“I went with her to her first appointment with the oncologist.” Colson’s voice is jagged and rough. “At that point, we had no idea what to expect. There was this feeling of fight and hope that she brought withher. Like, no matter what, she could take it. That’s how she’d been my whole life.”
A small smile threatens his mouth when he says, “I was so proud of her for how she walked into that appointment. The way she was ready to fight anything, head on, no questions asked.”
Even in the darkness, I can see his face drop. The memory of that day coming back to him.
“But it only took a minute with the doctor to understand how bad it was. They tried to soften it. Prognosis, timelines...”
My hand pushes through his hair slowly. I move the hair from his forehead, over and over, until I let my hand rest at the nape of his neck.
His words are rushed, like they’re trying to step on each other. “I had all these questions. I was grasping at straws. Thought if I had the right ask, we could find the answer. That’s how she always was.”
Sadness punctuates his explanation.
Colson presses his lips in a thin line, closes his eyes for a beat. “The doctor was softly letting me down. My mom squeezed my knee, shook her head, then interrupted me. She looked at the doctor and said, ‘Don’t whisper. I’m not afraid.’”
My chest aches, but I don’t interrupt. I don’t ask questions he’s not offering answers to. I simply hold him and listen.
“This is her house. I bought it for her. It was a few months before she got sick, so she never really got to use it. But she did the decorating…everything is exactly what she wanted. She wanted light,” he continues, quieter now. “Yellow cabinets. Big windows for natural light.” He swallows. “This place was never sad to her. I think that mattered.”
Colson has had a rough season. Not just in life, but if his mom died last fall, that would have been right around the start of the NBA season. He escaped here. To the place that his mom had such a heavy hand on… it’s her, with walls.
I wrap my hands around his arm closest to me and lean my head on his shoulder. He tips his head, resting on mine, and it feels like his exhaustion is wrapping around us.
“There aren’t words,” I say, quietly. “But I’d love to hear about your mom. Whenever you want to talk about her.”
”Thanks.”
We sit there for a while as the storm continues to rage. I’m going over our interactions from earlier this summer—how pissed and bothered Colson seemed. It was so much more than the stuff going on with this team.
I can’t help but think about that night at the beach. Him in the water. Us together, sort of like this.
I don’t know how long it’s been before Colson stands, pulling the blankets back on his king-sized bed, and lays down. I follow suit and when we’re both under the thin blanket, Colson lifts an arm.
We don’t say anything. Instead, I lay my head on his chest like it’s the only option. And in my mind? It really is.
I listen to Colson’s heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, as I do my best to calm my thoughts. And with every minute that passes, I melt deeper into him until sleep swiftly pulls me under.
twenty-seven
Colson
I’veseenbeautifulthingsin my life but this view may be at the top. Sadie is snuggled up to my side, one of her legs over mine, her head on my chest and her arm thrown over me. It feels like she’s holding me close–keeping me to herself–and I have to remember that she was sleeping and these were most likely subconscious choices.
Her dark blonde hair shines as the light hits it from the window. I soak in the moment of her breathing into me and the flutter of her dark eyelashes. Birds chirp in the morning and it’s quite the contrast from last night.
Last night.
Did I intend to spill my guts about my mom? No. Did it feel like there was another way? Not really. It felt very much like it was the time to tell the story. She was calling out all the things my mom would’ve loved to hear—would’ve been music to her ears—how light the house felt. Not many people know those details.
Even when I tried telling May, who was supposed to be the person who could help me through this, she kept telling me to stop. It was too sad. It wasn’t the right time. She’d always let me get to the opening pages of a story, details from a doctor’s appointment or a visit with my mom, until she’d wave me off.
She told me it was too much.
At first, I was kind of waiting for Sadie to find a way to end the conversation last night. But in the dark, with the storm pounding the house, it was clear she’d let me go for as long as I needed to. At no time did it feel like she was crowding me or waiting for the right length of pause to jump in and pivot.
I’ve been running from a lot for a while. Maybe this is also part of why this is hitting me so hard. I didn’t have many people to talk to about my mom’s diagnosis, the logistics of treatment, and—when it came to it–supporting her as she died.
Kevin did his best but it was so hard to open up. Especially after May kept making it feel like I was such a burden. My coaches kept tabs on what was happening, but at the end of the day, they were running a business and had a lot of shit going on with the team.
