Her eyes are trained on her mom. Her thick lashes blink once, twice, then she opens her mouth: "How was today?" she asks, not looking at me. Her voice breaks the spell and I glance down at my hand suspended mid-air. Small drops of melted ice cream dot the counter.
I clear my throat, more from discomfort than actually needing to clear my throat. "Good. Your mom is a warrior, you know that?"
I keep spooning ice cream and glance up when she hasn't yet answered. Her arms are crossed and she's watching me. I get the feeling I've done something wrong. In her book, anyway.
"What?" I ask.
"I went to the store today and bought a fridge full of healthy food."
"Oh… okay." I guess ice cream was a bad idea.
"People with cancer need a diet rich in cruciferous vegetables. They need dark leafy greens and bright colors for antioxidants. No sugar." She points to the ice cream I wield like it’s a weapon.
I hear conviction in her voice, but there's a vein of desperation running through it.
I swallow my sigh and dip my head down so my eyes are on the counter. How can I tell her that I don't disagree with her, but at this point there isn't much a diet like she's describing is going to do for Faith.
Been there, done that—didn’t work. Faith’s cancer coming back a third time means it’s aggressive, and although I’m hopeful I can get her into remission again, it could all go south in an hour and we would have to change our plan.
After Faith's first diagnosis, I got on a first name basis with a farmer and his wife at the local farmer’s market. Every Sunday, Faith and I went and bought them out of vegetables and summer fruit. Faith hated juicing, but she pinched her nose and drank. I learned that adding lemon made it all more palatable.
Months later, she was declared cancer-free and we celebrated with ice cream.
And then it came back. Twice.
Autumn is seeing this all for the first time. She's coming here with guns blazing, ready to jump into action with acai berries and God knows what else. Faith and I are beaten down and scarred from previous battles, but Autumn doesn’t know that, and I don’t think Faith has told her daughter how much I helped around the house in the past.
I balance two bowls in one hand and one in the other, walking slowly to Autumn and handing her a bowl.
"I agree with you. And after this bowl of ice cream, you can start her on the diet you're talking about. Wherever you learned it, you're not wrong. But keeping her spirits up is just as important as anything else, so can you please let her enjoy this before you start giving her liquid spinach for dinner?"
Autumn takes the bowl, her eyes squinting at me in suspicion. "You know she hates spinach?"
I feel like there are other questions lying beyond that one. What she's really asking is, Do you know she hates spinach because you tried this with her already?
I feel it only fair to let her know just how close her mother and I are.
"I've been eating dinner with her for a long time, Autumn. It only took one time of me making sun-dried tomato and spinach-stuffed chicken to learn about her aversion." It's not a lie, that really happened. Still, I feel bad, because it's not the full truth. But it's what she wants to hear. I don’t want Autumn to know the juicing and healthy diet failed. Hope is important in cancer recovery, even if it’s the family member who carries the hope.
Relief trickles into Autumn's expression, and I feel a tiny bit better about my omission.
She steps aside and motions out the door. "I'll let you do the honors," she says.
I’m surprised she hasn’t kicked me out yet. It’s a big step in our new “friendship.”
I nod and smile, stepping through the back door and out into the yard. Faith looks over and eyes the bowls I'm holding, then her gaze moves over to watch Autumn step out and come to a stop beside me.
"A little treat to start this all off," I yell to her. "And then it's greens tomorrow. Doctor’s orders."
Faith comes over, a smear of dirt across the front of her shirt. She takes the bowl I have held out to her and pulls out the spoon. Then she dips her spoon into Autumn's bowl first, and then mine, taking ice cream from each of us.
She grins. "If I'm going to look like the Hulk from eating all those leafy greens, I might as well go out with a bang."
"Come on, Autumn, you know you have some good stories." Faith pushes her empty dinner plate out of her way and leans her forearm on the table. "Spill."
Autumn pushes a lone piece of zucchini around her plate. She made roasted vegetable enchiladas that were a thousand times more delicious than anything I made for Faith in all the time we've eaten together. I'm not sure what has shocked me more since I brought Faith home from chemo: Autumn's cooking ability—which she claims is just following a recipe, not real talent—or her inviting me to stay for dinner.
Autumn twists her lips and tips her head, looking at the wall behind me as she thinks. Her eyes light up, and she looks back down to me, then to her mother, her lips curling into a fond smile.
"There was a homeless man who hung out by a fountain near my apartment. Sometimes, if I was stopping to grab something to eat on my way home, I'd grab food for him too. Usually just the same thing I was getting. But this one Saturday morning I was on my way out to run an errand, and I asked him if there was anything specific he would like me to get for him, and…" She pauses, looking at us intriguingly. "Do you want to guess what he asked for?"
I look across the table at Faith, seated beside Autumn. She grins and says, "Condoms."
Autumn's eyes widen and I laugh. "Mom, for real?"
Faith shrugs. "Is it so farfetched?"
Autumn thinks about it. "I guess not. But … well, no. That's not what he asked for."
"My turn," I declare, making a show of rolling my shoulders and clapping twice, like I'm ready to go. "I think he asked you for a dozen eggs."
"Hah!" Autumn belts out. "No, but you're in the ballpark. He asked me for organic soy milk."
My mouth drops open. I was kidding about the eggs.
“Organic scmorganic, what’s the obsession with this organic stuff?” Faith bellows, and I grin. “If you tell me to go gluten free, you’re fired.”
Autumn’s brows knit together. “We may have to consider gluten free, Mom.”
I can see that the comment triggers Faith and I don’t want them to argue. I want Autumn to stay happy and carefree, so I quickly get back on topic.
"How did he keep it cold? The homeless guy?"
"No idea. But I did as he asked. And it made him happy."
Faith smiles and sits back, thawed since the gluten free threat. "That was nice. Better than the story you told me about that time the guy on the street in New York shoved a CD into your hand as you passed him and then Matt—"
"Oh, right, that was crazy," Autumn breaks in. She gives Faith a warning look. It's subtle, but I didn't miss it. There was a story there that she didn’t want me to know.
All I can think is: Who the fuck is Matt?
I stand, taking my plate with me as I go. When I make a grab for Autumn's plate, she reels her hand back too quick, pulling it from my reach without a word of explanation. Then she takes Faith's plate too but doesn’t make a move for mine.