that. You worry about getting healthy again. Trust me to take care of the rest.”
“I do. You’re the only person I trust, you know that.” She looks at me. “Oh, honey, don’t look so upset. The only important thing is that you and I still have each other. That’s all we’ve ever had.”
I nod and reach over to take her hand. I think of a bill still sitting on my desk at home, the final invoice for my mother’s last round of treatments—the bill that Efram’s payment was supposed to cover. This will make a third recurrence of her non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma: Neither the first treatment (basic chemo, only partially covered by my mother’s bare-bones insurance) nor the second (an aggressive stem cell transplant, not at all covered) kept the tumors at bay for more than a year. When I recently totaled up the cost of my mother’s illness, we were approaching a high six-figure mark. This—her third round—will put us well into seven figures.
I want to scream. The stem cell transplant was supposed to have an eighty-two percent success rate; so I had taken remission as a certainty, because what were the odds that my mother would be that eighteen percent? Wasn’t that why I had nodded, so unblinking, at the boggling price tag for the transplant? Wasn’t that certainty the justification for everything I’ve let myself do over the past few years?
We were almost in the clear is what I think to myself now, as I turn over the engine and pull out into the traffic. It isn’t until I feel my mother’s cool hand on mine, tucking a tissue into my fist, that I realize that I’m crying. But I’m not quite sure what the tears are about: my mother, and the invisible tumors once again devouring her from within, or my own future, and how cloudy it once again seems.
* * *
—
My mother and I drive back home in near silence, her diagnosis sitting heavy as a boulder between us. In my mind, I am running through the what next of it all: The medication will be only the half of it, the cost of this round will certainly top a half million. Optimistically, I had no new marks lined up; how na?ve I was, to think I might be able to move on to something else entirely. Now I mentally run through the faces I still have bookmarked on social media, the princelings and celebutantes currently cavorting their way across Beverly Hills. I try to recall the ostentatious inventory of their Instagrams. Thinking about this gives me a nasty little sparkle, a lift of anger that helps me rise above my underlying weariness. Here we are, at this, again.
When we arrive home, I am surprised to see that Lachlan’s car is still parked in my driveway. There’s a movement at the curtain as we park; his pale face flashing behind the glass, and then he’s gone again.
When we get inside, I find that the lights are off and the blinds are down, casting my home into gloom. I flip on the light switch and see Lachlan standing behind the door, blinking in the sudden wash of light. He turns the light back off and pulls me out of the doorway.
My mother hesitates in the doorway behind me, and he stops to look over my shoulder at her. “Lily-belle, you all right? How’d those tests go?”
“Not so good,” my mother answers. “But I don’t feel like talking about it right now. Why are the lights off in here?”
Lachlan peers down at me, his face shadowed with concern. “You and I have to talk,” he says softly. He grabs my elbow and guides me toward the corner of the living room. “Lily-belle, you mind? I need a moment with Nina.”
She nods but moves toward the kitchen with glacial slowness, eyes glittering with curiosity. “I’ll make us some lunch.”
Once she’s out of earshot, he pulls me in close and whispers in my ear, “The police were here.”
I lurch back. “What? When?”
“Just an hour or two ago. Not long after you left to pick up your mom.”
“What did they want? Did you talk to