24. Hunter

TWENTY-FOUR

Hunter

UAB Hospital

3:19 pm

"You, too, Mrs. Oppenstar. You keep getting healthier and you'll be running circles around Dr. Duncan and me."

It's amazing when you get to see with your own eyes a patient actually taking the hard steps to better herself. It's unbelievable how much better she is doing now that she has hung up that disgusting habit.

My phone in my breast pocket vibrates. I pull it out to see it's my mother. Shit.

"Hello, Mom," I say wearily, closing my eyes after pushing the button to accept the call. I'm literally about to head out to work out, but I know if I don't take this call I'll put off calling her back. What's another five minutes?

"Hunter…"

I sit up a bit, frowning. I did expect a tirade right off the bat, but the tone of her voice in that one word says a lot. Of course, it could be a trick.

"Mom. What's wrong? I mean, has something happened?"

"I know you've spoken with Dr. Momford, my oncologist. He told me he consulted with you and a doctor colleague of yours there. Thank you for putting that together."

"Yes, I have." I'm not sure if her quiet tone is because she is unhappy with something I did or because I didn't do it sooner. Either way, I'm sure I did something wrong in her eyes.

"He told me that my cancer will not respond to treatment."

There it is. Before I was involved, she had hope. Now, she is aware her cancer is especially dangerous and very likely aggressive. Fuck. I knew I should have stayed out of it.

"I'm sorry, Mom. That was my worry when you told me bits and pieces of your diagnosis. That is why I called Dr. Dibbins and he offered to call your doctor. The good news is there are a few trials happening that you can participate in. This isn't a death sentence, Mom."

"Son, was I hard on you?"

"What?" That's kind of an odd question and one I didn't expect to hear from her, especially in the context of this topic.

"Did I push you too hard? Your father," I can hear her pursing her lips in the pause,"he and I only wanted the best for you. We saw your potential."

Good lord, I want to shout at her that she was on my ass all the time to do better, to accomplish everything, to be the fucking best at everything. But I don't unload that baggage right now, I don't need to.

"You wanted the best for me, Mom, I get it."

"Then why did you rebel so much? Why did you always seem so angry?"

This conversation is getting weirder by the minute. My parents and I don't talk like this, open up, share feelings.

Staring death in the face does the strangest things to people. I do not really want to have this discussion with my mother. That ship has sailed. There is no need to rehash the last thirty-two years.

But I do need to make sure that she's okay, and it seems like this is something she wants to get off her chest. Despite the bitterness I've held onto, she's still the woman who gave birth to me, and I am trying to find something that can save her life.

Inhaling through my nose, I reply, "You and Dad did push me, Mom, and I started to resent it early on. Nothing I ever did felt like it was good enough. Even when I got straight A's in school, you didn't let up. I wanted to please you, but…"

"But, what? Tell me, son."

"I felt like no matter what I did, how good I was, how perfect it was, nothing pleased you."

"You've always pleased me, Son. I'm sorry we made you believe otherwise. I've never been so proud of anyone or anything my whole life."

Who is this person? Did she start early on her gin and tonics? My mother has never said anything remotely close to this. The word "proud" was not in their lexicon. I'm starting to get worried. "Mom, are you okay? Do you need help?"

"No, I'm perfectly fine," she says, sounding almost happy. "I just wanted to know, that's all."

Her words are slurred and now her breathing sounds labored.

"Mom, I'm going to call an ambulance and Dr. Momford. Are you home? I need to know you're safe and secure, okay?"

My body is going into complete panic mode. I buzz Jill while I'm still on my cell phone with Mom and ask her to call 911 and direct them to my mother's house in California. She has the address. I'm keeping my mom on the phone until they arrive.

"Don't," she breathes into the phone. "I just need a rest, that's all. I'll let you go, I just wanted you to know."

What the fuck?

"Mom?! Mom, are you still there?"

"One more thing. I've written you a letter. Please…know…that I do, love….you."

"Mom?! Mom!"

The line goes dead. I'm shaking as I stare at the phone in my hand. Blinking several times, I try to focus as I search for the contact number for her oncologist. Right now, though, it's all I can do to keep my fingers around the phone.

3:27 pm

I hang up the phone with Dr. Momford and sit there, staring at the phone. I told him that we already had an ambulance sent to her house. He said that my mother seemed to take the news fairly well when they met first thing this morning and that she seemed otherwise healthy, considering.

Well, she isn't okay now. I don't know if she took too much Valium or hit the bottle early, but something is wrong. He assured me he would call me as soon as he knows more. He already put a call into the hospital about her coming in and they will alert him of her condition as soon as she arrives.

I can't do anything from two thousand miles away. Now, more than ever, I know I need to move her here. All I can do is stay on top of the clinical trials, make sure she is taking her meds properly, and make sure she is comfortable.

But I meant what I said to her. I don't think this has to be a death sentence. Obviously, her doctor there isn't up on the latest with this cancer. She needs to be here. If she is closer, I can make sure we do everything we can to beat this beast.

4:58 pm

I slam the weights back onto the rack with a grunt, the metallic clang echoing in the stillness of my home gym. My muscles are burning, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps, but it's not enough. It's never enough. No matter how hard I push, how much I sweat, I need to push harder, do more reps.

I stand there, dripping sweat, staring blankly at the cars below starting to stack up for the afternoon commute. The view usually calms me, but this afternoon, it's just adding to my anxiety. My heart is pounding, and my mind is racing, chasing down every possible scenario, every worst-case outcome.

When I called 911, they said they'd dispatch someone immediately. But waiting for news? It's killing me. I called her house several times on my ride home but no one answered. I'm here, thousands of miles away, helpless.

The phone vibrates on the bench beside me, and I grab it, my hand slick with sweat. It's Dr. Momford.

"Dr. Momford," I answer, my voice hoarse, not from the workout but from the fear clawing at my throat.

"Dr. Parrish," his voice is calm, too calm. It makes my heart plummet.

"Please, call me Hunter."

"Hunter. I'm afraid I have bad news. The emergency responders arrived at your mother's home. I'm so sorry to have to tell you over the phone, Hunter… she was pronounced dead at the scene."

For a moment, I don't say anything. The words don't register, not fully. Dead? How? My mom was just on the phone with me, slurring her words, sure, but alive. She was breathing. Talking. And now she's gone?

"How?" I finally manage to choke out, my voice breaking. I'm certain they don't have definitive answers so quickly, but surely they must have an idea. I don't care about being strong right now. I just need to know.

"From what the EMTs described, it sounds like she may have suffered a pulmonary embolism, likely caused by a blood clot," Dr. Momford explains gently. "Given her condition, it's not uncommon, especially with the strain her body was under from the lymphoma and the treatments. The slurred speech... could have been an indication of a cerebral hemorrhage. It seems everything happened very quickly."

I nod, even though he can't see me. It makes sense medically. Hell, I've seen it a hundred times in patients. But hearing it applied to my own mother is like a punch to the gut. My knees buckle, and I sink down onto the bench, my head in my hands.

"I know I didn't do enough," I trail off. I don't know Dr. Momford. He doesn't want to hear me babble on about my mother. I've been in his shoes a hundred times, delivering this news.

"She knew, Hunter," Dr. Momford says softly. "She knew you cared. That's why she called. It sounds like she wanted you to hear her say those things, to have some closure."

"I should have done more," I whisper, more to myself than to him. "I should have... I should have been there. I should have insisted she come here."

"You did what you could," he says, and I can tell he means it, but it doesn't make the guilt any easier to bear. "She was just saying to me this morning at our appointment, before we went over everything, how proud she was of you. I could tell how much it meant to her that you had someone call me about her care."

Those words hit me like a ton of bricks. Proud of me. It's all I ever wanted to hear from her, from either of my parents, but it comes too late. The tears that I've been holding back finally break free, hot and angry, mixing with the sweat still dripping down my face.

"I'm sorry, Hunter," Dr. Momford says, and I can hear the genuine sympathy in his voice. "Please call me if you have any questions. The hospital will be in touch about how to proceed from here. But please don't hesitate to call me any time."

I murmur something that might be a thanks before the line goes dead. I'm left sitting here in the silence of my gym. The surrounding air, the muffled sounds of the city below, the cool AC blowing on my damp shirt—all of these sensations are like a dream.

She's gone. Just like that. All the distance, all the walls I put up between us are more like a prison now keeping all of the pain in instead of keeping it out. I spent so much time being angry, being resentful, all that's left is this crushing grief, this sense that I failed her. That I failed us both.

I drop the phone beside me, burying my face in my hands as the tears come harder and faster until I'm sobbing. The weight of everything crashes down around me. And for the first time in a long, long time, I let myself feel it all.

7:10 pm

I don't know how long I've been driving, but the city lights blur past, the steady hum of the engine the only thing grounding me.

Getting out and getting some fresh air to clear my head was all I could think about. Anything that doesn't involve sitting alone in my apartment and drowning in thoughts of what I should have done differently.

Without really thinking about it, I text Frankie. She seems like a life raft at this point, something to keep me from slipping under.

Hey. You up for a walk?

This has somehow become our thing we do together. And it is good for me. I need it now.

It's impulsive, but I can't be alone right now, not after everything that's happened. Walking is something I can manage, something that's controlled, a way to keep my emotions at bay.

Her response comes quickly.

Sure, but I dropped my car off for service today. I can't pick it up until tomorrow. Wanna pick me up?

I don't hesitate to reply.

I'm close by. Be there in a sec.

I stick my head in through the cracked door and call out. "Hello? Frankie? I'm here."

"I'll be right out," she yells from the back of the house. "Make yourself at home.

I pause, suddenly overcome with the emotions I thought I had tucked back away in the dark caverns of my psyche. All of them are threatening to surface. The idea of walking seemed like a good way to avoid confronting them, but now, standing here in her living room, everything seems front and center again. Something about being here, about seeing her.

I sink onto the couch, the cushions soft beneath me. Frankie joins me only seconds later. "Hey, you. Looks like you already had your workout. You saved the warm down for me. You know me so well!"

"Yeah, I got in some weights earlier. Sorry if I'm stinky."

"You're not at all. I could just tell you've already been to hell and back."

If only you knew, I want to say.

For a few moments, we just sit there, the quiet of her home wrapping around us as she fiddles with the zipper on her lightweight hoodie.

"I got a call this afternoon," I start, my voice rough but something driving me to share with her, to seek comfort. "From my mom."

Frankie turns to face me, her expression gentle, encouraging me to continue.

"Oh? Is everything okay?"

"It was strange," I say, rubbing a hand over my face. "Her words were slurred, and she she apologized for some things that happened years ago. And then the call just ended." Suddenly, I regret bringing this up right now. Clearly, I wasn't thinking.

I'm having a hard time forming cohesive sentences. There are some things I know if I say them I will completely lose my shit and I do not want to do that. But the words keep spilling out.

Frankie grabs my hand. She must see that I'm struggling. She doesn't say anything, which I appreciate. I didn't realize how much I needed that touch until now.

"I called 911, and then I called her oncologist," I continue, my voice trembling. "They found her at her house. She was… she was already gone by the time they got there. I didn't do enough," I continue, my voice breaking. "I should have been there. I should have… I don't know. I should have done something."

"You couldn't have known, Hunter," Frankie says softly. "You did everything you could. You've been doing everything you can."

I shake my head, the tears I've been holding back finally slipping free. "She told me she was proud of me, for the first time in my life, and now she's gone. I didn't even get to tell her…"

My voice falters, and I can't finish the sentence. Frankie shifts closer, wrapping her arms around me in a hug that's warm and steady. The kind of hug that holds you together when everything feels like it is falling apart all around you.

"I'm so sorry, Hunter," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry."

I let myself cry. Dr. Momford is the only person until now that has heard me cry since I was a boy. It's a strange but freeing sensation, letting myself be vulnerable like this with her.

The tears come and I let them, let the grief pour out of me. And Frankie is there, holding me, not saying anything, just allowing me to get it out. And somehow, that's enough. More than enough.

After what seems like an eternity, I pull back and wipe my eyes. "I didn't mean to unload all of this on you," I say, my voice still shaky. "I had every intention of completely avoiding even talking about it. That's how I typically deal with shit like this."

"You never have to apologize," Frankie says, her eyes locked on mine, full of understanding. "You don't have to go through this alone, Hunter. I'm here."

Her words hit me deep, cutting through the pain. For the first time since I got that call, I feel like maybe I'm not drowning. Maybe, with her help, I can keep my head above water.

I reach out, take her hand, and squeeze. The connection between us is stronger than ever. "Thank you," I manage to say, my voice still rough around the edges.

She just nods, her thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles, a silent reassurance that she's here and not going anywhere. We sit there for a while longer, just holding on to each other, the quiet filling the space between us.

"I have an idea. Do you like ramen?"

I nod, not sure where this is going, but I appreciate her taking the reins.

"Whenever I feel crummy, I call Uber Eats and order ramen and Jeni's Ice Cream. My favorite is Brown Butter Almond Brittle, and I sit in front of the TV and eat until I'll burst. What do you say?"

I nod as a wave of gratitude washes over me. "That sounds perfect," I say, my voice still a tad hoarse from crying.

Frankie smiles softly and reaches for her phone. "Any preferences? I usually go for the Tonkotsu ramen, but they've got a great miso option, too."

"Tonkotsu sounds good," I reply, realizing I haven't eaten since... I can't even remember.

As Frankie places the order, I lean back into the couch, completely drained but somehow lighter. The significance of everything that's happened today still presses down on me, but it's more manageable being here with her, knowing I'm not alone.

"Alright, food's on the way," Frankie announces, setting her phone down. "Now, let's find something mindless to watch."

She grabs the remote and starts scrolling through Netflix. I watch her, struck by how effortlessly she's created this bubble of comfort around us. There's no pressure to talk, no expectation for me to be anything other than what I am right now - a mess of grief and exhaustion.

"How about this?" she asks, highlighting some action movie I've never heard of.

"Sure," I nod, not really caring what we watch.

As the movie starts, Frankie settles back next to me, close enough that her warmth radiates through her clothes and onto me. We sit in comfortable silence, the movie's dialogue a distant hum in the background.