Ji rubs my arm. “Should we key his car? Slash his tires?”
“Ooo, yeah, let’s go all Carrie Underwood on him,” Missy says.
I gurgle out a pitiful laugh. “No, I just want to go home.”
They embrace me on both sides, and we put our heads together in the center, scrunching into our usual triangle hug. Minutes later, we’re in Ji's car, backing out of Jordan’s driveway. For a moment, I think I see Jordan through the partially open blinds of his bedroom, but the ache in my chest is so awful that I don’t dare look up again. If I see his face, I’m afraid my heart will tear in two.
Jordan gave me his answer loud and clear tonight, and all I can hope is that time really does heal all wounds.
Chapter 4
JORDAN
· PRESENT DAY ·
“Mom. It’s me,” I say as I bring in Mom’s mail from yesterday and put it on her tiled counter.
I take off my work bag and place it on one of the weathered chairs at the table then glance around the empty kitchen. Nothing marks my mom’s presence but an open box of granola. I refold the top of the cereal box and walk to the pantry before noticing that the expiration date on the box was three days ago, so I trash the granola, making a mental note to pick up a new box for her at the store.
“Mom?” I call, a bit louder, while inspecting the contents of her pantry. Several cans of food have also passed their expirationdate. Just last year, I heard some radio commentators talking about someone in Denver who died from eating expired pancake mix. My mom’s been through too much to go out because of old food. I toss the cans and add them to the growing grocery list.
Apparently I need to go through her pantry more often. How many expired things has she eaten lately?
When the silence looms for too long, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room, fully expecting to see my mom knee-deep in her sewing supplies, but the room is vacant of all but its craft corner, television, and time-worn sofas.
I glance at my watch—eight-thirty. Mom always quilts at this hour. My chest begins to tighten. “Mom?” I yell. My feet quicken along with my pulse.
I push open doors, ducking my head inside room after room, running now. “Mom!” What if she’s sick or injured? What if she’s unconscious somewhere, and I’m not there to help her? “Mom!”
I open the door to the study and find Mom at her computer. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a big hair clip, and she’s still wearing her PJs, which is unusual since she’s usually up and ready before sunrise. Mom leans forward, and the wrinkles around her eyes deepen as she smiles at her computer screen, which is just inches from her face.
I let out a long breath, and it feels like I’m breathing for the first time.She’s okay.I lean my head against the doorframe, letting my pulse regulate. Paige and my mom are going to be the death of me. This was twice in twenty-four hours that I thought one or the other was in serious trouble.
Just then, Mom’s deep-brown eyes connect with mine, and she yelps.
Her yelp makes me yelp.
Her hand presses over her heart, and she takes out a pair of earbuds. “Jordan! Are you trying to scare me?”
“Scare you?” I step into the room. “You scaredme. I was yelling for you—why didn’t you answer?”
“Oh,” she says, “it’s this darn TV show Paige has me hooked on.”
My eyes widen. “You’re watching a TV show?” Never, in all of my memory, has Mom ever sat down to watch a TV show.
I squint at the computer screen, which features a paused image of a girl with a dirty face and tattered clothes. The island setting behind her reminds me ofSunsets and Sabotage—one of Paige’s favorite reality shows.
“Yes, Paige came over on Wednesday and made me watch an episode of this show with her. Now, I’m hooked. The brat.”
A smile breaks across my face.Paige, you brilliant thing, you.Just last week, I told Paige how I wished my mom would slow down and take a break. Rest and my mom aren’t exactly friends—they’re more like neighbors who only ever see each other on trash day. This TV show must have been Paige’s way of getting Mom to sit still for longer than it takes to down a bowl of expired cereal.
Mom places her earbuds in the desk drawer before standing slowly. Too slowly. Her hands grasp the chair for stability, and I can tell by the deep lines in her forehead that gripping the chair is taking a toll. Her pained response is worse today than usual, which means her neuropathy must be flaring up.
Many cancer patients who get chemotherapy typically experience some form of chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy, but most people’s symptoms fade in the months following their treatment. Unfortunately, as we’ve learned the hard way, Mom drew the short straw and is one of the few who experience neuropathy for years—if not a lifetime. While the intensity of her symptoms fluctuate from day to day, Mom’s hands and legs are frequently a cocktail of pain, numbness, andburning sensations, none of which are ideal for balancing on her feet.
I hold Mom’s elbow until she is fully standing. At five-three, she’s nearly a foot shorter than me.
“If you wanted my chair, you could have just told me,” Mom says. “No need to pull me out of it.”
