“There, loads better. Keys and wallet are in the tray. Have the best first day, and text me if you need anything.” I spin him quickly by the shoulders and shove him in the direction of the door.
Theresa is waiting in the kitchen by the time I get downstairs. There’s a mug set out in the place I usually sit, as well as an assortment of breakfast foods. Ever since that very first sleepover, she’s always made sure there is an array of food available in the morning. She doesn’t mind if some days we have to grab and dash, as long as we leave the house with full stomachs and smiling faces.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t spike the tea. Come, sit.” She pushes the chair opposite with her foot, inviting me into what looks like a little bubble of discomfort,lovely.“Before I begin, you have to eat something. I won’t have you hearing this news on an empty stomach,” She nods toward the toast and spreads set out before us. I have no right to be as nervous as I am, not when I get the ominous feeling whatever news she has is worse for her than it is for me.
I managed one slice of toast and half the cup of tea before my stomach rolled in protest. Sickly anticipation has taken control of my body, seizing my throat and my words. I was so confidentin my demand last night. But now in the cold light of day, and with the way she’s watching me, I’m not so sure I want the truth.
“Look, you don’t have to–”
“I have ALS.”
Three words. That’s all it takes to completely shatter everything. She continues, “There is no cure, there is no hope that I will get better, and I’m telling you this because I know you will understand that.” Her voice is strong and unwavering, despite the devastating words she speaks. Her shaky hand wraps around my own, squeezing and infecting me with her warmth. The lump in my throat feels like it’s growing bigger and bigger with every passing second. The silence hangs heavy between us, begging to be broken. All I manage is a pitiful noise from the back of my throat; it’s the only sound I trust right now.
“Jules doesn’t know yet, but there will come a time when I can’t hide it from him. He’s going to need you, Zander. We both are.” She speaks the raw, honest, and ugly truth; they're both going to need me. She’s not asking if I will, she knows I would do anything either of them asks of me. What she’s really asking is if Ican.
The truth is, I don’t know. It's shameful, but I have no doubt it’s the truth she’s expecting. Death isn’t a stranger to me; it’s almost a companion at this point, always unwelcome and never missed.
“He’s not going to understand,” I croak out.
“I know.”
“How do I get him through this?”
“You love him, Zander. You love him like you always have. You let him know every day just how worthy he is of all that is good in this life. You laugh with him on the good days, and you cry with him on the bad ones. But most importantly, you stay by his side during all the ones in between.”
Her words ignite something within me. It’s not hope– that would be cruel and futile. This feels more like resilience and purpose, even if it is appalling. The fire in her eyes burns bright with a ferociousness only a mother could muster. She’s not thinking of herself; she’s past that point. She’s accepted what the not-so-distant future holds, and now she’s planning. Theresa is making sure that her son is protected and loved, even from beyond the grave.
The word alone sends my body stiff and rigid. The aura–as the therapist called them–of an impending attack dances on the edge of my vision, creeping in like a tidal wave of doom and despair. Small hands knead into my palms, and soft words reach my ears, beckoning me to come back, to not lose myself to the misery I know I managed to escape.
“Zander, stay here with me,” It’s a simple request, but it carries far more weight given Theresa’s earlier admissions.
Stay, Zander.
I screw my eyes shut and concentrate on the steady drip from the tap. The feel of dependable hands, warm and soft around my own. And the smell of crisp toast and lavender fabric softener. I’m reaching for anything and everything with my senses, trying to ensure the door to my past stays firmly closed.
“Keep talking to me, please,” I beg, not wanting to waste a single second that we have left. A soft hum fills the air, the melody of her sweet voice and the gentle familiarity of a song my mind pleads with me to remember, tugs at the dormant parts of my brain. The tender hum turns into words that feel almost native, like they’ve been floating in the deepest voids of my mind and are finally slotting back into place.
“This world makes you crazy, and you’ve taken all you can bear…” There is no hurry in which she sings, each word is savoured and wrapped in tenderness as they flow slowly and effortlessly from her mouth. “...Just call me up ‘cause I will always be there.”
The fog starts to lift as I cling to each word she sings. I can feel my mind grasping for the next line, but it's just out of reach. Instead of pushing myself, I let the unknown comfort wrap around me, soothing and lulling me back into the safety of the place I call home.
I keep my eyes shut long after the thoughts have receded, content in soaking up the affection Theresa offers through her song. It feels like an affirmation, a reminder of a message she had given me before.They have always been there.
As hard as I try to repel it, a vicious thought flashes through my mind, the one that says she won’t be for much longer. The woman who raised me as her own, who brought me into her home and showered me with love and peace, will be gone. Will it still feel like a home without her smile lighting up the room? Will I still be the same person? Will Jules?
“How long?” I don’t really want the answer, but I need the structure only time can offer. When everything feels so unreliable, time is the only thing I know I can depend on. It’s the only constant; it never changes, never stops, and no matter how hard we wish we could change its pace, it only moves forward, never back.
“Two years, three at a push.” I hang my head low, determined to match her bravery in the face of such cruelty. “Can you do this, Zander? I can’t leave him to face the world alone.” The tears are evident in her voice now; her throat forces the words past the sob stuck thick in her throat.
“I’ll be everything he needs, I promise.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jules - One year later
Age 19
The pub stinks like old men. Well, not all old men,obviously. The ones you end up sitting next to on the bus on a hot summer’s day. Musty, stale, and a lingering smell of urine. My face hurts from scrunching my nose tight. I don’t know how Zander can spend hours here every night. The ease with which he commands the bar and pumps is addictive to watch. He laughs freely with customers, inhaling the putrid scent as if it were fresh air.Definitely showering when I get home.
