The Names They Gave Us(39)

On Sunday morning, I oversleep. Yawns accompany my ambling walk around the lake, but I make it just in time. I’ve been in the chapel for less than a minute when it becomes undeniable: something is wrong. My mom’s smile is flattened, stretched into place. She kisses my cheek in greeting, and somehow even that feels terse—like a perfunctory air-kiss between political rivals. But otherwise, she looks good. Maybe a little tired. Her complexion, her weight, though—still healthy.

“Do you feel okay?” I whisper. We take the last pew as my dad welcomes this week’s church to the service.

“Fine,” she replies, not looking at me.

We walk back to the cabin after the service, and I babble to fill the silence. Maybe she’s experiencing some nausea from treatment but doesn’t want to tell me.

Finally, inside the cabin, I burst out, “Mom. What’s wrong?”

“I think I’ll have some tea,” she announces. “Do you want tea?”

“Um. Sure.” I mean, what else can I say?

I sit on the porch, dreading whatever news she might have for me. Maybe the chemo isn’t working. Maybe her system can’t take any more of it.

When she returns, she hands over my mug. The steam smells like bergamot—the soft, dark notes of Earl Grey. Two teabag tags flutter against her mug, twisting in the morning breeze.

“Two bags?” I ask.

“I need stronger flavor.” She waves a hand in front of her mouth. “I have this taste in my mouth, no matter how many times I brush my teeth.”

“Is it a chemo thing?”

A nod over her mug. “So. When we were home for a doctor’s appointment this week, your dad and I stopped by the grocery store.” Her tone is measured, intentionally even. “And we ran into Mrs. Pratt.”

She pins me with a look.

Oh crap. I attempt a pleasant, only vaguely interested tone. “Oh. How is she?”

“Well, for one thing, she’s very sorry that you and Lukas have taken a hiatus from your relationship. But thinks it’s for the best.”

Double crap.

“I played dumb, agreeing and mm-hmm-ing as your father became very interested in the nearby wine selection. Despite the fact that he does not drink.”

I can’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry. That must have been awkward.”

“Luce!” she says, pained. “Don’t be sorry. I just want to know why you wouldn’t tell me something that big.”

“I guess I thought we’d get back together immediately and you’d never have to know. I was embarrassed. And I didn’t want to worry you, on top of everything else.”

She takes this in, frowning at the thought. “This can’t be how we do cancer, Bird. I get to set the rules, I think, and my rule is that you don’t worry about burdening me. Fair?”

I nod, feeling foolish and unbearably young. “Fair.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

My sigh lasts for about thirty seconds. “I don’t even know. Lukas has been thinking about the future and wants to make sure this is right. Somehow he decided that involved ‘pausing’ our relationship.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. That must be so hard.”

That’s the troubling thing. Cancer is hard. The problems my campers face are hard. But . . . I’m not really upset about Lukas anymore. “You know . . . I’m actually okay. Which is not at all how I saw this going.”

“How did you see it going?”

“I thought I’d be shattered.” I thought my chest would ache every time I thought about him. “Part of it is that I’m so busy at Daybreak, I barely have time to think. But shouldn’t I be devastated? I thought we’d . . . I mean, I saw us going to college together, you know?”

“I do know.” Of course she does. How many nights have we sat on the couch, chopsticks burrowing into cartons of orange chicken, talking about every last one of my feelings?

“I assumed that he was it, and now it feels second nature to be happy without him. Which makes me feel insane. Like, were my instincts that wrong? Did I just get comfortable?”

Her lips press together, holding off the words for a moment. “Well, you change as you get older, especially at this time in your life. You become more yourself, hopefully. And sometimes that changes the dynamic, even with people you love. So it’s not that you were wrong. You were right for that time. But you grow up and you grow out of relationships. Even the ones you thought, at one point, might be forever.”

She seems awfully sure of this. Awfully specific. “Did you ever have someone like that, before Dad?”

My ears are already hearing the phrase Oh, don’t be silly, but her silence goes on for too long. It makes me jerk my head up to study her face, which has a knowing smile. No way.

“You know . . . ,” she says thoughtfully. “I did.”

“Wait, seriously?”

She nods, barely. It’s . . . wistful. But I can’t imagine my parents’ lives before each other. Their love is mythic—a story repeated to me as often as fairy tales. How my dad was working as a chaplain at the hospital where my mom worked. Their first cup of coffee in the cafeteria that she says felt as romantic as being in a Parisian café. I certainly can’t imagine her in a framed photo smiling in her wedding dress next to some other man.