She couldn’t imagine saying it out loud.
She closed her eyes, exhaled. Imagined—remembered—a little girl with wild red hair and chubby little hands and freckles like cinnamon flakes, reaching out for her, saying, Mama, I love you.
Cora had gone through so much. Lived when she could have died. She’d imagined her life a hundred different ways, practiced a thousand ways to atone. She’d imagined growing old, growing senile, laughing when she was supposed to cry, using salt instead of sugar. In her dreams, she’d seen Leni fall in love again and get married and have another baby.
Dreams.
In a breathtaking instant, Cora’s life crashed into focus, became small. All of her fears and regrets and disappointments fell away. There was just one thing that mattered; how could she not have known it from the beginning? Why had she spent so much time searching for who she was? She should have known. Always. From the very beginning.
She was a mother. A mother. And now …
My Leni.
How would she ever say goodbye?
*
LENI STOOD OUTSIDE the closed door to her mother’s hospital room, trying to calm her breathing. She heard noises all around her, up and down the hall, people hurrying on rubber-soled shoes, carts being rolled from room to room, announcements coming over the loudspeakers.
Leni reached for the silver metal door handle, gave it a twist.
She walked into a large room, separated into two smaller spaces by curtains that hung from metal runners on the ceiling.
Mama was sitting up in bed, leaning back into a pile of white pillows. She looked like an antique doll, with eggshell skin stretched too tightly across her delicately crafted face. Her collarbone peered out above the neckline of her oversized hospital gown, the skin on either side hollowed out.
“Hey,” Leni said. She leaned down, kissed her mother’s soft cheek. “You could have told me you were going to the doctor’s. I would have come with you.” She pushed the feathery gray-blond hair out of her mother’s eyes. “Do you have pneumonia?”
“I have stage-four lung cancer. Only it’s a sneaky little shit and has invaded my spine and liver, too. It’s in my blood.”
Leni literally took a step back. She almost lifted her hands to block her face. “What?”
“I’m sorry, baby girl. It’s not good. The doctor was not particularly hopeful.”
Leni wanted to scream, STOP!
She couldn’t breathe.
Cancer.
“A-are you in pain?”
No. That wasn’t what she wanted to say. What did she want to say?
“Ah,” Mama said with a wave of her veiny hand. “I’m Alaska-tough.” She reached past Leni for her cigarettes.
“I’m not sure they allow that in here.”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t,” Mama said, her hand trembling as she lit up. “But soon I’ll start chemotherapy.” She tried to smile. “So I can look forward to baldness and nausea. I’m sure it will be a good look for me.”
Leni moved closer. “You’ll fight it, right?” she said, blinking back tears she didn’t want her mother to see.
“Of course. I’ll kick this bitch’s ass.”
Leni nodded, wiped her eyes.
“You’ll get better. Grandpa will get you the best care in the city. He’s got that friend who’s on the board at Fred Hutch. You’ll be—”
“I’ll be fine, Leni.”
Mama touched Leni’s hand. Leni stood there, connected to her mother by breath and touch and a lifetime of love. She wanted to say just the right thing, but what would that be, and how could a few flimsy words matter in a cancer sea? “I can’t lose you,” Leni whispered.
“Yeah,” Mama said. “I know, baby girl. I know.”
*
Dear Matthew,
It’s only been a few days since I wrote to you. Funny how much life can change in a week.
Not funny ha-ha. That’s for sure.
Last night, as I lay in my comfy bed, in my store-bought pajamas, I found myself with a lot of things I didn’t want to think about. And so I found my way to you.
I don’t think we talked enough about your mother’s death. Maybe that was because we were kids, or maybe it was because you were so traumatized. But we should have talked about it later, when we were older. I should have told you I would listen to your pain forever. I should have asked you for memories.
I see now how grief becomes thin ice. I haven’t lost my mom yet, but a single word has pushed her away from me, created a barrier between us that never existed before. For the first time ever, we are lying to each other. I can feel it. Lying to protect each other.