I have an out-of-body moment then.
My mom is a regular at a chemo treatment center.
That’s beyond messed up. Why do bad things happen to good people? Why can’t some pedo get cancer and have his dick fall off? Why does my sweet mother have to be in this position? Instead of letting the anger rise up in me, I swallow it down and step away while Mom finishes up with the receptionist.
I glance at the wall between the rest of the hospital and the cancer treatment facility, noticing it’s made of glass, allowing for full view of the first floor of the hospital. Which, of course, means everyone out there can also see in here. Just as I'm thinking this, a woman passes by with a little girl, holding tightly to the child's hand. Our gazes meet briefly through the glass. Does she feel pity for me, the person on the other side of the wall? Does she assume it's me who needs treatment? Or does she not give me a second thought, too wrapped up in whatever has brought her to the hospital. It strikes me that unless you're coming to visit someone who has just had a baby, a hospital can be a scary place to be. Depressing, even.
And Owen spends all his time here.
I push the thought away. The tone of that thought was too softhearted, tinged on the outside in a warm, buttery yellow. Feeling sympathy for Owen does not align with my other thoughts about him.
Mom steps up beside me and nods at the front desk. "That's Sandra. She has worked in this clinic for as long as I've been coming here. Her first day was also my first day."
Damn. I don’t know why that saddens me so much, but it does. Does Sandra go home and think about my mom and all of the people who don’t get well and keep coming back here?
I'm not sure how to respond, so I say, "I don't know if that's cool or really sad."
Mom smiles. "A little of both, I suppose." She points at the wall across from us. "That artwork is new."
I follow her gaze. It reminds me of Picasso, bright and geometric. Does color equal an uplift in spirit? If so, I think that's what the interior decorator who chose the paintings was after.
It annoys me a little. Cancer is the reason everyone is in this room, and that's beyond depressing, and no amount of colorful artwork can cover that up. I know it's better than some drab room, but I'm in a mood to find a problem with everything.
"Faith Cummings," a deep voice calls.
A voice that makes my insides quiver.
I look up to see Owen standing at the door. He's dressed in gray slacks, a white shirt, and a tie. Over all of this, he wears a white lab coat.
A doctor. My freaking ex just had to go and become a doctor. Next, he’d take on a British accent and just top the cake.
My mom and I walk over to him and I can’t stop thinking about our little exchange when he came over for dinner. He smiles, but it's directed only at her, which annoys me.
"Since when do doctors do the job of nurses?" Mom asks, her tone a blithe teasing.
Busted.I loved that my mom called Owen on his shit. It was one of her best qualities.
"Melody was on her way to get you but I told her I'd do it." His gaze switches over to me. "Hello, Autumn."
"Hello, Owen."You handsome asshole.My response is stiff.
There’s a moment of silence where we should probably ask the other how their day has been going or something fake like that, but we don’t.
Mom's gaze shifts between us. "You two are beyond words."
We stare each other down for another moment, until Owen clears his throat. "Back this way," he says, pushing the door open with his hand and stepping back slightly, waiting for us to walk through first. As I pass Owen, my wrist hits his and an electric jolt zaps up my arm and down my spine, making my gut clench. Shoving my hand into my pocket, I ignore the way his accidental touch makes me feel.
I follow my Mom into the room and look around, trying not to stare at the recliners set up in rows. More specifically, I try not to stare at the people who are in the recliners.
"Faith!"
We all turn to an arm raised in the air. A woman waves and smiles. She's wearing a cap on her head, and a book lies open on her lap. Her other arm has an IV hanging out of it.
"Linda?" Mom waves.
"How do you know her?" I ask in a low voice.
"I met her the last time I went through this. She was on her first round." Mom frowns. "Looks like she's on her second now."
