Hope and Other Punch Lines(57)

“Abbi, sweetheart, please tell us how long,” my dad says, and the tremor in his voice betrays his calm tone.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Not long. Maybe about six weeks–ish? But it wasn’t so bad. I was going to tell you in the fall. I needed the summer. I wasn’t ready. Don’t hate me.”

“Of course we don’t hate you,” my dad says at the exact same time my mother says, “There’s a tumor.”

I feel the floor of my insides give way.

Turns out there’s a big difference between knowing and knowing.

“I thought we agreed we’d talk about the best way to approach—” my dad says, but my mom rolls right over him. There’s no containing her. Her anger bounces off the four walls; I can feel it, like a current.

“Do you have any idea what this means? Tumors grow. The earlier you catch them…Oh my God, you should have told us.” My mom is no longer whirling around the room. Instead she stops abruptly, and folds over herself. She reminds me of Sheila Brashard talking about her husband, but about a thousand times more hysterical.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “It wasn’t…I didn’t think.” I sound like a little girl. Maybe this is what dying is like. Moving backward through time until you’re not there anymore. Until you disappear from a room.

“We don’t know anything yet,” my dad says, and covers my mother with his body, folds himself directly over her, as if to bear her pain for her. “They need to biopsy. None of us should jump to any conclusions.”

“Right. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” I say. I’m fully aware of my own hypocrisy. We all know where this came from. We all know how this story ends. This part is not a fairy tale. From the first moment I saw blood, I’ve never for a second thought things could be otherwise. You don’t get to be a survivor twice. You don’t.

A tumor.

My mom shakes off my father’s embrace. Looks at me in the bed. Slowly scans the length of my short body from the oxygen tank to the tube in my nose and down to my feet. Shakes her head.

“I can’t do this again,” my mom says. “I’m sorry.”

And then she walks out of the room.





My mom calls me twenty-seven times. I send her to voice mail. Then she starts texting. Because of course she does.


Mom: PICK UP YOUR PHONE. PLEASE. I’m worried. You haven’t been home since YESTERDAY!!!

Mom: Noah! You can be mad at me and still give me the courtesy of telling me you’re not dead. I don’t ask for much.

Mom: Please text back two letters: OK.

Mom: I’m losing it. Seriously. Don’t do this to me.

Mom: I saw the news. Is Abbi okay? Are you? What’s going on?


Phil: You okay, bud? Your mom is really freaked out.

Phil: Noah? Please let us know you are okay. I’m worried too.

Phil: This isn’t funny. We’re your parents and we’re scared. Call. Text. Send a smoke signal. Anything.

Me: …

Phil: Those three dots mean you are there, right?

Me: Did you make a joke?

Phil: What?

Me: The smoke signal thing. That was a joke Phil: Sort of. Not a very good one. Are you okay? Feel free to answer in Morse code.

Me: Another joke Phil: I’m trying.

Me: I’m at the hospital waiting to see Abbi Phil: Your mom is a wreck. Been worried sick all night.

Me: Tell her I’m still angry Phil: She says she understands. You have every right to be.

Phil: For what it’s worth, she didn’t tell me either.



This unravels me. I think about my mom and Phil, how every night before bed, she slathers on her hand cream and he uses his Waterpik, and how, most mornings, she pours him his bowl of shredded wheat. I think how two lives can be braided together so tightly it doesn’t leave enough room for the truth.

Did she think he couldn’t handle it either? Or did she realize that by telling him and not me, I’d feel doubly betrayed when I inevitably found out? My brain feels like it might spontaneously combust. This day has held too much. I still have Abbi’s blood on my shirt.


Phil: Please come home tonight. You guys can talk this all out.

Me: Ask her if it’s true that he liked pickle sandwiches or if that was a lie too Phil: She says yes. 100%. She also says to tell you that your dad once entered a pun competition. She says that’s a real thing. Competitive wordplay.

Noah: What?

Phil: Apparently it’s kind of like improv. She said your dad sucked at it and didn’t get past the first round but it was hilarious and terrible and you would have loved it. She said she has a million more things she wants to tell you about him and that you need to come home to hear at least the first three.

Noah: I’ll be back later Phil: Good. He sounds like a cool guy. I’d like to know more too. Your mom needs to work on talking about him.

Noah: Is this still Phil?

Phil: Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve been in therapy for years. I’m very self-actualized.

Noah: This day has been very confusing





My dad and I are staring at a television screen mounted on the wall of my hospital room, not talking. We’re watching our second episode of Judge Judy.

“I’m in love with your mother,” he says, suddenly, breaking our uncomfortable silence. His voice drips with misery. My mom left about an hour ago. We have no idea where she went or when she’ll be back.