promised now, which meant that as much as I hated it, Colt had to wait.
“Ms. MacKenzie—” Mr. Halsen wiped invisible dirt off his thick-rimmed glasses.
“Mr. Halsen, I was a kid in these halls when you first took over. Call me Ella.”
“Ella, I know you’re on your way to yet another appointment—”
Breathe in. Breathe out. Do not snap at the principal.
“But when you get back, we need to discuss Margaret’s attendance. It’s impacting the quality of her education, and we need to have a real discussion about it.”
“A discussion,” I repeated, because if I said what was actually on my mind, it wouldn’t reflect well on my kids.
“Yes. A discussion.”
“On Maisie’s attendance.” Like I gave a crap about kindergarten attendance. She was fighting for her life, and the man wanted to discuss if she’d missed the day where they’d discussed the virtues of K being for kangaroo?
“Yes, a discussion on Margaret’s attendance.”
For an educator, I would have thought he’d have another word.
I looked down at Maisie, whose forehead puckered in her trademark whatever look that I recognized all too well…since it was mine. In sync, we looked back to Mr. Halsen.
“Yeah, we’ll get right on that.”
After chemo. And scans. And nausea and vomiting. And wiped-out blood counts. And everything else that came with a kid whose own body had turned against her.
…
Two hours later, we sat in the San Juan Cancer Center, me pacing at the end of the exam table while Maisie kicked her legs back and forth, battling whatever iPad app she’d chosen for the day.
I was too keyed up to do anything but wear out the floor. Please let it be working. My silent prayer went up with the million others I’d sent. We needed the tumor to shrink, to get small enough that they could attempt a surgery to take it out. I needed all these months of chemo to have been for something.
But I also knew how dangerous the surgery would be. I glanced at my tiny daughter, her hot-pink beanie with matching flower standing out against the white walls. The panic that had been my constant companion these five months crept up my throat, the what-ifs and what-nows attacking like the sanity-stealing thieves they were. The surgery could kill her. The tumor certainly would kill her.
“Mama, sit down, you’re making me dizzy.”
I took a seat next to her on the wide side of the exam table and placed a kiss on her cheek.
“Well?” I asked as Dr. Hughes came in, flipping through something on Maisie’s chart.
“Hi, Doc!” Maisie said with an enthusiastic wave.
“Nice to see you, too, Ella.” She raised her eyebrow. “Hiya, Maisie.”
“Sorry. Hi, Dr. Hughes. My manners have run away screaming lately.” I rubbed my hands over my face.
“It’s okay,” she said, taking the spinning stool.
“What do the scans say?”
A soft smile played over her face. My breath caught, and my heart slammed to a stop, awaiting the words I’d been longing to hear and yet was terrified of since this all began five months ago.
“It’s time. Chemo has shrunk the tumor enough to operate.”
My little girl’s life was about to be out of my hands.
Chapter Seven
Beckett
Letter #7
Chaos,
I’m sitting in the hallway of the Children’s Hospital of Colorado, with a notebook propped up on my knees. I would tell you what day it is, but I honestly can’t remember. It’s been a blur since they said cancer.
Maisie has cancer.
Maybe if I write it a few more times, it will feel real instead of this hazy nightmare that I can’t seem to wake up from.
Maisie has cancer.
Yeah, still doesn’t feel real.
Maisie. Has. Cancer.
For the first time since Jeff walked out, I feel like I’m not enough. Twins at nineteen? It wasn’t easy, and yet it was as natural as breathing. He left. They were born. I became a mother, and it changed me in the very foundation of my soul. Colt and Maisie became my reason for everything, and even when I was overwhelmed, I knew that I could be enough for them if I gave them everything I had. So I did, and I was. I ignored the whispers, the suggestions that I give them up and go to college, everything, because I knew that there was no better place for my kids than with me.
I might have a few issues, but I always knew that I was enough.
But this? I don’t know how to be enough for this.
It’s like the doctors are speaking a foreign language, throwing around letters and numbers