stuck there.
"... that guy, Brandon... he likes you. He's my boss, sort of, and I need this job, kind of, but I'd love to."
I know I'm wearing a confused, unattractive grimace on my face right now.
"So is it a yes or a no?" I ask.
A cloud of annoyance covers his eyes, and I look away, down to his chest at his dark red nipples. I wonder what they'd feel like between my teeth. Oh my God, I've never ever wanted to suck a guy's nipples before. What's wrong with me?
"It's a no," he says. It feels more like a slap.
I'm going insane; it's the only explanation. I'm asking a gardener out on a date. And he said no.
"Fine, fine, whatever," I mutter, pick up his empty cup, and twirl around, sloshing my own, untouched coffee all over my dress this time.
It's too much. My mom is dying, I've barely slept, I'm not acting like myself at all, and now this guy is rejecting me. Tears blind me.
"I'm sorry." I think I hear him yell after me, but I'm already climbing back through the fence, sloshing more coffee all over myself. What was I thinking? I'm a mess. I should be with my mom, not chasing guys and wondering what their nipples taste like. Not asking gardeners out on dates.
CHAPTER TWO
I'm running up the stairs, intent on getting out of my dirty dress and spending the rest of the day under the covers.
"Gail?" Mom calls through the cracked door of her bedroom.
My heart stops, and my foot freezes in midair inches above the step.
Mom's voice sounds so shaky, so quiet. What if this is it? What if today I have to say goodbye?
"Yes, it's me," I croak out so silently she couldn't have heard me. I take a steadying breath and climb up the rest of the stairs. My legs are shaking, and I'm clutching my hands into fists. Why is it always like this? Why can't I just pretend that each day might not be her last? Why did the doctors have to put a number on it? Two months is a very short time. And each day I have less hope that they're wrong.
I relax my hands and push open the door. The French doors are open, and the breeze is blowing the white translucent curtains in and out. The breeze does nothing to chase away the smell of disinfectant, staleness, and the minty ointment that eases her cough slightly.
Her whole face, including her lips, is a pasty, sickly bluish white color, and the bright silk scarf she's wearing only serves to better contrast it. She smiles gently and lifts her hand toward me.
"Hi, Mom," I say and rush to take her hand. It's cool and clammy, but I don't mind. My hands are warm enough for the both of us. A year ago, we were running around Rome, the eternal city, laughing and exploring. She was fine then. Sure, she got tired rather quickly, but otherwise she was fine. And now she's dying.
"Did you just get in?" she asks. Her voice breaks a little on the question, but she manages to stifle a cough. "What happened to your dress?"
I glance down at the large coffee stain. I'd meant to change before anyone saw it, but she called me, and it might have been for the last time.
"Well, you know me. I'm a slosher," I say lightly.
"Looks like more than a little slosh to me." She chuckles, but it turns into a cough. I grab her hand with both of mine, the prickly ball of tears expanding in my throat.
She gains control of her breathing quickly though and squeezes my hand back. "It's not so bad today. In fact, I was just about to watch a movie. Want to join me?"
I nod excitedly. It's been a few weeks since my mom was well enough to sit through a movie. Today would likely be no different, but I don't dwell on it. "I'll just go and change," I say and stand up. "What do you want to watch?"
"I was thinking Titanic," Mom says, a grin spreading across her face. I only just manage not to roll my eyes. She likes her romantic movies, and I'm not about to disagree with her today.
I forgo the shower I'd planned to take, not wanting to waste any of the precious moments of Mom's lucidity. Some days, in the beginning, after
"... that guy, Brandon... he likes you. He's my boss, sort of, and I need this job, kind of, but I'd love to."
I know I'm wearing a confused, unattractive grimace on my face right now.
"So is it a yes or a no?" I ask.
A cloud of annoyance covers his eyes, and I look away, down to his chest at his dark red nipples. I wonder what they'd feel like between my teeth. Oh my God, I've never ever wanted to suck a guy's nipples before. What's wrong with me?
"It's a no," he says. It feels more like a slap.
I'm going insane; it's the only explanation. I'm asking a gardener out on a date. And he said no.
"Fine, fine, whatever," I mutter, pick up his empty cup, and twirl around, sloshing my own, untouched coffee all over my dress this time.
It's too much. My mom is dying, I've barely slept, I'm not acting like myself at all, and now this guy is rejecting me. Tears blind me.
"I'm sorry." I think I hear him yell after me, but I'm already climbing back through the fence, sloshing more coffee all over myself. What was I thinking? I'm a mess. I should be with my mom, not chasing guys and wondering what their nipples taste like. Not asking gardeners out on dates.
CHAPTER TWO
I'm running up the stairs, intent on getting out of my dirty dress and spending the rest of the day under the covers.
"Gail?" Mom calls through the cracked door of her bedroom.
My heart stops, and my foot freezes in midair inches above the step.
Mom's voice sounds so shaky, so quiet. What if this is it? What if today I have to say goodbye?
"Yes, it's me," I croak out so silently she couldn't have heard me. I take a steadying breath and climb up the rest of the stairs. My legs are shaking, and I'm clutching my hands into fists. Why is it always like this? Why can't I just pretend that each day might not be her last? Why did the doctors have to put a number on it? Two months is a very short time. And each day I have less hope that they're wrong.
I relax my hands and push open the door. The French doors are open, and the breeze is blowing the white translucent curtains in and out. The breeze does nothing to chase away the smell of disinfectant, staleness, and the minty ointment that eases her cough slightly.
Her whole face, including her lips, is a pasty, sickly bluish white color, and the bright silk scarf she's wearing only serves to better contrast it. She smiles gently and lifts her hand toward me.
"Hi, Mom," I say and rush to take her hand. It's cool and clammy, but I don't mind. My hands are warm enough for the both of us. A year ago, we were running around Rome, the eternal city, laughing and exploring. She was fine then. Sure, she got tired rather quickly, but otherwise she was fine. And now she's dying.
"Did you just get in?" she asks. Her voice breaks a little on the question, but she manages to stifle a cough. "What happened to your dress?"
I glance down at the large coffee stain. I'd meant to change before anyone saw it, but she called me, and it might have been for the last time.
"Well, you know me. I'm a slosher," I say lightly.
"Looks like more than a little slosh to me." She chuckles, but it turns into a cough. I grab her hand with both of mine, the prickly ball of tears expanding in my throat.
She gains control of her breathing quickly though and squeezes my hand back. "It's not so bad today. In fact, I was just about to watch a movie. Want to join me?"
I nod excitedly. It's been a few weeks since my mom was well enough to sit through a movie. Today would likely be no different, but I don't dwell on it. "I'll just go and change," I say and stand up. "What do you want to watch?"
"I was thinking Titanic," Mom says, a grin spreading across her face. I only just manage not to roll my eyes. She likes her romantic movies, and I'm not about to disagree with her today.
I forgo the shower I'd planned to take, not wanting to waste any of the precious moments of Mom's lucidity. Some days, in the beginning, after
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