Moving Backwards

Chapter One

I remember when I was diagnosed with cancer when I was seven. It was parotid gland cancer—a rare type of cancer, especially for a child. The parotid glands, tucked near the jaw and ear, were something I never even knew I had until they became the center of my world after my grandmother felt it when playing with my hair. The drive to the doctor's office was far from my tiny town, exactly 57 minutes away (Yes, I counted). I knew that cancer was bad, and I knew that I shouldn't have it, but I didn't fully grasp how serious and life-threatening this cancer could be, or how it would unravel so much around me afterward.

Parotid gland cancer—while treatable in most cases—felt like a hidden enemy to my parents. It was the type of cancer smokers get in their 60's. Most cancers you hear about affect organs you understand, like lungs or bones, but my cancer was in these small, almost invisible glands. I didn't think something so small could bring so much fear but it did in ways a seven-year-old couldn't understand. It made my Father exude anger, almost dripping like glue on a school project that you barely finished before class, anger born not just out of fear for my life, but also from the overwhelming medical costs.

My father was angry a lot, though, so maybe the cancer never mattered in the first place. I remember one Christmas morning, while he watched me open my presents in the upstairs loft, he told me that if I wanted, he would throw me down the stairs. I laughed it off nervously, glancing at my mother. She said nothing. My mother was a mostly silent creature as if the words were too heavy to form—too heavy to comfort, to retort, or even to acknowledge. Instead, she always buried herself in something related to schooling. First, it was teaching, then nursing, then further degrees in nursing, and that went on until I was about 17—just in time for me to leave for college.

At times, it felt like she no longer wanted the liability of being a mother after that gut-wrenching experience of life and death. And I guess, who could blame her?

I sit restlessly in my professor's office, gnawing at the frayed skin on my top lip like it's a strip of jerky, tough and dry, freshly yanked from the pantry, my teeth tugging at it in the same mindless, anxious rhythm. My legs bounce lightly beneath the desk, the tapping of my foot barely audible over the persistent hum of the fluorescent lights above.

"Hello, hi, I'm so sorry I'm late again—you know how the upper-division classes run. Everyone keeps asking questions and I can never get them to stop, you know, I reall—" Rosalie bursts through the door in a flurry of movement, her words spilling out before she's fully seated.

That's fine with me. I just needed a break—any break—from the relentless studying, and Rosalie was the perfect distraction. She was the kind of person who could yap endlessly, her words like a steady stream of consciousness, almost as if her life depended on keeping the conversation alive. But when it came down to it, she had the brains to back it all up, which made her both irritating and impressive in equal measure.

As she continues rambling, I can't help but smile a little. "Did you have coffee today?" I ask, cutting her off mid-sentence.

She blinks at me, momentarily thrown off. "Well, yes, that's how I start every morning, Paisley..." she responds as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I raise an eyebrow and grin. "Maybe you should lay off when you have to teach upper division, eh?"

She pauses, and then we both burst into a shared chuckle. It's always been our thing—bantering like this, playful jabs that lighten the mood, even when the stress of school weighs down on us. Rosalie's energy, though overwhelming at times, is exactly what I need to pull me out of my head for a while.

Her laugh echoes through the small office, her shoulders relaxing as she finally settles into the chair across from me. Despite her whirlwind entrance, the space feels calmer now, like the tension between us has eased with just a few words.

"So, what exactly did you want to talk about? Are your grades okay?" Rosalie asks, her voice softening just a bit as she leans forward, eyebrows raised in concern.

"Yeah, yeah, they're alright. I've got some B's teetering on C's, but hey, you know what they say—C's get degrees, so honestly, that's all I care about for now." I flash a quick smile, trying to brush it off, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know how hollow they sound.

Rosalie turns, her laughing mouth slipping into a frown, her smirk replaced by something more serious. "Yes... yes, that's true, but for someone as brilliant as you, I'd hope you strive for more than just 'C's.' You've got so much potential, Paisley. A's could open doors for you, help you settle somewhere good after you graduate."

I can feel the weight of her expectations pressing down on me, and for a moment, I want to shrink under it and disappear. "Yeah, I know," I mutter, barely meeting her gaze. "Me too... me too. But..." I trail off, feeling a familiar heaviness tugging at my chest, the kind of heaviness that never seems to let up. "These memories of the past, they keep haunting me." My voice falters. "I've been to more therapists than I can count and tried an even larger selection of psychiatric pills. It's like this fog I can't see through. I'm not sure if it's trauma clouding my mind or something else entirely, but say that to any psychologist, and they'll just jot down that you're more delusional than they thought."

Rosalie's eyes soften as I speak, her usual chatter replaced by a rare silence. It's unsettling, and I suddenly realize I've shared too much. I bite my lip again, gnawing at the same spot until the metallic taste of blood mixes with the dryness.

"What did I even come here to talk about?" I wonder to myself. I'm so used to Rosalie carrying the weight of the conversation when I visit her during office hours, filling the air with her endless words, that I never expected I'd have to be the one to bring something up. But now the silence between us stretches, begging for me to speak.

There is something, though. It swims through my mind like a tadpole, darting between the lily pads of the horrific memories that float atop the lake of my consciousness. It's elusive, hard to pin down, but there—lingering.

"Well..." I start, feeling my voice tremble slightly. "There is one thing that's been keeping me up at night." I lie, masking the deeper reasons for my insomnia. "Anti-matter."

Rosalie's eyes blink in confusion, and I force a half-hearted grin. It's not a total lie—my mind does wander to odd places in the middle of the night, to scientific puzzles and existential thoughts—but it's safer than telling her the truth. The truth would mean admitting to the darkness I've been sinking into, and I'm not ready for that. Not yet.

"Anti-matter?" she repeats, her tone shifting from concern to curiosity, and for a moment, I feel the tension in the room lift as we both retreat into the familiar banter.

"Yeah," I say, leaning back in my chair, trying to sound nonchalant. "You know, just the usual existential crisis stuff."

We chuckle lightly, but the laughter is thin, barely covering the heavy things left unsaid between us.