And Then There Were Five

Sleeping Alone

Elinor

I got home later than I intended to, and when I throw my backpack down on the hardwood floor, my mother, as always, shouts for me to identify myself.

"Your favorite daughter," I call out, comforted by our daily, school-year banter. 

"Funny," she replies, calmer now. "I thought I only had one daughter."

"I forced the other one out of the picture," I say humorously, strolling into the living room to reveal myself to her in the flesh. "Nobody could compare; it'd be too humiliating to try."

Mom smiles before coughing into her elbow. The sound isn't pleasant--it never has been. After adjusting her cannula and taking a deep inhale through her nose, she says to me, "I fixed dinner for myself, so no need to worry about turning the stove on."

"I thought I'd be home sooner," I try to cover. "I'm sorry. Really--"

She shoos me away. "Stop that. I don't depend on you for food. If I'm hungry enough, I'll get on my own feet and make something."

I grin at her. "So you've been plenty capable all this time? Am I no more than free labor to you?"

Mom shakes her head, not taking the teasing bait. "How did your friends like your hair?"

I merely shrug. "I look like every other teenage liberal at Earhart, minus the bottle cap pins that advocate for pro choice and an end to climate change."

"Watch your mouth!" she snaps, pointing a finger at me. "Climate change is a real thing!"

I put my hands up in surrender, laughing my way over to the kitchen sink where a pile of dishes wait for me. "So how long were you on your feet before you had to sit down?" I ask without glancing at her as I begin to run the hot water into the sink and pick up the sponge.

She hopelessly groans. "Five minutes."

"That's two minutes more than your last attempt at cooking! What did you make?"

My mom shamelessly rolls her eyes. "A quesadilla."

Do I love this routine I have with my mom? Of course. Despite the dirty dishes every day and the inability to stay on campus without fearing my mom's wellbeing, it's worth it. As of right now and the past year, I wouldn't trade this life for anything. But slowly, I'm starting to fear that I can't shake the thoughts of what could have been.

I had always had hopes of attending a nice college, or at least a school that didn't feel like a transition between two wonderful points in time. Never could I have imagined enrolling in a college that felt like an eternal purgatory because we got bad news about my mom right before senior graduation. That's not to say Earhart is a complete shithole--because it isn't--but it isn't what I had envisioned either. 

But I suppose there isn't much you can do when your parents had orchestrated a civil divorce years in the making and then right after the split, you learn you mother has lung cancer.

"Dad leave anything in the fridge?" I ask as I fight with bits of what looks to be dried cake batter in a glass pan.

It did not surprise me when my parents still went through with the divorce, even after the diagnosis. They hadn't been happy together for a long time, but it seems the legitimate severing of their marriage made the dust settle. He stays with her while I'm at school and works from home, and then, I come home after dinner with my friends so he can go out for a meal and go back to his apartment. I've never had the guts to ask if I've ever come home to relieve him for a date, nor do I have any intention to do so anytime soon.

"He ordered a pizza for lunch. Maybe some grilled chicken from the night before. I do know he found the sliced honeydew--"

"Bastard," I snarl, which sends my mother giggling. "Did he bake something after I left this morning?" I ask, about to square up to this insufferable, dirtied pan. "I can't get this stuff off the sides."

"Brownies," Mom corrects. "Didn't share a damn one of them, too."

The night wears on, and it's all the same. Me finishing the dishes. Grabbing whatever scraps Dad left behind for me to scavenge through. Mom and I watching reruns of Friends until she feels her eyes getting heavy. Her insisting she can sleep on the couch, and yet, I still walk her to her own bed and turn out the light. 

For the first time in hours, I unlock my iPhone and check for any messages. 

47--all from the group chat I had set to do not disturb.

Most of the messages are about Valencia's Bid Day or pictures from it. Congrats from Archer and Jagger, heart eye emojis from Kamya, and snide comments from Wiley. Valencia, to her credit, kept her ass in her jean shorts--unlike most of the other girls. When I flip over to Instagram, her page is littered with recent posts of her and her "bid day buddy", "new sisters", and the phrase "bet day ever".

Bothered, I set my alarm for the morning ahead, set my phone on my nightstand, and collapse into bed. As I stare up at the popcorn ceiling in my room and run a lazy hand through my abnormal hair, I feel the urge to cry, even knowing nothing will come out.

I'm sleeping alone. It's not that I want to sleep with someone, but I never even got the chance to sleep in the same room as my friends. I was able to confide in the girls for all of five minutes freshman year before I felt a wave of agony and reality come crashing over me, and they let me go home unbothered. Still, I regret never spending even a single night in the dingy Demarco dorm beds.

I do note, though, I don't feel shame when it comes to having a mom with cancer. I'm just not...a sympathy person. Or at least that's what I have to tell myself. My dad raised me to be tough, and considering the hand of cards I've been dealt with as of late, I've got no other choice but to bluff my feelings away--which has mostly been working out. 

Knowing I'll be up all night until I do so, I pull out my phone one more time, search up a contact and my message history, and type out what should've been said hours ago.

"You look great, Val! Happy for you!"

2 minutes later, I get a notification that Valencia Jimenez loved your message and decided to shut my eyes for the night. 

+++

I knew I was dreaming when I realized I wasn't having leftovers for dinner in my house and my hair was back to its natural dirty blonde. Instead, I was in a graduation gown that did not match Earhart's school colors, tossing my hat so high in the air that I almost imagine that it'll never come back down. 

But when it does, I smile so wide that my face hurts, and the first person I lock eyes with is my mother. No cannula. No struggle to stand up and applaud for me. No cancer. 

I'm almost thankful when my morning alarm blares and keeps me from finding out if my dad is holding her hand lovingly in this twisted dream.