The Names They Gave Us(8)

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.

Every single night, I stare up at my bedroom’s speckled ceiling, wondering if God sees me. Wondering if He feels even a little bit bad.

I try to pray more times than I can count. But it won’t come. Something that has always been as easy as speaking now feels like reciting lines.

For the first time in my life, I consider that I am being looked down on by no one, by nothing.

The verdict comes in on the penultimate day of the month, a sunny Saturday. Or maybe that’s just when my parents deign to tell me. They need to tell the congregation in the morning, before we leave for camp this week.

It’s still in her lymph nodes. Six cycles of chemotherapy that we’ll drive home from camp for once a week. My mom won’t be able to help kids at camp or be school nurse next fall—too dangerous for her feeble immune system.

Between the two of them, they tell me 5 times that everything will be fine.

I know?, I reply.

Everything will be fine.

Except I have seen behind the curtain now, and the wizard is only a man.





CHAPTER FOUR

The morning before we leave for camp, my mom finds me in my room, deep into one of my new coping mechanisms: organization! In this case, I’m sitting on the floor, surrounded by exact packing piles of clean laundry. To me, this is progress! A practical use of my fretful energy! Based on my mom’s expression, however, this may look like very sad preschool circle time: me on the carpet, surrounded by obsessively ironed stacks of clothing.

She sits on the edge of my bed, studying me with a soft look on her face. “Hey, honey.”

“Hey. Everything okay?” Her first chemo treatment isn’t till next week, but you never know what other ugly news will snake its way into our lives.

“Fine! Just fine.” She clasps her hands on her lap, settling in. “Listen, I got a phone call from Rhea Mills this morning.”