Brody - Ellie Masters Page 0,14
front of the TV and took a shower to get ready for the picnic.
The cupcake was amazing, like they always were, and my five-year-old brain wanted just one more. Of course, the three tubs of cupcakes were up on the counter, but I knew how to push a chair close so I could climb up. I dragged the chair to the counter, climbed up, then stared at three containers of neatly stacked cupcakes. I only wanted one more.
Just one.
A smile fills my face as I remember Mom’s scream when she came back to the kitchen. I had tipped all three of the tubs onto the floor and sat in the middle of the entire mess with a half-eaten cupcake shoved in my mouth. She could’ve yelled. She could’ve punished me for ruining all the cupcakes, but my mom is a great mom.
She looked at the chaos, surveyed the destruction, then gave a shake of her head and sat down beside me right in the middle of the mess. She reached across me to grab one of the few intact cupcakes left on the floor.
“Well, I guess you really like cupcakes.” I’ll never forget her smile.
I giggled and finished off my half-eaten cupcake. It’s one of my fondest memories. She always knew how to turn something bad into something wonderful.
It’s a lesson I’ll never forget.
“The birds sung me to sleep.” Mom grips my hand and draws me from my memory.
“Did they?” I try to focus on the present, but my memories of her are too beautiful. I miss her already.
“Such a pretty song they sing.”
“I’m glad you got some rest.” It’s hard to drag myself from the past, but I do. She needs me now more than ever.
“Me too.” She shifts in bed all by herself, and I barely hold back a gasp of surprise. Today really is a good day. I can’t remember the last time she moved without help.
“I brought juice.” I lift the glass and wait for her to respond.
“That sounds wonderful.” She struggles; maybe she’s not all that strong after all. I hate the way the cancer saps her strength.
“Here, let me help you.”
With the difficulties she’s having drinking from a cup, I place a straw in her drink. I hold it for her until she can wrap her lips around the small tube. Her cheeks suck in, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I watch the calories go down her throat.
When we moved her out of the upstairs master suite and into the guest bedroom on the ground floor, we did it knowing what the future held. Uncle Mark and I removed all the furniture to open up the space and rented one of those adjustable hospital beds. I settle her into a better position, then place the remote in her hands. I try really hard to let her do as much as she can for herself.
Her frail finger presses the button to elevate the head of the bed, and she slowly transitions from lying flat to sitting semi-upright. Once the bed stops moving, I take the bed remote, and leave it where she can reach it.
“What’s your number?”
“Seven.” Her hand shakes as she brings the straw to her mouth. She’s lying, but that’s okay. I’ll play along. Out of her line of sight, I add another pill to the pile. The juice in the cup sloshes.
I want to help with her drink, but hold off. I’ve learned never to fill her glass more than three-quarters full. Surprisingly, none of it spills on her when she finally takes a sip.
“Let me…” I take the glass from her and exchange it with three pills. Two are pain pills. When she places them in her mouth, I give her the glass back. We do this several times until all the pills are gone and she finishes the last sip. “I cut some fruit for you. Do you want some?”
She presses a hand to her belly and I know she doesn’t feel like eating. Her eyes close and she takes a breath, but then she opens her eyes and tries to smile.
“I’ll try a little.”
Her answer breaks my heart. She’s too sick and fatigued to eat the most basic things but will try for my sake.
“Grape, strawberry, or melon?” I can probably encourage her to eat one bite, maybe two.
“Melon.” She opens her mouth and lets me feed her, as another piece inside of me crumbles.
“The doctor mentioned a protein drink. It’s supposed to taste good and