Mom’s text sits on my screen, casual and normal, like she’s asking me to pick up groceries instead of asking for coffee before they pump poison into her veins in the hopes it might buy her a few more months.
I start the car.
The cafe is busy with the morning rush, and I wait in line thinking about anterior capsule laxity and the way Roman’s breathing changed under my hands. Clinical observations. Professional concerns. Nothing more.
Except it is more, and pretending otherwise is just another kind of lie I’m getting good at telling.
Mom gets a vanilla latte with an extra shot. I get nothing because my stomach is already twisted into knots that have nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the fact that I’m attracted to my patient and my mother is dying and I don’t know which problem I’m less equipped to handle.
When I pull up to Mom’s house, she’s waiting on the porch in the wig she hates but wears anyway because “looking sick makes people treat you like you’re already dead.” She’s thinner than she was two weeks ago. I can see it in her wrists, in the way her jeans don’t quite fit anymore even with a belt.
“You brought the good coffee,” she says, sliding into the passenger seat with the careful movements of someone whose bones hurt. “You’re my favorite daughter.”
“I’m your only daughter.”
“Which is why the bar is so low.” She takes a sip and closes her eyes. “God, that’s good. How was your morning?”
“Fine. First session with the captain.”
“The one you popped back together during your interview?”
“That’s him.”
“And?” She’s watching me now, with that mom-radar that can detect bullshit from three counties away.
“And nothing. He’s a patient. I’m his PT.”
“Marnie.”
“What?”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re thinking about something you think you shouldn’t be thinking about.” She pauses. “Is he attractive?”
“Mom.”
“I’m dying, not dead. I can still appreciate that you’re attracted to someone.” She says it matter-of-factly, like she’s commenting on the weather instead of discussing her own mortality. “It’s been three years since David. You’re allowed to notice when men are attractive.”
“It’s not appropriate,” I say finally. “He’s my patient.”
“Is it against the rules?”
“It’s... complicated.”
“Everything’s complicated.” She takes another sip of coffee. “But you’re already lying to yourself about it, which means it matters.”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I drive, and Mom lets it drop because she’s too tired to push.
The cancer center is the same as always. Too bright, too clean, too full of people trying not to look at each other because acknowledging someone else’s illness means acknowledging your own. Mom checks in at the desk while I find seats in the waiting area, and I pull out my tablet to start documenting Roman’s assessment.
Except all I can think about is the way his skin felt under my hands. The way his breathing changed. The way he looked at me when he said “no witnesses.”
I’m still thinking about it two hours later when they finally call Mom back, when I hold her hand while they insert the IV, when the poison starts dripping into her veins and she closes her eyes and pretends to sleep so I won’t see her cry.
Two worlds that can’t be allowed to touch.
