I turn off the ignition, and the motor dies. Get out, Sera. Get it over with. It could be negative. Everything might be fine. Remember the power of positive thinking.
Gritting my teeth, I reach for the door handle, then immediately withdraw my hand. The sooner I know, the sooner I can deal with it whether it’s positive or negative. So why can’t I make myself get out of the vehicle?
I should have brought someone here with me; should have told someone, at a minimum. That way when I leave here after, I could’ve called them to tell them how it went.
I’ve never felt more alone, and it’s probably because I am.
“Thanks again for letting me reschedule on you.” I set down the tray of coffee, pulling out a red plastic chair next to Chloe in the Communications common area. There’s a regular latte for me instead of decaf sitting next to hers, which is how you know things are dire. I’m tired in the way sleep won’t fix. Even my bones are weary.
“No problem. Is everything okay?” Her dark brows tug. “Not to be nosy, it’s just… you look like you’ve been crying.”
Concealer can only hide so much, and it can’t camouflage the fact I had a half-hour crying session in my car when I got to school. It’s makeup, not magic.
“Um, well—” my voice cracks, and so does something else. I don’t know how or why it happens, but suddenly, everything I’ve been holding back breaks free in a torrential downpour of emotion. All of the fear; uncertainty; hope; doubt; sadness; grief; worry; anger. I haven’t even scratched the surface when it comes to the last one, and I’m terrified to find out what’s beneath.
Tears overflow, spilling down my cheeks as sobs wrack my chest. Embarrassment adds to the intensity of everything else I’m feeling, and I’m sorely tempted to run away, lock myself in a bathroom, and drop Creative Writing so I don’t have to see Chloe ever again. Who has a meltdown in the middle of the foyer? We’re surrounded by people, and all of them are staring.
“Sera. Oh my gosh. Is there something I can do?” Chloe hands me a handful of tissues, scooting her chair closer in an effort to partially block me from sight of everyone else. My nose is pouring snot, I can’t catch my breath, and my mascara is running into my eyes.
“No, it’s just—” I gasp. “Medical. Mom. Cancer.”
She touches my arm. “Your mom has cancer?”
I nod, burying my face in my palms. For weeks, I’ve been repressing everything, and now that I’ve started crying, I can’t seem to stop. It’s like the floodgates opened earlier today and everything keeps gushing out.
“Here.” She gathers our things and helps me stand, carrying the tray of coffee for me. “Let’s go somewhere else where there are fewer people around.”
Chloe leads me down a hallway I’m not familiar with, into another, older building that’s connected to the one where we just were. With another left-hand turn, we’re sitting on a bench near a bunch of vacant classrooms. She gets me a bottle of water from the vending machine and sits with me as I cry, saying nothing. In a strange way, it helps. Even not talking, having someone hold space for me is surprisingly comforting.
Once I’m finally calm enough to speak in full sentences again, I glance up at her. “Thank you. And I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—I don’t know where that came from.”
There’s sympathy across her face as she looks at me over her white plastic cup. “Can I ask what kind of cancer she has?”
“Breast cancer. Stage three. She’s undergoing treatment and she’s doing really well, but they found she tested positive for BRCA1.”
The last piece of information hangs between us; words I didn’t mean to say. I’m not sure if Chloe even knows what BRCA means, but the way her face immediately falls tells me she does. Or at least, she must know enough to know it’s bad.
“Oh my god, Sera. I am so sorry.”
I grind my molars together, swallowing hard. Validation is comforting and upsetting all at once. “I got tested to see if I’m a carrier today, and now I have to wait to get the results.”
In other words, my entire future hangs in the balance and it’s literally a coin toss.
“I can’t even imagine. No wonder you’re upset.” Chloe’s expression shifts into recognition. “Wait. Can I ask—is that what the poem was about? Sorry, I just put two and two together and…”
Sniffling, I dab at my nose with a soggy tissue. I pocket it and take out a new one, wiping my eyes. “Yeah, it is. Speaking of that, I wanted to tell you I entered the contest with that. So thank you for all your help.”
“You did?” Her voice brightens. “I’m so happy to hear that. I’ve got my fingers crossed for you. It’s a strong piece. I mean, I think so anyway.”
We sit and talk for a few more minutes. She tells me how her father is in remission for prostate cancer, and knowing she’s been through some of the same things makes me feel a lot more understood. It’s a strange role reversal being the one to worry about your parent as a child. It’s stressful and confusing, and people who haven’t experienced it don’t understand.
When Chloe has to leave for her next lecture, I’m calm enough that I can safely drive home. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have driven to school. While I wasn’t crying then, my brain definitely wasn’t all there.
She wraps me in a hug before we part ways. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay? Anything at all, even if it’s just to bring by food or if you need someone to talk to.”
“Thanks, Chloe. I appreciate that.”
As I walk to my car, all I can think about is the fact Chloe showed me more care and consideration than a so-called friend I’ve known for more than half my life, and I’ve known Chloe for less than two months.
Having a meltdown at school must have been somewhat cathartic because my mental state improves marginally after that.
After I get home, I collapse into bed and take a two-hour nap. I sleep like the dead, and when I wake up it almost feels like a new day—which is fortunate because I agreed to go watch the guys play tonight at Northview Arena.
I poke my head out of my room to find the house empty. I’d forgotten how superstitious hockey players are. Apparently, Chase, Dallas, and Tyler have an elaborate game day routine that starts the moment they wake up, stretches into the afternoon, and carries them all the way to puck drop. My brain took a mini-vacation when Chase tried to explain the specifics, but I gather that it involves a pre-game nap, a meal at a specific restaurant, and a handful of assorted other eccentricities. Hence why they’re not home.
Tyler is allegedly the most superstitious of them all, as goalies tend to be. That probably explains why he’s been distant all day via text. His stress levels show some days more than others. He hasn’t been playing along much with twenty-one questions today, and I’m trying not to take it personally.
I microwave some leftover spaghetti and meatballs, then check my missed texts from when I was asleep. There’s one from Abby I promptly ignore without reading it, and another from Bailey confirming our plans tonight.