Excerpt from The Harshest Hope

Hope is a useless, fickle concept.

When she's on your side, it may feel like your future is full of possibilities. When she's not on your side, it feels like a slap to your face. I don't waste my time on hopes and dreams when there's really only one thing I want, something most people take for granted.

Time.

The smell of antiseptic soap and hand sanitizer hits my nostrils as I walk through the hospital doors. My footfalls sound loud on the clean tile floors as I drag myself to the elevators, my body exhausted from less than four hours of sleep, and press the button for the third floor. It's a trip I've completed too many times in the last few years, but lately, the usual nausea in my gut has morphed into a tightness I can't shake, as if I somehow know I won't be walking down these halls much longer.

I attempt to take a deep breath as I stare at the door before me, but it doesn't fully alleviate the heaviness of the lead in my chest. Barbara, the morning charge nurse, passes by and gives me a kind smile, a suffocating sympathy in her brown eyes. I twist my mouth into something I hope resembles polite acknowledgement, turn the doorknob, and enter the room.

The muted, steady beeping of the heart rate monitor echoes in the quiet space—like the ticking of a clock. Resounding. Reminding me time is limited. Jarring florescent lights wash the room in a stark brightness, drawing attention to every sunken dip and sharp angle of my mom. My heart twists and aches, the gnawing pain threatening to take the breath from my lungs. Upright and engrossed in the pages of a well-worn book she's reread many times over the years, Romeo and Juliet, my mom adjusts the striped woolen cap covering her head where her thick hair used to be. I bite my bottom lip and force my tense muscles to relax as I approach her. Upon sensing my presence, she sets her book down and looks up, the warmth in her blue gaze shining back at me.

I clear my throat and sweep my hands down my body. "So, how do I look?"

"Adrian, sweetie, look at you. I never thought I'd see you wearing the same uniform I wore all those years ago." Her eyes glisten with tears as she smiles at me.

"I feel ridiculous. I'm a little too old to be playing dress-up." I tug at the worn, faded navy-blue jacket I purchased online that is fraying at the edges. Gently used, my ass. I sit down in the chair next to the bed and take her frail hand in mine.

"Pssh. Don't be silly. You just turned nineteen—you have your entire life ahead of you."

My nostrils flare as I bite the inside of my cheek. I let out a chuckle. "As do you, Mom, you still have a lot of time left too."

I don't look into her eyes. I'm good at hiding, but I can't seem to hide from her.

Mom squeezes my hand and lets the comment slip by. We both know time is the one thing she doesn't have. Lymphoma. Terminal stage. Her third bout of this horrific disease. I can feel her slipping away some more each time I visit, and I'm helpless to stop it.

Life is so unfair.

I gnash my teeth together at the thought and force myself to relax, to play pretend.

"So, are you excited about the first day of your new school?"

"Considering it's the middle of the school year of my senior year and I'm older than the rest of my class and wearing this clown outfit, not particularly." I'm switching schools only for her, because I know it's something she always wanted.

"You'll love it. It'll open so many doors for you, even though you're only there for a few months. It's worth the hassle." She pats my hand, forcing me to glance up at her. Mom's lips curve into a smile, her face lighting up with joy. Despite her sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes, Mom still radiates life…or whatever amount of life she has left. "I had some of my most memorable years there, but of course, my best memories are with you, your dad, and Millie."

I nod, smiling at her as I squeeze her fingers gently, a touch of reassurance so she can hopefully worry less about us. I don't tell her how Dad is barely holding it together most days. I also don't tell her how Millie has become more withdrawn these last few weeks. It's as if we all sense the end is near.

"Do tell me about your first day later, okay, sweetie?" Her eyes are unfocused, taking on a faraway look as if she's reminiscing about the long-gone days of her youth before everything happened.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A series of knocks interrupts our conversation. Moments later, a short man with thick, black glasses and a clipboard walks in. Sweat beads on his forehead and he grimaces.

"Um. Excuse me, ma'am. Is this a good time?"

Mom nods and adjusts the cap on her head.

The man pulls out a few sheets of paper from his clipboard. "We don't normally do this, but we couldn't get a hold of your husband and we've tried a few times already. Um. Your hospital bill is overdue." He glances at me, his hand twitching as he fidgets, and continues, "Perhaps the originals got lost in the mail, so we thought we'd bring copies to you just in case."

Heat rises to my face and washes over my body. He's a debt collector. Dad must have forgotten to settle the last installment payment.

"I-I'm sorry for the delay." Mom retrieves the sheets from him as her head dips. As if she needs to apologize for inconveniencing everyone because she is fucking sick.

Gritting my teeth, I snatch the papers from her. This is the least of her concerns right now. "We'll take care of it." I level a hard stare at the man, who seems to shrink under my gaze, and he stammers a thank you before leaving the room.

Aside from time, I also need money.

Not for cars, or fancy clothes, or taking chicks out on dates, but for the necessities. And apparently to pay the hospital and the doctors for keeping my mom alive while she suffers.

I glance at the figures, and my heart drops to my gut in a swooshing free fall. Fifteen thousand dollars. Shit. I have my job after school. Maybe I can think about cutting out some other expenses or take up my best friend Jack's offer.

"Sweetie, Adrian, Adrian!"

My eyes flicker up at Mom while my brain is working on overdrive on how to earn more money for all these expenditures.

"Yes, Mom?"

"Your dad won't tell me when I ask him. He just says not to worry. Are things going okay at home? We don't have the money, do we?"

I pat her hand and force a reassuring smile on my face, a mask I'm better at wearing when I'm around her these days. "Things are fine. We have this in the budget. Don't you worry about a thing." This should be the least of her concerns. If hopes and wishes do work, I'd wish I were ten years older, with a degree or two, climbing up some corporate ladder, and making enough money so the people I love no longer need to suffer and worry about the necessities.

But we all know hopes and wishes are figments of imagination. Stories we tell little kids.

Reality is far uglier.

I take out a DVD from my backpack, Romeo and Juliet, the classic 1968 version, and place it on top of her soft blankets, hoping to cheer her up. "I found this at the grocer's the other day. Your favorite. Maybe you can ask the nurses to play it for you later."

She grips the package tightly and smooths her fingertips on the cover. "My sweet boy. You always know what I like and need. Your dad and I watched this on our first date…" Her voice trails off.

I lean in and wrap her bony body in my arms, careful to not squeeze too hard. Her body trembles, shaking like a leaf under the wind. She seems so fragile and is always in pain. Closing my eyes, I bask in her warmth and am transported to a memory of her wrapping me in a big hug when I was little, remembering how safe I used to feel in her presence.

It's my turn to protect her now. It's my turn to take care of her.

I pull back and say softly, "I'll let you know how things go. Don't worry about me, or Millie, or Dad. I'm taking care of them."

She smiles again, but the warmth doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I know, sweetie. I'm worried about your dad. He told me his job at the bank is precarious at best. There are rumors of a layoff. I'm so sorry to put all this on you. I know you're taking on so much already, far too much for a boy your age. If only—"

"No, I'm happy to. I just want you to focus on getting better."

I glance away and blink my eyes rapidly before the moisture gathers and betrays the turmoil of emotions swirling inside me. I twist my lips into a wider smile. A fake smile. But neither of us comment on that either.

"See you later, Mom."

Exhaling a ragged breath, I close my eyes for a brief respite outside of the door, attempting to calm the tempest swirling inside me, and I swallow the pins and needles in my throat. My hands tighten into fists as I walk away, wanting to punch something. I want to yell, to scream, to ask the higher power why this is happening to us.

But I don't. Instead, I leash down the storm inside me as I always do, and stride toward the exit, a pawn in this cruel game of life.