The other end goes silent, which my mother never is.
“Ma?” I ask, closing my laptop and focusing on her completely. “Did you hear me?”
A muffled sob stabs me through the heart.
“When does it end?” Mama cries softly. “He’s such a good man. For him to bear so much . . . Dios ten piedad.”
I can’t do this. I can’t be the one to comfort her, to listen to her pain. I ha
ve my own pain. And it is not time to indulge tears. There is too much road ahead of us for me to submit to tears right now. They’re corked, and like a bottle of champagne, when that cork pops, they’ll overflow.
“Mama, I have to go.”
The silence again. This one stiff. Hurt.
“Banner, I know this is a lot for you, but you must talk to someone. You cannot be strong all the time. You will break.”
Not yet, I won’t. She didn’t see his face creased with agony after the bone marrow biopsy. She hasn’t caught him staring blankly at the stranger in the mirror with the shrunken frame or witnessed his helpless anger when the diarrhea is so bad he has to wear adult diapers just to leave the house. A man so proud, so regal, brought so low. I’ve seen Zo’s cracks and know how close he is to breaking.
No, it’s not time for me to cry. I don’t get to break yet.
“Mama, I’m fine.”
“You’re not wavering, are you? I mean in your love for him. I know it is hard to see the man you love so weak, but you are not a fragile woman.”
“No, I’m not fragile.” I leave the love alone. I do love Zo, probably more than I ever have, but I know what kind of love it is, what it should always have been.
“I’ll come back up soon,” Mama says. “I’ll cook all his favorites.”
“He can’t keep anything down. I make him vanilla smoothies with a little pineapple. That’s about all he can tolerate. Everything else just comes back up.”
“He loves pineapple and you hate it,” she says with a little laugh. “Surely there’s something I can make for him or maybe I could . . .”
I feel her fix-it from here. I get it from her.
“Mama, just come,” I say softly. “You don’t have to do anything or try to make it better. Zo loves you. That’s it. He doesn’t get to see many people because his immune system is shot, and he would especially love to see you.”
“I just want to do so much.” Tears soak her voice. “He cannot die. I’m praying. I go to Mass. He is in God’s hands. Tell me you believe he will be okay.”
My faith is a coin toss. Heads. Tails. Fifty-fifty.
So I do for her what I do for myself every single day. I toss the coin in the air, hope for the best, and make myself sound certain of things over which I have no control.
“Mama, I believe.”
34
Jared
So this is what twenty years with the same woman looks like. With the right woman. My father and stepmother literally glow when they’re together. I saw it the first time he brought her home, and twenty years later, they’re just as bright.
I never resented Susan West marrying my dad. Losing my mother took something from him, made him sad in a way I thought would never go away. With Susan he was happy again, and that was all that mattered to me.
Also, she made a mean pot roast.
“Oh, Jared,” she gushes, one hand over her mouth the other hand holding the tickets to Hawaii I gave them as an anniversary gift. “It’s too much.”
My dad catches my eye and silently mouths, “It’s not too much.”