On the drive to the hospital, Mom listens to the kind of music you'd hear during a spa treatment. It makes me think of white sheets and heated massage tables, aromatic body scrubs and the padded footfalls of technicians.
Oh, how I miss the spa days in Manhattan with my roommate. Now I was doing my own pedicures to try to make my savings account stretch out until I found a job.
My mom places a hand on my arm as I steer the car toward the parking lot.
"Just drop me off up front, hon."
I look in the rearview mirror and let the car slow to a crawl. "You don't want me to walk you in?"
She bats a hand in the air. "I'm perfectly capable of walking in by myself. You go do whatever it is you need to do and just pick me up after."
"Are you being a teenager? You're embarrassed of me so you want me to drop you off where your friends can't see you with me?" I crack a smile to let her know I'm joking.
She laughs. "Precisely."
I do as she asks, rounding the circular driveway and stopping the car at the entrance. "I'll pick you up here when you're done."
She gathers her bag and pauses with her hand on the door handle. "You're going to make a good mom one day."
A lump immediately forms in my throat and again I’m thrown by her random sentimental statement. Has she been talking to Pastor Greg or Owen? No. Somehow I know that they would never tell her. My mom is just in a sentimental mood for some reason.
"I learned from the best."
She gets out of the car, and I watch as the automatic doors slide open and she walks through, the hospital swallowing her.
You're going to make a good mom one day.
The words have hit home. With that one sentence, my mom has reopened the possibility that I could become a mother, and it's nearly too much for me to bear.
Instead of leaving the hospital, I pull into the parking lot, sliding into a space, and cut the engine. I lean back, melting into the seat, and prop my arm on the door.
Me, a mom one day? Do I deserve it? Do I want it?
Yes and yes. All this time, I've been punishing myself for a choice made long ago. It was a choice so huge, it eclipsed all others. But what if it's time to stop punishing myself? The bravest thing a person can do is forgive, right? I've always believed that, but I'd never extended it to me personally. Never realized just how much I was withholding it from myself.
But what if I don't have to anymore?
Owen and I have been given a second chance. Can we make it count? Will the universe, God, whoever it is pulling strings, be so kind as to give us a take two?
My mind races. Excitement takes hold in my belly, in the place where maybe a life could be growing. My fingers flutter over my flat stomach.
Owen and I are new—but not really. We've hurdled the beginning of a relationship already. We're more than ready to have the talk, the one where we figure out if we're willing to go the distance.
I know I am, and I think—
Wait. What the hell?
Thirty yards away, my mom and Owen exit the hospital, walking out of the same door I watched her walk through five minutes ago. They stop, he points across the street, and she nods. Together they walk down the sidewalk, press the walk button at the small intersection in front of the hospital, and cross the street.
I back out of my space and drive in the direction they've gone. My mind's reeling wondering what the heck they’re doing. I'm stopped by a long red light and I don't see where they've gone, but I have an idea. A line of shops sits directly across the street from the hospital. I bet they've gone into one. But why?
The light turns and I make my way across the intersection, taking inventory of each store as I cross the street, and pull into a spot in front of a dog groomer. To the left is a sushi restaurant. To the right, a coffee shop.
Maybe my mom's appointment was pushed back and Owen took her for a coffee while she waited. That's probably it. The bunched-up muscles in my upper back uncoil. Of course Owen would do something so kind for my mom.
I laugh softly, embarrassed at my worry. Why did I jump to the worst thoughts? They're not keeping anything from me. They're getting coffee, for heaven's sake, maybe even a danish. I know how Owen likes to indulge my mom.
Honestly, I wouldn't mind a danish right now. I grab my purse from the back seat and decide I'll join them and tell them how silly I was, acting like a detective. They'll laugh.
I pull open the door to the coffee shop. It's tiny, just enough room for the counter and machines, and seven tables with two chairs each. Mom and Owen are at the back, up against the wall. A picture of Italy hangs on the wall above them.
Owen's hand covers my mom's palm. They are so engrossed in the conversation they don't see me approach. My excitement fades as something darker, a sense of foreboding, overtakes my happy feeling. I’ve just read Owen’s lips, and he said, Faith, I’m so sorry.
"Mom? Owen?"
They turn to look at me in perfect unison, like they are mirror images of one another. The same surprise in their eyes, the same wetness on their cheeks.
And I know. Somehow, in this moment, I know. The fear lurking in the back of my mind steps out from the shadows. I recognize the fear, because I saw it in Owen's eyes twelve hours ago.
"Last night," I whisper, looking between my mom and Owen, my gaze finally settling on him. "You were so upset. You knew."
My mom grabs my hand. "He couldn't tell you, honey. Legally, and because I asked him not to."
I turn to her and my heart aches at the sight. Her arms that held me when I fell, hands that made thousands of meals for me, fingers that brushed away my tears … my beautiful mother.
“Tell me.”
"The cancer has spread to my bones, Autumn. The chemo isn’t working." Her matter-of-fact tone tells me she is resigned.
Well, I'm not.
Something inside me stirs. A heat, a hope, a wave of anger. The first flickers of a fight. I can do this. Where chemo has failed her, I can make her better. I'll research until my eyes are crossed, call in every favor.
Pulling a chair from a nearby table, I sink down into it, still holding my mom's hand.
"Listen," I tell her, my tone intense. "We're not giving up. There are alternative treatments. Countries without the restrictions we have here. I have money saved, Mom, and if it’s not enough I’ll get a loan. We'll exhaust every option." I glance down at the table, at the chocolate croissant in front of her. "No more sugar. No more dairy or gluten. I'm going to read more about eating meat." I look at her paper coffee cup. "And about caffeine. Environmental toxins too. We should probably get a whole house water filter—"
Owen interrupts: "Autumn, she only has a few months left. Six months at the most.” And all of the wind is knocked out of me. He sits back, two hands wrapped around his own coffee, pity softening the corners of his eyes.
“No.” I shake my head, rubbing at my temples. “No, because we haven’t even finished this round of chemo, and there is—”
"Sweetheart," Mom begins, her voice cautious. Her gaze searches mine, and before she speaks, I know what she's going to say. My head shakes, but she presses on. "I don't want to do all those things. I want to have my last few months with you and Owen and my friends. Not vomiting, or chained to a hospital bed."