The Words We Leave Unspoken(27)
“Mom, I can buy my own groceries, ya know?”
“I know, but you don’t have a Whole Foods in Seaport. And Felicity just told me about this new tea that’s suppose to energize you and build-up your immune system. And of course, you can never have too many vitamins for the kids.”
I just stare at my mother with my signature closed-lip smile that I use only for her. She has recently become a vegan and is obsessed with her new lifestyle, not to mention her obsession with her spiritual advisor, Felicity. My mother has had several obsessions over the years. At one time it was knitting and Charley and I were showered with scarves, hats, sweaters, and an assortment of Barbie clothes made entirely of yarn. When she finally gave that up it was yoga and meditation, which led her to Buddhism. Our house looked like a shrine for eight months until she gave that up and moved on to something else. It was always something though. After my dad left, it had been men. Luckily, that phase had lasted only a year or so. My mother started out the perfect homemaker and mother, but once my father left, she crumbled. Most days she locked herself in her room, barely able to take care of Charley and I, let alone hold down a job. We got by on what little we had but I slowly grew to hate her. I can remember my anger building each day, resentment taking root as I watched her wallow in her weakness, while her daughters fought to be strong. But then one day, three years after my dad left, I came home from school and she was fully dressed with her makeup in place and the house was clean. She behaved as if she hadn’t abandoned Charley and I all that time, like it never happened. That same week she got a clerical job and life got better, but by then it was too late for all of us. Charley and I were robbed of the bond that so many of my friends had with their own mothers. At thirteen, I felt more like an adult, completely independent. And Charley felt more comfortable coming to me for things than our mother, who at that point felt more like a stranger. Since having my own children, my mother and I have grown closer and I can see her unfailing effort to be a good grandmother, as if she is trying to make up for lost time. I fear that Charley will never have a relationship with our mother, but then again, she doesn’t have a relationship with anyone, with the exception of me, John and the kids.
“Thanks Mom. You shouldn’t have,” I say, placing my hands on the counter and feeling like I need its support to stay upright.
“I don’t mind,” she says and then she pauses, sets down a box and looks at me.
“What’s wrong, Gwen? Are you okay? Maybe you should go lie down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Because Felicity told me I should check on you, but she wasn’t sure why. And now that I see you, I’m worried. Should I be worried?” she asks, with her hand on her hip.
My head is spinning from all her questions. Maybe Felicity’s not completely full of shit. That thought alone gives me the chills. But I certainly can’t confide in my mother before coming clean to John and so I say in my most reassuring voice, “I’m fine, really. Max just had the stomach flu, maybe I’m coming down with it.”
“Poor Max. You should really be taking probiotics. You could avoid these kind of things.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I deadpan. “Ya know, I think I will go lie down. You’re welcome to stay,” I call out behind me as I make my way toward the stairs.
“I’ll just put these things away for you and then let myself out. I’m having lunch with Susan Marcus and then heading back to the city. Feel better, honey.”
I pause on the bottom stair and turn to look at her as she blows me a kiss. “Thank you. Bye Mother,” I say with a subtle wave and then trudge up the stairs.
The next morning after school drop off, I drive to the clinic in Seaport, where Dr. Sheldan has set up my weekly appointments for my intravenous infusions. I’m relieved to not have to drive into the city every week for my treatment and I’m able to drive myself home afterward given the short three-mile distance. It’s easier to keep my secret this way, I think, and I instantly feel sick to my stomach for being so deceiving, for lying to John. It’s as if I’m having an affair with cancer, and for some reason I feel like it would be easier to confess having a secret lover then tell my husband the fatal truth.
I’m sitting in a comfortable chair, counting every drop of fluid as it is slowly infused into my bloodstream, and I am reminded of the grueling months of chemotherapy that I endured before. I always had John or Charley at my side to keep me company, but now I sit here alone, fighting back tears. I’m trying so hard not to feel sorry for myself, to stay positive, but then I think of the uncertainty of my future and I can’t fight the devastation that I feel.
I picture Olivia’s beautiful face and Max’s soft, chubby cheeks to gain perspective. This is for them. I can do this for them. I pull my iPad from my purse and begin my online search for the best nutrition plan, homeopathic treatments, and tips on dealing with the side effects during treatment. I realize that I’ve been feeling out of sorts because I can’t control this situation. But I feel a calm wash over me with every website that I research as I resolve to try everything possible, to do whatever it takes. After an hour of this, I type “how to tell your husband you have cancer” into the search engine. Surprisingly, there is an endless list of sites with advice for this very thing. Although it’s comforting to read other people’s struggles with cancer, it doesn’t ease my fear of telling John.