“Mind telling us where you been?” Raeanne said.
The room stilled while Gordon stared her down. “Yes. I would.”
Raeanne didn’t push him.
Ruth flicked the light switch, and we were enveloped in darkness. The room quieted. I listened to the others’ faint inhalations and exhalations.
“Your partner is here to encourage you if yo need it, to keep you on track,” Ruth said. “Now please close your eyes and keep them that way for the entire exercise. Focus on my voice and what I am telling you. If anyone has any final questions or concerns before we begin, voice them now.”
“Good luck,” Jeremiah whispered.
“You too,” I whispered back.
He smiled, then closed his eyes. Somewhere in the trailer knuckles cracked. I shivered in the heat.
“Picture your mother or father,” Ruth said in a hypnotic tone. “Envision the color of their eyes, the wrinkle between their brows, the curve of their smiles, the cut of their teeth. Think about the physical detail you love most about this person’s face.” She paused. “Now think about the detail you like least. Is the smile more of a sneer? Are the teeth overly yellowed? Are the eyes hard, disapproving? Capture this person’s face in your mind. Imagine he or she is sitting across from you, that you’re touching Mom’s or Dad’s or whatever-you-called-them’s knees. Can you picture them?”
“Yes,” someone whispered.
“Good.” Ruth lowered her voice. “Now think of a bad memory of that parent. Don’t strain yourself. It doesn’t have to be the worst of your memories, although it can be.”
The date popped into my mind before Ruth had finished speaking: January 12, 2017. I’d spent the final hour of my afternoon shift at Corrigan’s being called unimaginative slurs by a few day-drunk college kids after I ignored their pickup lines. I drove home, drained. It had been five years since I’d dropped out of college. All I’d managed in half a decade was to jump from bar to bar around Scottsdale, hoping the tips would be more generous at the next place. They never were.
Fifteen minutes later I was back in Tempe. I parked my car in the driveway and trudged through the front door of our house, fuming over the poor decisions of my past. Standing in the foyer, I sighed at the peeling wallpaper and months of bills stacked on the chipped console table. I tossed my purse on the floor and padded to the kitchen, stopping short when I saw Nat hunched over the dining table. She was wiping it down with a rag and antibacterial spray.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“This used to be my house too.”
I glanced at the oven clock. “I thought you’d be at work.”
“Mom had her doctor’s appointment today, remember?” she asked, irritated that I wasn’t thinking about the exact thing she wanted me to at any point of every day. It must have slipped my mind, I wanted to snap, when three of my patrons started chanting the C-word at me. But I didn’t say a thing because Nat would have snapped back, You know where you wouldn’t get called the C-word all the time? A hospital, if you’d finished your degree. Or an office job. She was constantly on my case about getting out of bartending.
“I left early to come hear the results.” She eyed me wearily. “She’s in the bathroom.”
As if on cue, Mom emerged from the hallway, ghostly and grim. “I’m so happy to see you girls.” She’d spent a lifetime forcing smiles across her face—I considered how tired her cheeks must be. I was exhausted for her.
Nat quit cleaning. I stepped forward. “Did you get the biopsy results?”
Mom glanced back and forth between us, trying to delay answering. My stomach turned. “You may want to sit down.”
“Mom, come on,” Nat said. “What’d the doctor say?”
We stared at our mother. She squirmed, squinting at the ceiling.
My world tipped sideways.
She sighed. “It’s cancer. I’m sorry, girls.”
A wail escaped my throat. I darted toward my mother and clutched her—an already-thin woman shrinking ever smaller. Nat collapsed into a chair.
Mom caressed my hair for a while, sniffling. I let the tears fall, burying my nose in the colorful scarf she wore every day. The three of us stilled in the kitchen, waiting for something to happen, for someone to tell us how to go on. It had to be Nat. It was always Nat.
She cleared her throat at the table. When she spoke, I could tell without peeking that she was trying not to cry. “What are the treatment options?”