Two weeks ago I gotthe call. If you’ve ever gotten “the call” in your life, you’ll unfortunately know what I mean. The one that creates a before and after in your story, bookending each side. Whatever you had been doing prior to it becomes so hilariously insignificant in comparison to the words coming through the phone speaker.
I was sitting on an ocean-aged bench overlooking Malibu’s choppy waves when the podcast I was listening to was interrupted by “Hopelessly Devoted to You” wailing in my headphones. My phone was ringing, a photo of my mother’s effervescent smile and dark hair filling the screen.
“Hi, Moooom!” I drawled with faux lethargy.
“Hi, baby. Is now a good time?” My mom’s usually light, sugary tone was pulled taut. The tension in her voice stiffened every muscle in my body, causing me to shift to a straighter position on the bench.
“Yeah, what’s going on?”
“It’s Aunt Lottie. I just wanted to let you know we decided to put her on at-home hospice care. The cancer progressed way faster than any of the doctors saw coming so we’ve made the difficult decision to quit treatment and…” Her voice trailed off as my ears began to ring.
My body felt like it was tilting internally, an air of unreality coating me. My fingers tingled and my vision darkened at the periphery.
A memory of Lottie dancing around the kitchen in one of her floral printed maxi dresses, singing “The Butterfly Song” in Vietnamese, waltzed across my mind.
“Kìa con bu?m vàng, Kìa con bu?m vàng!” She would sing to me with her eyebrows raised and skirt fluttering around her as she seemingly floated over the wooden floor. I would sit there in a fit of giggles, completely enraptured by her beauty. Her voice felt like a safe cocoon. She was a second mother, a grandmother, and a best friend, all in one beautiful, tiny body.
“I-I’ll come home as soon as possible, Mom. This is top priority to me. I’ll get someone to—” My mind sputtered as I tried to work out the logistics of leaving college when there were only two weeks left until graduation, of abandoning the consulting job I had lined up in New York.
“No, baby. I want you to graduate first. Don’t worry about us just yet. She’s comfortable here; the nurses come twice a week. Just work out how to come here for the summer if you want to, okay?” my mom said, tone placating my panic.
“I will be there for sure. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” I emphasized, promising with no concrete plan of how. But didn’t at-home hospice care mean death was approaching?
My mom has always been worried about overstepping—the complete opposite of a stereotypically overbearing mother. At times, she’s too polite in her attempt not to overstep, and it feels like I could drift away from her and Lottie and never hear from them again if I wasn’t the one to tug on the rope, pulling them closer to me. I couldn’t rely on my mom to emphasize how dire the situation was. Lottie could be at risk of dying tomorrow and Mom would still encourage me to go to New York City and not worry about it.
Now, two weeks after the call that derailed my life, my massive luggage bobbles violently up the cobblestone walkway that leads to the guesthouse.
I could have spent my visit home in my untouched bedroom, but the thought made my skin crawl. There was nothing like a childhood bedroom to make you feel like the years you’ve spent trying to progress have been erased.
If Lottie’s compound was an island, the guesthouse would be like a lighthouse perched on a rocky cliff. As a kid, the short walk made me feel like a character fromThe Hobbit, trekking up the cozy pathway that led to the smaller structure with its curved wooden door.
But I don’t see any of it as I pull my belongings behind me. My body feels numb from shock. Seeing Lottie for the first time after the call was even worse than I conjured in my imagination. The last time I saw her she had been sick, yes, but she was still moving about the kitchen like she was floating beneath her floral dress.
Pushing open the wooden door of the guesthouse, the comforting musk of old clothes and fresh sheets greets me. Mygaze snags on the wooden coatstand in the corner. An aged yellow bucket hat hangs from the top rung. Memories flash through my mind of the beach trips Lottie took me on when she had a day off managing her convenience stores. She’d help me build “hot tubs” in the sand, transporting ocean water to our man-made hole and sitting in it like lobsters in a pot. The memory feels like a hand reaching through my chest, squeezing my heart uncomfortably. I fight to take a deep breath and drag my bags all the way inside. I have a sinking feeling the sensation will only become more prevalent in the future.
I cross the small bedroom to the bathroom, lined with jade-green tile, turning the shower handle to its hottest setting. As I wait for the water to heat up, I scan the layout of the bedroom, trying to appreciate the coziness of the beautiful room rather than feel the pit of dread rising in my stomach.
A glimpse of my reflection in the seashell-encrusted mirror causes me to do a double-take.
My body looks deflated, like it’s had a head start processing the news before my mind got to the starting line.
I tousle my curtain bangs and wipe the tears from beneath my tired eyes. My phone buzzes. I pick it up to find a Google calendar reminder for three months from now: “Ernst & Young Start Date.” My shoulders tense. I delete the reminder and throw my phone on the bed and then step into the shower’s comforting heat.
I was offered the consulting job I had been gunning for my entire time at Pepperdine. Up until the call about Lottie’s health, I was prepared to move to New York City and buckle down for the next few years of twelve- to fourteen-hour workdays, excited by the prospect of finally working toward my goal.
“Do you have, like, an NYC bucket list?” Faye, my best friend from college, asked me one night.
I blinked at her and said, “What do you mean by… bucket list?”
“Like, aren’t you envisioning the cute outfits you’ll wear to work every day and the sexy dive bar you’ll get drinks at where you might spot a celebrity?” she said, eyebrows raised in anticipation.
But the question stumped me. Landing this consulting gig wasn’t about enjoying my work, having a vibrant social life, or living in a big city. Those all paled in comparison to the expression I imagined on my mother’s relieved face as I delivered her the news: “You can retire.”
Leaving Seabrook had always been about getting the best job possible so that I could relieve my mom from working behind the cash register at one of Lottie’s convenience stores. But more than that, I wanted to buy her independence. Her life had been about supporting me for so long, I wanted to pay her back. I wanted to see her carefree enough to hang out with friends or consider dating someone again. To simply do something because shewantedto. Not because she needed to for me.
But here I was, job deferred.
Which was fine, of course. There was nowhere I’d rather be than with Lottie. But simultaneously, it felt like I was abandoning my mom. She would never see it that way, because she’d never ask for my help in the first place. Her life was about making sure I could live mine. But I wanted to make mine about making sure she could live hers.
