From a cabinet I pull out three small mismatched bowls. Just as I'm dropping the first scoop of ice cream into a bowl, Autumn walks in.
Her hair is still damp, the moisture causing it to appear even darker than its normal chocolate shade. Her face is slightly pink, probably from the hot shower she took. Certainly not because she's flushed thinking about my supposed beer belly. It's painfully clear the effect I used to have on her has disappeared.
I, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about what is under that towel.
She ignores me and walks to the door that leads outside, staring out at her mother. My ice cream scoop stops midway between the bowl and the carton. The afternoon sun shines off Autumn's profile, illuminating her face and my heart twists as I take her in. She is so familiar that my fingertips remember what it felt like to run them up her arms, over her shoulders, down the valley created by her breasts. But there are parts of her I don't know, a newness that intrigues me. Where she used to be narrow, her hips have taken shape more like the bottom half of an hourglass. Her cheekbones are more defined. On her face I see her strength, the determined set of her eyebrows, but fragility lives there too. What happened in New York that made her fragile? Or is it being back here that has done it?
Her eyes are trained on her mom. Her thick lashes blink once, twice, then she opens her mouth: "How was today?" she asks, not looking at me. Her voice breaks the spell and I glance down at my hand suspended mid-air. Small drops of melted ice cream dot the counter.
I clear my throat, more from discomfort than actually needing to clear my throat. "Good. Your mom is a warrior, you know that?"
I keep spooning ice cream and glance up when she hasn't yet answered. Her arms are crossed and she's watching me. I get the feeling I've done something wrong. In her book, anyway.
"What?" I ask.
"I went to the store today and bought a fridge full of healthy food."
"Oh… okay." I guess ice cream was a bad idea.
"People with cancer need a diet rich in cruciferous vegetables. They need dark leafy greens and bright colors for antioxidants. No sugar." She points to the ice cream I wield like it’s a weapon.
I hear conviction in her voice, but there's a vein of desperation running through it.
I swallow my sigh and dip my head down so my eyes are on the counter. How can I tell her that I don't disagree with her, but at this point there isn't much a diet like she's describing is going to do for Faith.
Been there, done that—didn’t work. Faith’s cancer coming back a third time means it’s aggressive, and although I’m hopeful I can get her into remission again, it could all go south in an hour and we would have to change our plan.
After Faith's first diagnosis, I got on a first name basis with a farmer and his wife at the local farmer’s market. Every Sunday, Faith and I went and bought them out of vegetables and summer fruit. Faith hated juicing, but she pinched her nose and drank. I learned that adding lemon made it all more palatable.
Months later, she was declared cancer-free and we celebrated with ice cream.
And then it came back.Twice.
Autumn is seeing this all for the first time. She's coming here with guns blazing, ready to jump into action with acai berries and God knows what else. Faith and I are beaten down and scarred from previous battles, but Autumn doesn’t know that, and I don’t think Faith has told her daughter how much I helped around the house in the past.
I balance two bowls in one hand and one in the other, walking slowly to Autumn and handing her a bowl.
"I agree with you. And after this bowl of ice cream, you can start her on the diet you're talking about. Wherever you learned it, you're not wrong. But keeping her spirits up is just as important as anything else, so can you please let her enjoy this before you start giving her liquid spinach for dinner?"
Autumn takes the bowl, her eyes squinting at me in suspicion. "You know she hates spinach?"
I feel like there are other questions lying beyond that one. What she's really asking is,Do you know she hates spinach because you tried this with her already?
I feel it only fair to let her know just how close her mother and I are.
"I've been eating dinner with her for a long time, Autumn. It only took one time of me making sun-dried tomato and spinach-stuffed chicken to learn about her aversion." It's not a lie, that really happened. Still, I feel bad, because it's not the full truth. But it's what she wants to hear. I don’t want Autumn to know the juicing and healthy diet failed. Hope is important in cancer recovery, even if it’s the family member who carries the hope.
Relief trickles into Autumn's expression, and I feel a tiny bit better about my omission.
She steps aside and motions out the door. "I'll let you do the honors," she says.
I’m surprised she hasn’t kicked me out yet. It’s a big step in our new “friendship.”
I nod and smile, stepping through the back door and out into the yard. Faith looks over and eyes the bowls I'm holding, then her gaze moves over to watch Autumn step out and come to a stop beside me.
"A little treat to start this all off," I yell to her. "And then it's greens tomorrow. Doctor’s orders."
Faith comes over, a smear of dirt across the front of her shirt. She takes the bowl I have held out to her and pulls out the spoon. Then she dips her spoon into Autumn's bowl first, and then mine, taking ice cream from each of us.
