“Sure, Bergman. Answer it right now, and you’ve got yourself a bet.”
I lift the card, hold it in front of his face and watch his eyes try to focus through a dazed expression. Leaning in, I place my lips to the shell of his right ear, careful to be as quiet as I can while loud enough to be heard. “Ten seconds, then you lose. Ten, nine…”
I whisper the countdown in his ear, my tits smashed into his back, my curls sweeping against his face. He takes a stuttering breath as his eyes narrow at me. He knows what I’m doing. Sitting up, Ryder rips the card out of my hand, but I just lean in closer as he stares at it. His chest heaves and I slide forward, basically hitching myself on his back. I rub his neck, sweep my fingers once more along his clavicles.
“Three…two…”
He smacks the floor.
“One.”
Ryder whips his head my way, fury sparking in his eyes. We’re nose to nose as I smile a slow, satisfied grin. “Class dismissed, Mr. Bergman.”
“Oh, Willa, you’re terrible!” Mama cackles and then fights a cough.
I wipe my eyes, my stomach aching from laughter. “You shoulda seen his face, Mama.”
Mama shakes her head. “Aw, honey. I think he likes you.”
My laughter dies off. “I don’t think so. He teases and yanks me around a lot. If he does like me, he has a funny way of showing it.”
Tucking a loose curl behind my ear, Mama smiles. “Maybe he’s scared. It’s quite human to lash out when we’re afraid.”
“What’s he have to be scared of?”
If anyone has cause to be afraid, it’s yours truly. I don’t date. I don’t trust men. Generally, I don’t even like them.
“Well, Willa, he’s deaf and he doesn’t talk, doesn’t sign. That has to be isolating, anxiety-inducing, at least sometimes. Have you ever tried living without all the auditory clues the world offers us to keep us safe, let alone being unable to express yourself to those around you?”
“No.” I frown. “Have you?”
Mama nods. “Years ago, one of my deployments, an explosion went off. My ears rang so badly, it was all I could hear for two days. I almost got myself hit twice by jeeps moving through base. I missed people calling my name. Forty-eight hours, and by the time I went to bed that second night, Willa, I was a nervous wreck, exhausted and frustrated.”
My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a fist so brutally tight, it’s about to pop from pressure and liquify. I’ve spent most of my time being angry or annoyed with Ryder. Not once have I really thought about what life must be like for him. I see him as capable and independent, adapted to his life. Beyond the consideration to speak so he can understand me, I don’t treat Ryder differently than I would any other cranky, muscly, bristly-bearded, flannel fanatic.
But that’s not exactly the same as empathizing, is it?
“No, sweetheart,” Mama says. “It’s not.”
I sigh. “I said that out loud.”
“Yes, you did. You’ve always been a verbal processor.” Patting my hand, then holding it, Mama smiles gently. “It’s one of my favorite things about you, how you wear your heart on your sleeve—”
“Do not.” I playfully brush her hand away. Mama clasps it again, her grip strong.
“You do. Your anger and your affection. Your love is as hairpin-trigger as your temper, Willa Rose. You love selectively and passionately. You fight only the wars that are close to your heart.”
After a beat of silence, I meet her eyes. “I don’t know what to do, Mama.”
She tips her head to the side. “About what?”
I shrug as tears well in my eyes. “Everything. The team, my grades, my future…him.”
It feels like an avalanche of emotions—all the pressure, the overwhelming anxiety, and expectation, collapsing my chest. I fall into Mama’s arms and cry silently. I let myself pretend I’m a kid again whose life is so much simpler, safe in her mother’s embrace as she rubs my back and soothes me.
“Thanks, Mama.” I swallow my tears finally. “I’ll be fine, I just get—”
“Tired,” Mama finishes for me. “It’s okay to be tired, you know.”
Something shifts behind her eyes when she says that. It makes me worried. I’m about to push that point when a knock precedes Dr. B walking in.
The guy’s such a dish. I get why Mama blushes around him. Tall, lean, he has a full head of wavy ginger-blond hair that reminds me of the roaring twenties, like a silver screen hunk. He has bright green eyes that I’ve always thought warm and genuine, and he’s clean-shaven as ever, smelling like some kind of manly aftershave and antibacterial soap.
I haven’t caught the guy in a while, so I take my chance while I have it. “Dr. Bezoozywhatsa-a-achoo!”
“God bless you,” Mama deadpans.
Dr. B pumps the hand sanitizer and gives me an unimpressed cock of his eyebrow. His actual last name is a European tongue twister. Bezuidenhout. Its pronunciation is not phonetic. I still don’t know how to say it. The first time I tried to read his name on her chart, Mama genuinely thought I’d sneezed. Now it’s our running joke.
“Wilhelmina.” He knows that’s not my name. It’s just his payback. Grinning, he offers me a fist bump which I meet. “Joy Sutter, looking joyous today,” he says to Mama.
Mama winks at me as she straightens her robe over her hospital gown. “Who wouldn’t be, when her daughter’s here for a visit?”
I slide off the bed, making space for Dr. B. When he steps closer, he turns toward me and kindly says, “Miss Willa, would you excuse us, oh-so-briefly? I have a confidential matter to discuss with your mother. We’ll only be a minute.”
My eyes narrow at Mama. She smiles brightly and waves her hand. “Go on. Buy me one of those sweet peach teas they never want me to drink.”
“Pure sugar!” Dr. B says playfully. “It’ll go straight to your hips, Joy.”
Only an oncologist and a veteran cancer patient could find humor in her sickly weight loss. I step out, shut the door behind me, and feel dread roll up my spine. I can’t think of any reason a parent kicks their kid out of their hospital room unless the news in that room is the kind you never want them to hear.
She’s dying.
I feel myself start to shake, fear clawing up my throat.
Inside the room behind me, both my mother’s and Dr. B’s laughter echoes. Who would laugh about death? About palliative care and end-of-life choices. Maybe Mama isn’t in danger after all?
Dr. B throws open the door, an easy smile on his face. “Have yourself a nice evening, Ms. Willa,” he says.
“You too, Dr. B.”
I know better than to ask him for answers. “Talk with your mother, Miss Willa,” he’s told me countless times. “It’s her prerogative.”
“What was that about?” I ask her. Mama’s tongue is stuck out, her eyes focused on her crossword.
“Oh,” she says on a sigh. “Some plans for a new experimental drug. Because it’s still in clinical trials, he can’t discuss it with other people in the room—blah, blah, blah. You know. Now come here, and help your old lady with a few of these words, Willa.”