Chapter 3

THREE

Past

Age 16

Holding my mother's frail hand, covered with bruises from all her IV pokes, I commit every breath she takes, every soft smile and moment with her to memory, and wrap it up with a bow to carry for the rest of my life. Every second is a gift I refuse to squander. We don’t have much time left. She’s already lived longer than we expected.

She’s my person.

My only person.

Once she’s gone, I don’t know what I’ll do. We never thought that far. Our house is gone–foreclosed on months after she got sick. We hadn’t even owned it for a year. It’s a blessing we could even get her in here—the hospice wing of a nursing home, hours from where we last called home. During the day, I’m here with her through the good and the bad. At night, I sleep in our van in the parking lot outside. The nurses know what I’m doing, and thankfully, they haven’t called CPS. Not yet anyhow.

We have a week left, maybe two. Stage four pancreatic cancer is a sneaky bastard. The yellowing of Mom’s skin, the frailty, the brittle nails and hair, and the pain, it’s the worst. She sleeps almost all the time now.

“Kali.” Mom’s voice cracks with exhaustion as her hand squeezes mine with what little strength she has left, and her eyes remain shut.

“I’m here, Mom.” I scoot closer to the bed, should she open her eyes today and want to see me. That happens less and less now—a minute or two here and there.

“Did I ever tell you of the time I had a foursome in a tent at a peace rally?” she rasps barely above a whisper.

Chuckling, I shake my head at the story she most definitely told me when I was far too young to understand what a foursome meant. “Yes, Mom. You did.”

She releases her own version of laughter. It’s weak, but I’ll take anything I can get. “You should try it.”

I snort as a lopsided smile briefly transforms my face into something other than worry. “I’ll take that under advisement.” Or I won’t. Because I’ve never had a boyfriend, let alone the desire to share multiple men. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do with one penis, let alone multiple. Bleck.

She goes on. “One of the men could have been your father.”

“I know.” That’s how all of Mom’s stories go—sharing far too much information about her sexual freedoms and finishing it with how one of those men could have been my father. A free spirit to the core, Mom has never lived by social norms. I’ve been homeschooled all my life, never to make any real friends apart from those we met on our many adventures. Since the day I was born in the bathroom stall at a rock concert, I think it was Bon Jovi, or was it Kiss? I can’t remember. It’s been us against the world. Or that’s what Mom has always said.

“Do you think there will be peace when I die?” she whispers to herself or one of the many invisible friends she’s made as of late. They talk for hours sometimes. The spirits, she calls them. We don’t believe in Christianity or God. Not in the traditional, holy, worship-me-or-you’ll-go-to-Hell sense. Mom’s a scholar of the world, and she’s taught me much about worldly religions, new and old. When she dies, finishing her pilgrimage of life, my hope is she’s reborn again—following the cycle of samsara.

Leaving her to talk to her visitors in private, I carefully set Mom’s hand back on the edge of the bed, on top of her crocheted blanket. Not knowing if she’ll be alive when I return, I peck her forehead, and she hums as if she knows I’m there.

“I love you. You can go whenever you’re ready.”

Mom hums once more as I depart and turns her head slightly to whisper to her spirits once more, this time in Gaelic, a language she picked up from her time in Scotland, years before I was born.

Outside her room, I stop to breathe as a young, blonde nurse I see every day walks by to check on us. “How are you, Kali?”

“As good as I can be. She’s busy.” I nod toward Mom’s closed door.

“Talking to the Viking?”

I shrug. “No? Maybe?”

Nurse Christy smiles warmly and pats me on the shoulder. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks.”

In the hospice wing, I make my way to the small kitchen and sitting room they have for visiting family—something plucked right out of the nineteen-eighties with its paneled walls, brown carpet, and ugly couches. If I’m not with my mom, I’m here, taking a break and eating whatever they have in stock because I have no money for food, gas, or… well, anything. The nurses have been kind enough to leave extras for me—a hot meal here, an extra sandwich there. Each is left with a sticky note and my name on it. It's pity food for the girl with the dying mom, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Peeling the purple note from a sub in the fridge, I unwrap the foot-long and carry it, along with a bottle of water, over to the couch to eat. The television is on in the corner, playing the Soaps with closed captioning to keep the volume down.

Margaret and Deacon sure hate each other in today’s episode.

A door opens and closes. There’s a masculine clearing of a throat.

I freeze at the sound and crane my neck to see who’s here. A man with dark hair, the most startling gray eyes, and the kindest smile lifts his chin at me just inside the door. I forget to blink, much less say hello. I simply stare, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, because holy hotness . He’s wearing a vest. It’s black leather with patches all over.

His smile widens, showing off a row of pearly whites as his head tilts to the side, watching me watch him, as if he doesn’t have a single care in the world. That makes one of us. Lucky guy.

The door behind him opens, and my mouth falls open as a boy, no, man , much closer to my age than the other, steps around the other gentleman—same hair color, same eyes, same height, similar build. Oh, wow… there are two of them. Father and son?

The newcomer doesn’t notice my awe because he doesn’t even notice me as he addresses his brother… Friend?

“Pops, why you standin’ here?”

Ah.

His father.

Makes sense.

Pops, the man in question, tilts his chin at me, and that’s when the spell breaks, and I jerk around, face-forward, cheeks blazing as hot as the sun. Hunching forward to look as small as humanly possible, I take enormous bites of my sub to get it eaten before they get a chance to talk to me. Because what would I say? What do you say to those visiting the hospice wing? The only other people I’ve encountered in this room were two elderly women saying goodbye to their husbands, and they sobbed. We didn’t talk.

The opposite side of the couch dips, and a wave of nerves crashes through me.

“I’m Sunshine,” the older man introduces.

I say nothing and stuff more of the sub into my mouth.

What kind of name is Sunshine?

Odd.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sunshine leaning back on the sofa. A booted foot props on his holey, jean-clad knee as he relaxes into the cushions and drapes an arm across the back like a cool guy in the movies.

“I’m Dark,” the other male says from somewhere else in the room. I’m too chicken shit to look up and find out.

Acutely aware of their presence, I fidget as I swallow and dive in for a bite so big my cheeks burst like a chipmunk. Sweat dots my brow, and I let out a small squeak when I choke on the dry, flavorless bread. Not wanting to die in front of these men, I spit part of my sub onto the wrapper in my lap and cringe at the half-chewed bits. I cover them quickly with my hand.

The younger male chuckles as I tremble.

I need to go.

I need to check on my mother.

Time to get up and walk away. Stand proud. Pretend to be cool.

Pretend. To. Be. Cool.

“Hey.” A hand touches my shoulder. I jerk so hard in surprise that my food, the chewed-up bits and all, along with my water bottle, tumble to the floor at my feet.

I drop to my knees on the ugly carpet and scramble to pick up the mess.

Stupid.

So stupid.

The man from the couch kneels beside me. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay.”

No.

No, it’s not okay.

My mom is dying.

I’m without a home.

Without food or money.

I haven’t graduated from high school yet.

I have weeks until she’s gone.

Weeks until I am alone.

Fat tears pour down my cheeks—hot, traitorous, horribly embarrassing tears. Tears I can’t stop.

The man… Sunshine, yeah, that’s his name, doesn’t seem to care when he scoops up my mess into his hand as I sit on my knees, chin on my chest, and crumble like a deck of cards.

A hiccupped cry rips from my throat at his unexpected kindness. At everything.

Then suddenly, he’s just there.

His warmth.

His presence.

Scooping me off the floor, Sunshine sits on the couch with me on his lap. To hide myself from him and the world, I stuff my face into the side of his throat and paint it in salty anguish.

“Shhhh. It’s okay. It’s okay,” he soothes, rubbing a hand up and down the side of my thigh.

There’s a throat clearing, and someone stuffs a wad of tissues into my hand. I clutch them to my chest like a lifeline.

“I’m so sorry,” I blubber against the stranger’s neck.

“It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart.” He rocks me against him and hums. The scent of aftershave and leather mixed with his soothing sounds somehow calms me a little, just enough to breathe deep and stop shaking.

I’ll never be okay again.

Not after this.

My mom is dying.

And she’s all I got.