Part 11

The most terrifying thing a child can hear from their parents is the sentence, "I have cancer."
The second most terrifying thing a child can hear is the sentence, "It's rare, and they don't know how long I have."
The third most terrifying thing a child can hear is the cries that follow.
I hug my weeping mother in tight arms. She pulls away, leaving her hands on my shoulders.
"I don't want you to worry about me," her words tremble off her tongue. All I can do is shake my head and provide relentless tears.
"No, Mom. I can't just not worry about you."
"You have school, Evan. You're a junior and you have college you have to think about."
"I don't care, Mom. I don't care. I don't care." I pull her quivering body into my quivering body. We share tears that will last a lifetime. I hold her in my arms until I feel weak. She grips onto my body like I'm the thing that will keep her alive. In some ways, I was the only thing that kept her alive.
I remember when I was eleven, my mother made an amazing meal for my father after his work. I watched her put loving effort into everything she made. My father was angry that night, and apparently the dinner was too cold. I remember running to my room scared. I remember my moms voice shout and beg for help. I remember walking out of my bedroom to see my mom in a disheveled heap. Tears streamed down her face and her body shook every second. My dad was towering over her with dominant anger. I stood there stoically, looking my father right in his eyes.
"Go to your room, now!" He shouted.
"No!" I shouted back. I knew he wouldn't do anything farther than what he already did to my mom. So he came stomping over to me. His mouth opened, yet words couldn't come to his mind. My father ended up brushing past my way and stormed out to the garage.
I ran over to my mom to check on her.

A few nights have passed since my mom told me the awful news. There hasn't been much of a change. She has been going to the doctor a lot and recently started chemotherapy, but she is still going to work. I'm still going to school, and everything is pretty normal. While putting away the dishes, a scream came thundering down the stairs.
My mom.
I quickly shut the dishwasher and go running upstairs. My mom is in her bathroom, over the toilet.
"Oh, Mom," I grab her back and help steady her. There's puke in the toilet. She starts grasping her hair and pulling out large chunks. The hair starts falling out. My mom's breaths become heavier, and she bawls. She starts shaking like she has no control over her body, and a waterfall flows out of her eyes. Mom's body shivers, and every part of her relaxes as she falls into me, crying.
"Mom," I say, looking up and holding my breath. Trying not to cry, I slowly let go a gulp of air and say, "You will be okay."
My mom's heartbeat is fast, and I can feel it on my chest.
When I wake up the next morning, I go straight downstairs.
"Hey, Mom." I say and sit across the island from her. She looks up at me and smiles. Her hair looks very thin today. I can't help but look away. I can't see her in this state.
"I'm still going to work," she says to me. I nod my head and grab cereal from the cabinet.
"That's good," I say while pouring Frosted Flakes in a ceramic bowl. I raise my eyebrows as I get the milk from the fridge.
"Evan," My mom starts to say something, but it quickly fades away.
"Yeah?"
"You need to know that even though what is happening right now is very unfortunate, you need to focus on your school."
There it is.
My mom always tries to look out for other people. Even when she's battling the worst illness, she still tries to look out for me. This is a time when my mom should be looking out for herself.
"Mom, I will. I promise I won't let my grades go down."
"All right," she says, smiling. I grab my coat off the barstool and say, "Okay, I love you. Bye." I give her a kiss on the cheek.
Now I'm on my way to school.
February is starting to approach. The only good thing is that the sun is setting later, but the coldness won't stop until March. A week has passed since the bathroom incident, and things have gotten a lot worse.
I come home from school, and my mom is already asleep on the couch. I make dinner for two of us now. I'm not that good at cooking, but I've learned a few things from her. My mom has gotten a lot skinner, and the hair on her head is now all gone; she's been wearing a scarf for the time being. My mom's vitality has withered away, and the nights we'd spent laughing are now the nights I pray alone.
I pray.
I've been praying. Religion has never been that major in our home, but I believe in God. My mom has been taking more and more time off work, and she has been taking medication. To be honest, I don't know much about what she's been doing. My mom hasn't been telling me much. As far as I know, she won't be working anymore either. I sigh and throw my book bag on the floor. I shake my mom's shoulder and say, "Hey, Mom." She doesn't move at all.
"Mom," I say a little louder. Her eyes blink open, and when she sees me, she suddenly jolts up.
"Mom," I say again, "Are you okay?"
She gulps, "Yes." She rubs her brow with her hand, she's been getting fevers a lot more lately. I walk away and start in the kitchen. Pulling out a microwave dinner, I sigh. Mom hasn't gone grocery shopping in a while.

It's been a month since I've been taking care of my mom. Everyday, I come home and cook dinner. She's asleep most of the time, but I tuck her in before I go to sleep every night. I've been cleaning the house and going to school regularly. The only thing that's changed is that she's only been going to work two days out of the week.
This evening, when I get home, I notice an envelope on the edge of the counter.
A bill.
It's our mortgage bill that mom didn't pay in February. I wonder how much money she's making right now. Certainly not much. And definitely not enough to sustain this house. I know if I get a job, my mom will talk me out of it. But the last thing we need is an eviction notice.
I drive to my local grocery store. Walking in, I see a few kids from my school. I ignore them, though. I walk up to the service desk until a person comes out.
"How may I help you?"
"I was wondering if you were hiring at all." The lady gives me a look of relief and says, "Yes, in fact, we are."
"Really?" I say.
"Can you start tomorrow?" She inquires. I reply with a yes, and she gives me a few papers to sign.
That was very easy, they must've been desperate. My interview is tomorrow, and they just need to ask a few questions. Other than that, I'm hired. It's already dark when I get home, and I slip the papers into my pocket.
"Mom?" I shout. She isn't on the couch. I hurry around the corner to my stairs. My bedroom light is on.
"Mom?" I say, rushing to my room. Before I even take a step into my room, she comes out with my bong.
"What is this, Evan."
Shit
"Mom, I can explain."
"No. No!" She sighs, "I will not have my son smoking during times like these. I know you think this might solve all your anxiety, but it won't!"
She's shouting now.
I shake my head and walk past her. Rubbing my hands on my forehead, I sit down on my bed.
"Stop, please," I begin to beg. Her voice just soon becomes incoherent because I can't stand her yelling at me right now. I don't want her to yell.
"Mom, Stop," I mutter. She sits next to me and tries removing my hands that are covering my face right now. I quickly move back.
"Mom, just fucking stop!" I yell.
I don't remember the last time I cursed at my mother. It must've been when I was five because a heavy silence just fell right after. I begin to speak, but she throws the bong onto the floor.
"You will not speak to me this way," She begins, "I am your mother and I will not tolerate this." She goes to my drawer and pulls out my lighter and the extra bud I had saved.
"I'm disappointed in you, Evan." She walks out my room.
I curse silently and tears well in my eyes. I turn my head up so I'm facing the ceiling and I ask, "Why?"
That night, I still climb out my bedroom window onto my roof. I don't want to cry, I just want to smoke. I can't now. So, I pray instead. Between the silence I share with the dark sky and the words that echo in my mind, a loud noise comes from the kitchen. I soon snap out of my prayer and climb back into my room.
"Mom! Are you okay?" I shout from upstairs. I run down the steps and my mom is on the floor unconscious. Running over to her, I pull out my phone to dial 911.
"Mom!" I shake her shoulders in the hope that my touch can yield some consciousness.
911 picks up.
"Hello, my name is Evan McAllister. My mom is unconscious and she has been battling cancer for the past month." For some reason, I don't even take into account what the person on the other side is saying. I just blurt out my home address while keeping my hands on my mom.
The ambulance gets here and the sirens and the voices all become indistinct. Everything seems to move in slow motion right now. Seeing my mom being wheeled out in a stretcher is like a knife to my most delicate bones.
I can't loose her now.
I remember the last time blue and red lights flashed in my front yard is when I called the cops on my father. This was one of the worst days ever. I don't remember why my dad was so angry, but I remember the words he screamed.
"I will kill you and your son of a bitch!"
My moms eyes were stained black and blue and a cut from her lip flowed out blood that leaked out onto the floor. I couldn't handle it anymore. I couldn't handle seeing her in pain every day.
Every goddamn day, it was the same thing.
He would just hit her and hit her for no reason. So I called the police while  chaos was happening in the kitchen. Police arrived, and I was only twelve, so I don't remember anything after that. It was just a big blur to me. I do remember my neighbor kept watch of me for a couple days, but mom came to get me on the weekend.
The words I spoke to her before she left with the cops were, "Don't leave me here."
The neon blue and red lights reflect off water streaming down my face.
"Don't leave me here," I say, quietly. I watch the ambulance turn down my driveway.
I can't loose my mom. After everything I've been through with her, I can't loose her.
I can't loose her.

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