Brody - Ellie Masters Page 0,13

tray down with fresh-cut fruit, a handful of pills, and three tiny chocolate bars; whatever I can do to entice her to eat.

She doesn’t answer my knock. I give it a second, then head inside. It’s bright and airy in her room. The gauze curtains billow in the light breeze blowing through the windows, and a shaft of sunlight spills through the open French doors. The chirps of birds tickle my ears as they frolic in the birdbath outside her window. I try to do as much as I can to make her last days as peaceful as possible.

Not really asleep, her rest is fitful, but it is rest. I take what I can get, focus on the positives.

Mom taught me that.

I’d love to let her enjoy drifting in the moment, but I learned the hard way not to let her miss a scheduled dose of pain medications. I did that, accidentally, one too many times. If I can keep her levels even, she manages the pain. Skip even one dose, and the pain magnifies. Fives turn to tens, and we have a hell of a time beating back the pain to simmer at a seven or eight.

It’s been weeks since her pain’s been a five. She sits around seven and eight constantly, although I think she’s lying to me. After setting down the tray, I sit beside her and take her hand in mine. The skin’s nearly translucent with thin, blue veins easily seen. There’s the bruising from the IV they placed last week. There’s always a bruise marring her delicate flesh. Like the rest of her body, the veins in her hand are fragile and tend to ‘blow.’ That’s what the nurses call it when her IV fails. Her hand is cold, limp, and weak. I’m holding onto the shell of the woman I’ve loved my entire life.

I hate cancer. I hate everything about it.

“Mom…” I thread my fingers with hers. “You need to take your pills.”

She doesn’t respond and there’s that hitch in my throat. It lasts a second before I realize she’s still with me. I hate that sinking feeling when my stomach drops and my breath catches. I’ve had months, a little more than a year, to prepare myself. Every time I think I’m ready to accept the inevitable, a moment like this comes along.

And I know.

I’ll never be ready to say goodbye.

She stirs and takes a breath. “Cupcake?” Her eyes open and a smile curves her lips. “I was dreaming about you.” A tear rolls down my cheek at the nickname. She and my uncle are the only ones who call me that.

It’s well deserved and comes from the Great Cupcake Massacre. I was five at the time, precocious and determined to be as grown-up as possible. Mom signed up to bake six dozen cupcakes for the church’s 4th of July picnic. She included me in everything, and I helped stir the batter, pour the milk into the mix, and set out the tiny paper cups to load up with batter. There wasn’t much else I could help with, but I worked hard to do what I could. My reward for being such a good worker was the coveted prize of the very first cupcake that came out of the oven. To this day, I remember the mouth-watering aroma of the batter baking and Mom’s smile as she pulled the first batch out of the oven. I remember her setting the hot tray on the counter and telling me not to touch it.

Which I did.

How could I not?

Of course, I burned my fingers and we had to deal with that. Meanwhile, my reward, that hot, delicious cupcake, grew cold.

I cried.

I cried because my fingers hurt. I cried because my cupcake was ruined. I cried when my mom tried to make it all better by allowing me to put the icing on my cold cupcake all by myself, like a grown-up.

Which I did and made a terrible mess of my cupcake, myself, the counter, and the floor when I dropped my cupcake and watched it tumble to land upside down.

I bawled my eyes out.

Mom soothed me.

I felt so bad. We weren’t going to make the picnic.

She never yelled at me, just finished icing the cupcakes, and then loaded them with great care into these big plastic cupcake containers. She replaced my cupcake with the very last one, placing extra icing on top for such a well-behaved kid. I ate it while she set me in