Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

MARGO

One week later

"No," Mama says. "I don't accept that. Run the tests again. They're wrong."

Dr. Levine tilts his head with a tired expression coating his face. He sits across from us at his desk wearing a white lab coat. "Mrs. Blakely, this is the second time we ran the tests. They aren't wrong."

Mama stands up and plants a hand on his desk as if intimidating the man will help. "Do you see my baby over there?" She points to me. "She's seventeen. She barely has all her teeth, for heaven's sake. So yes, you're completely and utterly wrong."

He looks in my direction and then back at my mother, clearly not changing his mind. "I can understand why this is hard to hear, but the best thing to do now is to think about what you want to do moving forward."

Mama steps back to pace the room, nodding. "Fine." Mama pats the air. "You know what, if you're so sure you're right, we'll just treat it like last time. She'll do the chemo and radiation again. Easy." She rubs her hands together as if she solved the problem.

I give Papa a look. Should we help? Should we save Dr. Levine from Mama going ballistic on him?

"As I mentioned before," Dr. Levine continues, "that route might add a month or two to her remaining time, at best."

Mama shakes her head. "No. I know there are clinical trials we can try. There are always trials, and we can do one of those."

Dr. Levine takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. This isn't the first time he's talked to Mama. "I'm sorry. I really am. I know this is hard to understand, but Margo's cancer is terminal."

Hearing the words leave his mouth feels foreign. It hasn't sunken in yet. I figured I'd be more upset at this appointment, but I must be in shock. Either that, or my body knows I have to keep my composure to make up for Mama. We can't both fall apart.

"No. I refuse to believe that." She crosses her arms.

Memories start to resurface. Memories of pain and white hospital walls. Of more medicine than food. Of the nosebleeds and bruises. Of the sleepless nights. Of the looks on everyone's faces.

I never argue with my mother. She almost always gets her way no matter what, but this is different. This choice should be mine. It's my life after all.

"I don't want the treatment." My voice is low and quiet, scared to voice those words out loud.

Mama's jaw drops, slowly meeting my eyes. "Yes, you do."

I stay calm, trying not to escalate the situation any further. "If I get the surgery and start chemo, I'll feel even worse than I do now. I don't want my friends feeling like they have to walk on eggshells every time they see me. I don't want them to pity me every time I'm around them. And I especially don't want Annie to do what she did last time. She put everything on hold, but this is her senior year of high school. I want her to have fun, not waste all her time worrying about me."

"No." Mama's jaw clenches, and she looks away. "You have to try. They could be wrong."

"I don't want to be—"

"No, no. This isn't right." She shakes her head again. "It's not as bad as it sounds. We just need to get another opinion."

Papa reaches for her hand. "I agree with Margo. This should be her decision."

Mama rips her hand away and stands up, eyes wide. "So you just want to let our daughter die?"

"I'm going to die either way," I say.

That's the final straw, the match hitting gasoline.

There's a heavy silence that follows.

Mama's lip quivers, and she stares at me like I just told her I want to jump off a bridge. Tears start to pool in the corners of her eyes.

I don't mean to say it so straightforwardly... or maybe I do. Maybe if she hears it from me, she'll believe it.

But I still hate crushing her.

She grabs her purse, fumbling as she tries to get the strap over her head. "I need to use the bathroom." She gives up, stuffs her purse under her arm, and rushes out of the room.

It's not every day you get the news your daughter is dying. I should be more upset than I am, but I always knew there was a possibility the cancer would come back. We all knew that. The difference is this time the cancer is much more aggressive. It's stage four. It's spread to too many places already. Maybe if we'd caught it sooner, there would be more we could do, but we can't turn back the clock.

We wait a little while for Mama to return, but she doesn't. We continue the rest of the appointment without her. Dr. Levine goes over different medications I can take to ease the pain and what I should do when my symptoms become worse. Then, we thank him for his time and leave.

My head feels like a balloon as I try to process it all. I don't want it to be true, but I also know being upset won't change anything.

I head out of the office, toward the car, and stop where the sky bridge connects the medical building to the parking lot. I watch the rush of traffic zooming underneath me through the large glass windows and tap my fingers to the hum of the cars.

Papa comes through the door and stands next to me. He loops his arm around my shoulders and follows my gaze.

"She still hasn't come out?" I ask.

Papa is a quiet man. He doesn't say much, but he's a good listener. I think that's why he gets along so well with Mama. She's talkative and imaginative, and he keeps her grounded. I've always loved their relationship. A lot of my friend's parents seemed to have grown apart through the years, but my parents are still close.

"She will when she's ready," he says.

I lean into him, resting my head. "I don't want to spend the rest of my time just feeling sick."

He kisses the top of my head. "I know."

"Do you think she'll understand?"

Papa sighs. "Not right away, but I'll talk to her." I can tell from his tone he's tired and upset by the news, but he doesn't show his pain the same way Mama does. I've never seen him cry, but he's holding on to me like he's afraid of letting me go.

I let myself sink farther into him like I did when I was a little girl. "Papa, will you do something for me?"

"Anything for you, Bug." Even though he says that, there's a hesitation in his voice.

I smile at my nickname. It never gets old. I'm Bug and my twin sister is Bear, but those names are reserved specifically for Papa. It's like he copyrighted those names for us when we were little. No one dares try and use them.

I pull away enough to look him in the eyes. "Let's pretend I'm okay. I don't want to tell anyone about this yet. Not even Annie."

His eyes falter, and he shifts his weight. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"I'll tell people eventually, but I don't want to feel like my life is over already. Don't you think we could pretend for a little bit?"

Papa scratches the back of his head. "How long are we talking because I'm not a good actor."

I laugh softly. "A few weeks at most. I promise. I won't pretend too long. I just want a little time to live normally."

He thinks about it, staring at the traffic below us. "If that's really what you want."

I give him a hug. "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, Bug," he says, squeezing me tight.

There's still no sign of Mama, and I know what I have to do. She's someone who wears her heart on her sleeve. She may have gone into the bathroom to hide the fact she's upset, but she's not hiding anything. She's making it more obvious, and I need to go talk to her. That's the only way she'll be able to move on from this moment .

"I'm going to go check on Mama," I say.

He nods. "I'll go warm the car."

I head back inside and walk to the bathroom, where a small line has formed. I skip ahead to the front of the line. "Sorry, I'm just going to check on her really quickly." I knock. "Mama?"

"I'm not coming out." Her voice is strained from crying. She isn't used to failure. If she had enough time, she'd probably find the cure to cancer. Giving up isn't who she is. I know that, but I'm not giving up. I'm accepting fate.

"Could you open the door please?" I ask.

"No."

There's a groan from one of the people behind me. "This is the only bathroom on this floor," they mumble.

I knock again. "There are other people that need to use the bathroom."

"I don't care."

Mama is generally a go-getter, a determined person, but when things don't go her way—which is rare—she reverts back to a ten-year-old child.

"I just want to talk to you. Can I come in?"

"Why? Did you change your mind? Will you get treatment?"

"Let's talk about it," I say.

There's a long pause, but Mama opens the door. Her eyes are red and watery, and her cheeks look like there's blush on them even though she doesn't wear any.

As I slip inside, I turn to the line. "It'll only be another minute. I swear."

Some of the expressions are hopeful, but most of them are annoyed and dubious.

"Hurry," one of them says while tapping their foot .

I close the door behind me and refocus my attention on Mama. She sits in the corner of the bathroom beside the sink. Her head is in her hands.

I bend down next to her. "Mama, talk to me."

She throws her hands down. "About what? About how you want to give up? There are other doctors. There are clinical trials we could look into. There are so many things we haven't looked into. I just don't understand why you don't want to try."

I take her hand. "And what happens if I spend all that time and none of it works? You saw the results. I only have a few months left."

"At least you would've tried."

I shake my head. "I'd be wasting my time. I already don't feel good. Instead of making my body feel sicker, I'd like to enjoy my time with you. I don't want you to remember me sick. I want you to remember me happy, playing games, laughing. Doesn't that sound better?"

She blinks away her tears. "But he said the treatment could at least extend your time by a month or two."

"Don't you remember how sick I was last time I had chemo?"

Reluctantly, she nods.

"That's not how I want to feel. I want to feel like me."

She cups my cheek. "But you're my baby. I can't lose you."

I put my hand on hers. "I know, Mama. I know, but it's going to happen either way."

She pulls her hand back and looks away. "If you came in here to comfort me, that's not the way to do it. You're supposed to tell me everything's going to be okay."

"You want me to lie to you? "

"No," she whispers. "But you could at least let me down easy."

"Mama, look at me."

Her eyes shift back to me.

"I love you. I want to make you happy, but I can't go through all of that again. Not when it won't change anything."

"But what if it can?"

I sigh. "If you were me, what would you do? Be honest. Would you want to drag it out?"

She doesn't respond right away, but after a little while, she shakes her head. "No."

"Then is it fair to ask me to do something you wouldn't?"

She chuckles, tears still flowing. "Has anyone told you that you act way older than you are?"

I smile. "You. Every day."

She wraps her arms around me. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do without you."

I pat her hand. "We don't have to think about that yet. Why don't we get up and go find Papa? We've done enough worrying for one day."

"I don't think I'm ready," she says.

I tilt my head, peering up at her. "Do you realize how many people are outside waiting to use the bathroom?"

She crosses her arms. "My angel baby is dying, and I'm trying to wrap my head around that. So what if they have to wait?"

I stand and hold out my hand. "Mama, it's time to go."

She nods, taking my hand. "I know."

I help pull her to her feet.

She adjusts her clothes and takes one look in the mirror before pulling out her lipstick and applying it. She swears a woman can never have enough lipstick. "I'm ready."

I unlock the door and open it, revealing the unhappy line.

Mama takes a deep breath and steps forward.

"It's about time," the first person in line says.

Mama stops and locks her eyes onto them, and with a stone-cold expression, says, "The world does not revolve around your bladder."

Before the other person has a chance to respond, I grab Mama's arm. "Okay," I say, nervously laughing. "Time to go."

Another minute here and she'd start a fight. She'd win, but that's not the point. The point is, we need to get out of here before those poor souls get in trouble.

Mama keeps her head up as we pass the entire line of people. I, on the other hand, try to hide how my cheeks are burning up.

Convincing Mama to pretend I'm not dying is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Granted, I didn't really know what to expect, but I've spent most of the day rehashing the same conversation over and over again.

"Why aren't you upset?" she demands.

Because it's not real to me, and I don't want it to be. If I tell myself I'm okay, maybe I'll believe the lie too.

"What about Annie?" she asks. "Do you really expect us not to tell her?"

"I just want a little time. I want to be the one to tell her."

Arguing doesn't do much good. Mama agrees but isn't happy about it. She hides in her room the rest of the day which isn't like her. She's usually busy running around the house doing laundry, dishes, and everything in-between. She doesn't even make dinner. That's a bad sign.

Annie comes home, plopping down on the couch the second she walks in.

"So how was work?" I ask. It's Annie's third day.

She shrugs.

"What's wrong?"

She grabs a pillow and smacks herself in the face with it. "The concert sold out in ten minutes. I didn't have a chance."

"What?"

She lowers the pillow. "I figured there'd still be tickets available by the time I got my first paycheck." She shakes her head, pouting. "My life is ruined." She grabs the remote controller and turns on the TV. "I hope your day was better than mine. How did the doctor's visit go?"

I know I should tell her the truth, but at the same time I wish her biggest problem in life could be a sold-out concert. "Nothing new. They ran some more tests."

I hold my breath, waiting to see if she'll accept the lie and move on.

"What do you want to watch?" she asks.

I relax. "Whatever you want."

I'll tell her eventually, but right now all I want to do is watch a show with my sister and act like we have forever.

We spend the next few hours watching TV and then we head to our room. Annie reads until about eleven when she finally passes out. She's still wearing her glasses, and her book is lying open on her lap.

I tiptoe across our room to take her glasses off and set the book on the nightstand. Even in her sleep she's frowning. I bet she's dreaming about the concert.

My heart hurts a little. I don't want to leave her alone. I don't want to imagine her face when she finds out about me. The only thing I can do is add as many good memories as I can, to try and outweigh the bad ones coming.

I'm going to get her tickets to that concert even if it's the last thing I do.

I feel my eyes warm, and I step into the hallway. I don't want to cry in my room. What if Annie hears me and it wakes her up?

I pass my parents' room where Papa sits in bed watching TV, or at least he was. Papa is snoring, but I can guarantee if I walked in and turned his show off, he'd wake up and tell me he was watching it.

I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water to help clear my head. I take one of the glasses and set it under the water spout in the fridge, letting it fill up dangerously close to the brim. I hoped the ice-cold water would startle my body enough to stop the tears, but I can't seem to get more than one sip down before my tears fall down my cheeks.

Why me? Why do I have to die?

Or if it had to be me, why couldn't it have happened later? I'm so young, and there are so many things I've never done. I've never driven a car. I've never kissed a boy. I've never even left the country. But those things don't matter that much. I'm more upset I won't be around to see the day Annie eventually walks down the aisle in her dream wedding dress. I'm supposed to be up there with her as her maid of honor, holding her bouquet. We planned it years ago. I want to be next to her, cheering her on. I hate that I'll never get to meet the cute little freckled kids she's going to have or see the amazing person she's going to become.

I set the glass of water down in the sink and take a deep breath. I need to stop crying or I'll have puffy eyes in the morning.

Looking out the window, I spy Mama on the back porch swing. She's crying too, and it tugs at my heart. Now, I really have to stop. I have to be the strong one. I have to make sure everyone else is okay.

I wipe my eyes and pinch my cheeks. I practice my smile, and then I walk out the back door. I inch closer to the porch swing and sit down next to her.

She sees me but turns her face away, covering her mouth. I pull her into a hug and pat her back.

"I'm sorry, Margo," she whispers. "I'm trying, but it's hard..."

"I know." I squeeze her tighter, forcing my own sadness down.

"I'm going to try, but I can't pretend all the time."

I rest my head on hers and let her keep crying. "I know."

An idea pops into my head. If I only have a few months to live, I'm going to fix as many things as I can before I go. I'll make sure my family is taken care of.