’t she even realize? There is no me without her.
SIX
