The Trouble Is

Chapter 12: McDreamy and Mom

Wednesday nights used to be girls' nights out (a.k.a. GNO) for Mom and me. That was before the diagnosis, of course. We started this when Doug was a baby. She would dress us in something fun, do our hair, and wave goodbye to Skip and Doug, singing some old song about how "girls just wanna have fun." The activities varied from pedicures and listening to music in the park to chick flicks and roller-skating.

After the cancer diagnosis, we kept it up through the first round of chemo. After that, things got kind of harder for her. So, we eventually ended up having GNO at home while Skip took Doug out for what they now call "man time." I love watching Doug getting cleaned up to go, spending at least five minutes wiping his hair to the side with small handfuls of water, checking his teeth in the mirror like Skip, and tucking his shirt in his pants. He's such a little old man when he does that tucking thing.

We worked our way through card games and trivia and crossword puzzles until about a year or so ago, when Mom discovered the miracle of Netflix. We started binge-watching Grey's Anatomylast month. Mom says she had always wanted to watch that but couldn't afford the time. Long-running shows are a commitment, she says. Lately I've noticed that she asks a lot of questions while we watch. She controls the remote and now runs about three to four pauses per episode.

"What do you want in a boyfriend?" she asked quietly last week. "What attracts you?"

Again with this question, I think. First Katie, now Mom asking me these questions. What is it with everyone thinking I need a boyfriend? Actually, there was a time when I would have been kind of embarrassed or even ticked off at the question. I never liked intrusive questions and really hated to discuss my feelings. I probably would have just shrugged my shoulders and walked away. That was another day, another her, another me. Now, I'm just curious about why people think I need a plus one. Anyway, I don't shrug her question away. I answer now. I always answer now with Mom.

"I want a guy who looks at me like McDreamy looks at Grey, even when she's bitchy," I answer softly.

I'm propped up on a stack of pillows beside her. The room smells like popcorn and medicine. She's wearing a pink, neon head wrap and an old Michael Jackson t-shirt. Mom was a huge Michael fan back in the day: I grew up well aware that Billie Jean was not her lover and no one's going to save you from the beast about to strike. She is so pale and thin that sometimes I have to force myself to look at her and try to interact naturally instead of closing my eyes in shock at the change in her. Tonight I manage OK. I toss her some popcorn, and although it's like tossing popcorn to a ghost, I manage. I don't know what I expect, but I'm a little surprised when she makes the catch and the popcorn disappears.

"Especially when she's bitchy," she adds, totally getting it. "He looks at her like she is all that exists in his world."

She thinks about this for a few minutes and then takes a long drink of water. I can hear her swallow, and imagine that I can even hear the water flow through what remains of her tiny frame.

"I think that's a good thing—to be looked at that way," she says. I can tell she has more to say. She's just thinking it through or maybe waiting to have enough air to get it all out. Or maybe she's thinking about how Skip still looks at her. Even with the scarves and the veins sticking out all over her, Skip still looks at her like some kind of homesick puppy all messy with love.

"I know how you operate, you know," she says. "You are always the dumper, so you'll never get dumped. And I guess that's OK for now; you've got time. And I don't think you can count junior high boyfriends, really. But some day, you may meet someone who you can't imagine living without. You try to picture it, some life apart from each other, and the oxygen just leaves the room."

She breathes a little harder, and I feel her hand covering mine—hers all bones and paper-thin skin. I stare straight ahead, waiting. I know she is telling me what she has learned of herself in these last months. I know her well enough to understand that she is overflowing with worry about leaving us behind. These nights and these talks are all about that.

"I want to give you some advice now that might not make sense, but it will see you through so many things," she whispers. "In all things, look to the light. Seriously, Anne. If you see nothing but the light in him and he sees nothing but the light in you, then that is a relationship you should hold on to with all your might."

She squeezes my hand again.

"You deserve the light," she says. "And quit saying 'bitchy.'"

Then she presses the remote again and we fall into the world of Meredith, Derek, and Cristina Yang once again.

Later that night, Skip is back and Doug is in bed. As I walk past my parents' room, I hear the sound of pressure being released as the valve on the oxygen tank is opened. The sound is kind of weird in that it's both good and bad for the same reason: It's good because she needs oxygen, and it's bad because she needs oxygen. She's getting short of breath a lot more these days and needs the oxygen to sleep without waking up choking for air.

I throw myself across my bed, reaching underneath for my notebook.

List #93: What I Want in a Boyfriend

1. He has McDreamy eyes. It's not the color or those long eyelashes, though; it's the intensity he seems to convey when he looks at Meredith. I want intensity. I want him to know he loves me before I know it and when I doubt it. Especially when I doubt it.

2. He sings or plays the guitar or something. At a minimum, he loves music—not because it's what all teenagers love but because it speaks some truth to him. He finds his own music to love—not always what's popular.

3. He smells like the beach, not a garage. I know that's kind of mean. I don't intend it to be. But it's my list, right?

4. He thinks the first kiss means something—it's memorable. It's supposed to make a statement. It's meant to be relived over and over again.

5. He must have a voice—not just any voice. The voice. I'm pretty sure I'll know it when I hear it.

I think those are the main items, so I shove my notebook under my pillow and put my earbuds in as tonight's music begins. Ed Sheeran sings "Kiss Me Like You Wanna be Loved." I grab the notebook and use the flashlight on my phone as I add one more to the list. I prefer odd-numbered lists—threes, fives, and sevens. But some things just call for an even number.

6. He sees the light in me.

I am a little surprised at my own words. I think about how my subconscious just vomited that out onto the paper. It was as if my hand were possessed. That happens sometimes when I'm making a list. It's as though the act of writing things down lets me bring thoughts and feelings to the surface. I've had small surprises before, but nothing like this one.

I wonder what this means. What does this say about me? Am I just mimicking what my mother said? Or do I truly believe that there is a light to see in me? I don't see how. I'm living in the darkest time of my life. My mother is dying, my dad is in denial, I can't drive a car, and I'm terrified of having sex. I've got OCD.

I know the freshman kids have called me The List Maker since last spring break. I think the girl who sits beside me in English must have seen my notebook of lists and told everyone on her church ski trip. And then everyone on the planet found out that I failed driver's education. I couldn't concentrate on the actual driving part because I was so focused on all the checklists they gave us.

But still, there must be some small kernel of hope left in me. Beneath all the dark and twisty aspects of my days, there must be something wanting to be seen.