Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(2)
Author: Jen Frederick

“It doesn’t make sense to go. We’ll need the money.” Her voice is curt and final.

“I never liked Vermont anyway.”

No one in her right mind is against taking a tour of a world famous ice cream factory. But we aren’t in our right minds any longer. We’re straining hard, trying to keep the tide of disappointment and despair from flooding our minds and bodies. Or at least I am. I sit up straighter because if Mom needs me to be the shield for her, I will. I’d take every last drop of her cancer inside me if I could.

I can’t help but make more comparisons to last time. Three years ago, when we made this same ride after similar news, she was fierce and determined. “I’m going to kick cancer’s ass,” she told me. The only time I saw her cry was when her hair started falling out.

Today she has no pithy fight words nor does her expression show anything but defeat. My heart stutters, and Dr. Chen’s words follow each ragged beat.

Mental wellbeing is as important as physical wellbeing.

“We’ll go when you feel better.” I pull her against me and try to avoid the sharp ache of anxiety at how frail she feels already. “I’ll let you eat all the ice cream you want.”

It’s not a very good joke, but usually she’d give me a little poke in the side to acknowledge my effort.

To my dismay, she turns her face into my shoulder to muffle a big, watery sob. Sunny Sophie has no happy thoughts today. Tears prick my own eyes, and I close them tight in an effort to try to keep all the worry and fear inside me. I get as close as the scooped seats of the bus allow and hold her trembling body for blocks, the cacophony of passengers getting on and off covering the choked sobs of my mother.

Cancer survivor.

Cancer sufferer.

“What did Dr. Chen say to you?” she finally asks, breaking away from my embrace. She wipes her face with a tissue and looks out the window, avoiding my eyes.

“He, ah…” I clear my throat because my feelings are blocking my ability to speak. “He said we needed to move. That you’d have a hard time with the stairs.”

When she says nothing, I continue, “I’m going down to the Housing Authority tomorrow. Dr. Chen wrote me out a note that will help us get into a building with an elevator—exigent circumstances.”

There’s another muffled sob and I can see in the window reflection that she’s pressing her fist against her mouth. The other passengers are beginning to notice and look away, not wanting to catch whatever grief we’re not handling well.

“We make too much money,” she finally chokes out.

“What’s that?”

Her head swings toward me, and in her gaze I see guilt. Lots of guilt.

“I already looked. Because I worked this year, we make too much to get public assistance and not enough to move.” She presses her lips together but they tremble with the effort.

“When did you . . .” I trail off. If she looked, then she must have had some inkling she was sick again. “When did you know?” I ask accusatorily.

“A couple of months ago,” she admits.

“A couple of months?” I screech, bringing curious glances our way. I lower my voice to a hiss. “You’ve been sick for a couple of months, and this is the first time you’ve gone to a doctor?”

“I hoped it would go away,” she says defensively. “The last thing we need is more medical bills.”

Hearing this makes me crazy angry, and I know that it is not the right emotion to be expressing right now, so it’s my turn to avoid her eyes. If I open my mouth now, I’m bound to say something I regret.

“I’m sorry, Tiny.” Tears flood her eyes, and she begins to weep again.

The sound and sight of her grief destroys my anger. Be her shield. I gather her close, ignoring her struggles to push me away. “No worries, Mommy,” I whisper. “We’re going to be alright.”

She says nothing but continues to cry, and no matter how hard I hug her, her tears won’t quit. By the time we arrive at our stop, she seems to have run out of water and all that is left are dry, shaking heaves. I help her off the bus, trying to shut out the pitying glances that are cast our way as we exit.

By the time we walk the half block to our apartment complex, she’s already breathing heavily. As I unlock the exterior door, she stares at the staircase as if it is some giant mountain, too big for a mortal to ascend. The stairs between each level are split in half so that there are six stairs and then a square landing and then six more to reach the next floor. That’s sixty in total that we walk twice every day. Sixty stairs that must look like Mount Everest to my mom.

“Come on,” I encourage. “We’ll take it a few at a time.”

She smiles wanly and takes my hand. We walk up to the first landing and she’s leaning heavily against me. The next twelve steps are taken with determination, a spark of Mom of old. But at midpoint between the second and third floors, she collapses and I barely react quickly enough to keep her from tumbling backwards.

Heart racing, I sit my butt on the edge of the second floor landing and pull her against me. She’s trembling and crying.

“I can’t make it, Tiny,” she sobs out. “I’m not going to make it.”

I pretend she’s only talking about the stairs. Only the stairs. My eyes are wet too, but I’m going to get her upstairs to the apartment. And when she’s lying down and resting, I’m going to make a phone call. I crouch in front of her. “Climb on,” I order.

“No, Tiny,” she protests but after a moment realizes that there are no options for her—I’m not leaving her here in the stairwell. Her slim fingers curl around my shoulders, and I begin the laborious task of carrying my five-foot-six-inch, one-hundred-and-forty-pound mom up the last three flights of stairs. I’ve never been more grateful than at this moment that I’m a bicycle messenger because if it weren’t for the fact that I bike dozens of miles a day, I never would have made it to the fifth floor.

By the time I reach our apartment, my thighs are burning and I’m gasping for air like I’m on the last mile of a marathon. “See, easy peasy,” I tease her when I’m able to catch my breath, but it’s not enough to generate a smile. She looks defeated and stumbles into the bedroom to collapse.

She’s asleep before I can tug off my shoes and get her a glass of water. Setting the full glass by her nightstand, I pull out my phone and dial up a number.