third fight, Autumn. It’s probably hard for you to imagine how tiring that is, but believe me when I tell you it’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done. Physically, mentally, emotionally. All of it. Having cancer isn’t a choice. I have no control over it. The one thing I do have control over is how the end of my life goes.”
A sob escapes my throat, but I swallow it down as she reaches for my hand.
“Baby girl, I don't want to spend my precious time chasing a maybe. Owen sent my scans to be looked at by colleagues at three of the top cancer hospitals in the country. They all said the same thing. Terminal.”
The sob I swallowed earlier is back up now and I can’t speak.
Terminal. That one word strikes fear into my heart like no other.
“I just want to be with you. And Owen. I want to grab coffee with Linda. Go to church on Sunday. Eat ice cream, gluten, and sugar. I want to drink wine in my back yard." Her eyes light up mischievously. "I want to take a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon."
My mouth drops open. "Mom, you're terrified of helicopters."
She smiles. "I know. Also, I want to see a show in Vegas."
I laugh, incredulous at the notion of my mom venturing out of her comfort zone and doing things she has refused to do for so long. The laughter dies in my throat when I realize it’s her bucket list. "You hate crowds."
"Right," she nods, the smile still playing on her lips. "Will you do those things with me?"
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. "Of course."
She wraps me in her arms, gathering me to her, and holds me while I cry.
Chapter 21
Owen
I can tell who is at my front door by the soft and hesitant knock. I'd also know who it was if the knock were loud and insistent. After what Autumn learned today, I'm anticipating a wide array of feelings. I’m glad she walked in on her mom and I having coffee and talking about stopping treatment. Now I don’t have to keep this secret from her any longer. It was killing me. I needed someone to share it with, and now that it’s out I can put all my energy toward being strong for her.
"Hi," Autumn says when I open the door. She looks tiny, shrunken by the weight of her mom's choice. I don't say anything. I just pull her over the threshold and into my arms. She presses her face to my chest, and when she draws back for a breath, her eyes shine with unshed tears.
“Come here,” I say softly, leading her over to the couch. We sit down, but Autumn looks uncomfortable. She’s facing me, her legs tucked underneath her, but she’s restless. She taps two fingers against her thigh in a quick beat, and I don’t think she knows she’s doing it.
After a moment, she leans in. “I need you," she whispers, her hand disappearing under my shirt and skimming over my torso.
Her request surprises me, but when I look into her eyes, I understand. The heartache I see there tells me all I need to know. She’s trying her damnedest to run from the pain, and as nice as it would be to sweep her up and run away from it with her, it won’t make a difference. Pain doesn’t disappear because you choose not to acknowledge it. Pain is a patient sonofabitch.
I take her hand out from under my shirt. “Autumn.” My voice and my touch are gentle.
As if her name was the key to the gates holding back her grief, they open and everything she was avoiding spills out. At first it’s her tears, followed closely by an anguished sob. I pull her onto my lap and wrap my arms around her quaking shoulders. She buries her face in my neck, and the saddest sounds I’ve ever heard are cried against my skin.
Autumn’s ache unlocks my own. My eyes burn, and salty tears slip down my cheeks, some spilling onto my lap and others soaking into her hair.
Autumn’s sobbing comes and goes, and I hold her through each wave. Time passes, I can’t tell how much because it feels insignificant in this moment. Eventually Autumn sits up, sniffling, and runs a forearm under her nose. Without a word she climbs off me and walks to the bathroom. The sink turns on and she blows her nose over and over.
While she’s gone,