Now it’s my turn to stare at her. “I can’t believe you just said that. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. I’m trying everything I can think of to do right by Hope. I got a job. I haven’t seen any of my friends all summer, and when I have, it’s like they’re freaked out they’ll catch the fucked-up-life disease from me. Meg is gone. She’s gone, Mom, and she’s never coming back, and it’s all my fault.”
With no warning, all the bullshit inside me forces its way out in violent, hyperventilating gasps, and I’m suddenly reaching for my mom as she gets up from her chair, rubbing my back like she did when I was a little kid.
Goddammit. Today was supposed to be a good day.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Mom whispers. “Let it out.”
I don’t know how long we stand there like that, but eventually the shaking subsides and my lungs start working again. I pull away, slowly.
“Sit,” Mom says.
I do.
“Talk to me,” she says. “Please.”
And I do.
It’s not like any of it is really news to her—she obviously knows all the major plot points of the story. But I’ve never told her the little things about Meg, the things I loved most about her, like how she used to concentrate really hard on what the teacher was saying in class, as if she was eager to soak up as much knowledge as she possibly could. Or how she used to talk me into letting her braid my hair when we were alone and how she used to laugh at how ridiculous I looked when she was done. Or how she was the only person I’d ever seen eat ice cream (okay, sugar-free, organic frozen yogurt—Meg wouldn’t have eaten real ice cream) out of an ice-cream cone with a spoon.
I’ve never told her how Meg was always pushing me to track down Michael, how she thought there was some big question mark in my head where my dad’s face should be.
I’ve never told her that sometimes when I look at Hope’s face, really look at her, I feel sick to my stomach because she looks so much like Meg that it’s like being haunted by a ghost.
I’ve never told my mom how much I hate myself for how everything turned out, how much I regret having sex with Meg without a condom, knowing she had cancer and that things would be bad if she got pregnant, and how I should have pushed harder for her to have an abortion. Even if it meant Meg hated me forever, I should have done whatever it took to make her think of herself for once, to stop her from sacrificing herself like this.
But I tell her now.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, Mom. Everything was supposed to be fine. Meg promised me! She was so sure she was going to make it.”
Before she got pregnant and after, during chemo and post-chemo, right up until the end, Meg never once believed she was going to die. And if I’m being honest, despite all our fighting about her decision to stop her treatment, deep down she had me convinced of it too. I really did believe she would make it through…right up until that horrible day late in the sixth month of her pregnancy when I looked at her face and realized pieces of her were already gone.
All Mom says is, “It’s okay, Ryden. It’s all going to be okay.” Even though I know she’s wrong—it won’t all be okay—it’s the best thing she can say to me. Because she’s not trying to contradict me or tell me it isn’t my fault or any of that crap. She’s letting my feelings stay my feelings. And I love her for it.
Mom deserves to know I’m not completely in denial and that I actually do think about our situation. “I called Grandma and Grandpa.”
She nods. “They told me.”
“They said they would send a hundred dollars.”
“That’s nice.”
There are a few moments of quiet. Oh, fuck it. Might as well tell her everything.
“And I went to Meg’s house to ask her parents to help pay for day care,” I say in a rush.
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “You did? When?”
“Yesterday.”
She stares at me, clearly waiting for me to elaborate.
“They didn’t come to the door. They were home though. They saw me. I know that for sure.”
Mom lets out her breath all at once. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand it. I know they hate me and blame me and all that, and I know they probably blame Hope too, and that’s why they’re acting like this, but those people have more money than God. Why wouldn’t they throw us a few grand to make sure their own flesh and blood is being properly cared for?”
“They’re complicated people, Ryden,” Mom says.
“Yeah. No joke.”
Complicated, yes. Crazy, yes. But if they truly loved Meg—and I believe they did; they were always doing whatever they could to help her get better—why wouldn’t they want to see Hope? I don’t care if she reminds them so much of her that it hurts. I don’t care that it’s easier not to deal with any of it.
I could have put Hope up for adoption and moved the fuck on. But I didn’t. I couldn’t just erase Hope and Meg from my life. I made the hard choice, because it was the right one. They should have to too. Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?
Or is that just another thing I’m wrong about?
Mom walks over to the sink and rinses out her coffee cup. I glance at the clock. It’s already nine. Practice is starting. I have to be there.
But Mom’s not ready to let me go yet.
“Ryden?” she says.
“Yeah?”