It takes less than one minute for the mortification to set in. When I peer outside, Lukas is gone. I yelled. I said the F-word. But what can I do? Go back into the service? That will only draw more attention to my freak-out.
So I do the logical things: still in my church dress, I schedule a few videos for LucyEsMakeup, reorganize my entire vanity, and google “stage iii breast cancer.” Two out of the three are emotionally healthy choices.
By the time my parents get home, I’ve removed the last of my winter clothes from my closet and drawers. While I’m at it, I figure I might as well pull some items for donation. Around me, K100 the Path blares a song’s chorus: “He is more, He is more.” More than what? More than fear? More than doubt?
I’ve never asked these questions of the radio before. I’ve just sung along.
My dad pops his head in, and I brace for the lecture of a lifetime. Instead, he asks if I’m okay (yes) and if I’m hungry (no). But later, when I step out into the hallway on my way to reorganize the bathroom, I hear my parents conferring. Deciding my punishment, I assume. I can’t hear the words—just the low rumble of my dad’s voice and the calm, higher octave of my mom’s.
It’s not until I smell dinner—the savory scent of roast chicken, herbed and with rice—that my mom knocks on my door. “Hey, Bird.”
I glance up and then back to the lines I’m ironing into a pair of khakis. Another sensible choice—eliminating wrinkles from my closet can only improve things. “I’m really sorry about this morning. It won’t happen again, I promise. I just had the worst stomachache.”
Honestly, at this point, Saint Peter can just put that lie in my filing cabinet.
“Lukas said you were very upset.”
That Judas. An excuse slithers out of my grasp, like so much else. I press down hard on the thick chino, steam huffing out of the iron.
“Luce,” my mom says quietly. “Look at me. I know this is so hard.”
“You know, I’m really fine,” I lie. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Can you put down the iron and talk to me?”
“Okay,” I say, though my hands are twitchy—desperate to grasp on to something.
“Surgery tomorrow is going to be fine. We already got you excused from school, so you’ll be there for everything. And remember, I’ve had surgery before. I’m pretty tough.”
“Ha,” I say, because it’s an understatement. One of my clearest memories is the first time I saw her go into nurse mode in public. How instinctively she ran toward that hive-covered kid at Cracker Barrel. Toward his mom, who was too panicked to act. All at once, my mom’s calm voice, the EpiPen, the soothing words as she popped the needle into the little boy’s leg. Like it was an everyday thing. Because it is.
“Luce?” she says, nudging me back to her.
“Sorry. I’m really fine, Mom. It was just a lot to take in, finding out last night and processing. I didn’t want the whole congregation looking at me.”
“Believe it or not, I understand that very well.” Her voice is quiet, almost penitent, but she doesn’t apologize. “Well, dinner in ten.”
I want to follow her out of the room, to put my head on her lap as we watch TV, to sit at her feet while she does the dishes. I want proof of her in my sight at all times. But if I want to be treated like an adult in this family, I can’t act like a child.
So, instead, I reach for my Bible, a gift for my confirmation when I was twelve. My name glints across the cover, embossed in gold: Lucy Esther Hansson. In the back, there’s an alphabetical table of contents by subject. I can search for verses about anger, forgiveness, peace, zeal.
Under “E,” nothing is listed for Everything is falling apart.
CHAPTER THREE
On the first day of May, both my mother’s breasts are removed in a surgery that takes 3 hours and 6 minutes. She spends 2 days in the hospital. The doctor is happy with how it went, though he had to remove some lymph node tissue as well. We’ll have to wait for more detailed results as she recovers.
We watch 5 movies lying in her bed at home. She falls asleep during 4 of them, pain meds tugging her eyelids down.
I set a personal record as anchor for the Hammerheads’ 400-meter relay. For the first time, neither of my parents is there to see it.
I take 5 exams, attend 11 graduation parties, hand out 158 programs at graduation.
My mom receives 8 bouquets of flowers and more casseroles than fit in our refrigerator.
We order takeout 7 times anyway.
She has 3 follow-up appointments. Zero are explained to me; all I’m told is, “That’s how cancer goes. It’s routine.”
I take 8 sips of cranberry juice mixed with vodka at Mallory’s graduation party, just to see what happens. What happens is that it tastes disgusting and I get really sleepy. Lukas drives me home in stony silence.
The world moves twice as fast. Or twice as slow. It’s hard to tell when it feels like you’re watching your own life instead of living it.
During the month of May, Lukas asks me 14 times if I’m okay. I lie 14 times.
I kiss him twice as often, at least. Maybe to prove I’m okay or maybe because it feels like the world might be ending or maybe because I’m just trying to feel not-alone.
He takes me on 5 dates, an attempt to take my mind off everything. After an afternoon at the aquarium, I slip out of my shirt on the couch in his parents’ basement. Just to see what happens.
What happens is that Lukas goes along with it, but seems silly-embarrassed afterward.
Three times, he tries to mention trusting God’s plan. The last time, I stare out the passenger’s-side window and whisper, “Please don’t.”
My dad gives 8 sermons, 2 each Sunday. He cancels at least 10 evening events that I know of—everything but the Saturday weddings. He putters around, inventing chores to keep busy.
Every night, I play piano before bed. It’s a place between waking and sleep, where I don’t have to think in words. Most nights, my dad works on his laptop beside me in his favorite armchair. Keeping me company or trying to feel not-alone—I’m not sure.
My mom has 2 more follow-up appointments. She waves me off, saying they’re tracking her blood cell counts—it’s routine. My dad stares at his reheated casserole, pushing it around with his fork.
I start 0 college applications. I receive more than 30 brochures. The pile on the hallway table is stacked like bonfire kindling.
We have all 4 Friday movie nights, as if nothing is different.
I record only 2 videos for the makeup channel, both while my parents are at doctor appointments. One is a waterproof eye makeup tutorial for when you’re going somewhere—a sad movie, say—where you might cry. Smiling into the camera, I refer to the look as “perfect for wedding criers.” I can’t bring myself to mention funerals.
I cry in only 3 places: in the locker room shower at the swim club, in my bathroom with the fan on, and in the car alone.