The Hateful Heavy Heart | 18+

19 - Change

The change wasn't something I was too accustomed to. I had lived in the same town my entire life, even for college. Over the years, I had established and grounded myself in the life that I lived, including dinners with Jackson and my mother, working at Glendshire, and being around Cleo. The only thing that seemed to change drastically was who I was involved with, whether that be sexually or romantically. However, there was very little I could do about the change that was occurring.

First, the days seemed to be passing by quickly. However, they slowed down, and each day felt like it was twice as long. Cleo's sickness wasn't letting up. Quite frankly, neither was mine.

On the third Thursday of November, Ruggiero and I brought Thanksgiving to Cleo. He and I collaborated in researching and preparing a Hungarian feast, to remind her of home in her time of sickness. We made her gulyás, or goulash, a stew-like dish with beef and vegetables; töltött kaposzta, cabbage stuffed with meat and rice topped with a hearty helping of sour cream; kifli, a crescent-shaped yeast bread, glazed with butter; and dobostorta, a buttercream-layered chocolate sponge cake that I left all up to Ruggiero to make. She loved it, her thin lips pulling into a wide smile before she made both of us come in for a kiss on the cheek. "Család," she'd said to us, "you two are family."

It was now the middle of December. I found it hard to be around her. She was passing soon, I knew. While I was no longer in denial about it, the thought still made me deeply uncomfortable. Cleo was arguably my best friend. However, her sickness was draining her. She still laughed, she still made jokes, but her skin was paler, she needed double the assistance, and no longer did she fight with me about what she had to eat. She'd given up on believing that her children would call her. She tried to hide it, tried to make sure I didn't know how much she was hurting, but it was my job to detect pain and it was my job to make sure the hurt went away. However, there was little that I could still do.

My body had been changing, too. Whereas before I was slim with small breasts, I grew a pants size and my bras felt like they were too tight. Ruggiero inferred that it may be that I had been eating more dairy and more starch, and while that may have been a contributor, I knew better. I tried to hide how sick I felt around Ruggiero, but it was a telltale sign of why my body had been changing.

Today, I was seeing my mother. We were having breakfast at Blue Plate Café, a favorite of hers near Wolf River Harbor. I arrived before her but made a point to go to the bathroom first. There, I observed myself in the mirror. How noticeable was it? My cheeks and my lips were colored rose pink and flushed from the winter chill, but I was happy to know that the cinnamon-colored cotton sweater that I borrowed from Ruggiero hid my figure. I applied some honey-flavored lip balm, took a deep breath, and walked out there to meet my mother.

She looked pretty. I wasn't just saying that. She genuinely looked pretty today, her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, showing off a pair of ruby earrings. It looked as if though she applied mascara, as her blue eyes were boldened, and she was dressed in an emerald green sweater dress. Scarily enough, I saw myself in her.

With a smile, I sat down across from her. She returned my smile and reached across the table to grasp my hand. "I feel like I haven't seen you in a while," she gushed. "I know I'm not your favorite, but you haven't forgotten about me, have you?"

"No, no, no," I assured her. It pained me that she thought that. "I've just been... I know I've been a little distant. A lot has been happening," I explained.

She rolled her eyes at me. "Must be that man you've been hiding from me and Jackson. When do I get to meet him?" she inquired.

"Perhaps Christmas." I paused, as the waiter came by. We ordered water to start and my mother ordered herself a black coffee. Once he was gone, I continued. "But he's only partially to blame." She was staring at me a bit too hard as if she were searching for something. "Cleo is dying."

Her eyes widened and her lips parted. The hand that held mine squeezed. "Oh, Jace. Are you sure she just isn't sick?"

I nodded. "I'm sure. I need to say it out loud, anyway. She has coronary artery disease and she refuses any treatment. As much as I wish it weren't true, she is going to die soon." There was a sense of detachment in my voice. That was the only way I could deal with this, by detaching myself. "She is ready."

My mother just nodded her head.

The waiter, a grey-haired man named Hubert, came back around with our drinks. I ordered myself three pancakes with a side of country-fried steak. My mother ordered herself a three-cheese omelet with a side of hash browns and toast.

"I thought you would've ordered an omelet," she said, "that's what you usually get. The same thing as your old mama."

I gave her a small smile. "Not today. I'm not feeling it today."

"You do look a little red-faced." She leaned forward a bit, narrowing her eyes as she looked at me. Her hand left mine and was pressed against my forehead. "Are you feeling okay?" she asked. I gave her a nod. "Jace, honey, your cheeks have gotten so fat!" That she stated with an amused smile. Her hand left my face and she leaned back in her chair, setting her hands in her lap. "You gettin' fat on me? That boy has been stuffing you."

Slowly, I took a sip of my water. "What does that mean?"

"It means you're getting fat. And that sweater, dear. It's dwarfing you," she expressed. Any other day, I would have taken offense, but there was humor in her words. "I'm your mother. I'm going to love you no matter how fat you get. You were a fat baby, y'know?"

I couldn't help the smile growing on my face. "My man feeds me well," I disclosed. "He brings me lots of fatty and junk food, and he cooks for me."

"Your man?" she asked excitedly, "You're claiming him?" 

"Yeah. He's my boyfriend." With that, I looked down at the surface of the table, playfully avoiding eye contact. I was blushing, I knew. I also knew that she was probably staring at me with her mouth hanging up. Once I looked up, it was confirmed. "Close your mouth. You'll catch flies," I assured her.

"You've been hiding so much, Jace!" she chastised. "What else are you hiding? How fat have you gotten?"

I rolled my eyes. "I look the same, Mom. I'm only wearing this sweater because it's my boyfriend's and it smells like him." That was only a half-lie. It did, in fact, smell like him and his cologne. "You, on the other hand, look ravishing."

"Don't make me blush, Jace," she said, grinning.

Once our food came, we quieted ourselves and ate. I tried not to look as excited as I was to have the food in front of me, but I had been hungrier lately. My appetite was growing. Just a few days ago, I had Ruggiero make me a bowl of vanilla ice cream with a dill pickle on the side in the middle of the night. It was not anything I ever thought I'd eat, but it was delicious.

After breakfast was finished, I kissed my mother goodbye and hugged her, careful not to let her squeeze me too much. I didn't want her to feel my growing figure nor did I want her to potentially hurt me.

At home, I found myself missing Ruggiero. My apartment felt too big for me, it felt too quiet. He was working overtime at the shop, he told me. Saturdays were his off days, but they needed him; Lucky was out today.

In the corner of my room sat a bag from the pharmacy. I bought it over a week ago, but I had been avoiding touching it. It would tell me the truth I already knew, the truth I was denying. I crossed my room and grabbed the bag from the corner. It had to be done eventually.

Walking to the bathroom, I took it out of the bag and crumpled the bag in my hand. First Response. More like an obvious response. I hadn't gotten my period in over a month. Eggs made me feel sick. The smell of pizza was nauseating. I was eating like a maniac. It couldn't be more obvious.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the pink box, took it out, and sat on the toilet. I peed and I waited. I already knew, so what I felt so anxious for, I didn't know. Part of me was hoping that it only displayed the single vertical line, that it would invalidate my suspicions.

A second line appeared, and I simply stared at it, unblinking. I knew Ruggiero would be excited, but all I wanted to do was disappear.

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