Everything Between Us by Mila Ferrera Page A

buttering the garlic bread. She smiles when she sees me and turns her cheek so I can kiss it. I put my arm over her shoulders and inhale the scent of her lasagna, which is in the oven. “When’s Dad going to be home?”
    “Any minute. He just ran out to get some ice cream.”
    I grin. “You and your ice cream addiction.” My mom’s built like a bird, but she eats like a horse. I squeeze her shoulders, and she winces. I let go quickly. “Sorry. Are you all right?”
    She looks away and nods. “Can you get the plates and forks?”
    My stomach twists, but not with hunger. “Sure.” I set the table while she finishes dinner, and my dad comes in with a carton of caramel praline. Instead of his usual jokes, he gives me a tight smile and heads for the kitchen to help my mom. Now I’ve almost completely lost my appetite. Something is very wrong. I sit down in my usual spot. Across the square table is a blank space where my younger brother Nate would sit if he were here. This is how I grew up, and I took it for granted until I met Caleb, whose foster parents lived next door. Every single day of my first eighteen years of life, my parents and brother and I would sit here for dinner. My mom trained us all to say something about our day, and to ask questions about how everyone else’s day was. When any of the four of us is missing from this table, it doesn’t feel quite right to me, though I’m sure I should be used to it by now.
    My dad comes in with the heavy lasagna pan and sets it on a trivet in the center of the table, and my mom brings in a basket with garlic bread wrapped in a paper napkin spotted with melted butter and dried flecks of herbs. I grab a knife and start to serve the lasagna, just to have something to do. They’re both too freaking quiet, and it’s shooting my blood pressure into the stratosphere. When all of us have food on our plates, my dad says grace and we all pick up our forks. I keep waiting for them to tell me what’s up, but instead they ask me questions about how my work is going and if I’m feeling excited about the gallery exhibit. I answer because it would be rude not to, but the whole time, my throat is getting tighter and tighter.
    Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I set down my fork. I wasn’t using it to do more than poke at my food anyway. “Guys, you asked me to come over so you could tell me something. Can we just get that part over with?”
    My mother’s lips press together. She glances at my dad, who nods at her. It takes her a few long seconds, but eventually she meets my eyes. “I’ve been feeling more tired lately. A little short of breath.”
    “I know,” I say. “You said you thought it was asthma?”
    She nods. “Or a dust allergy. I did have to clean out your brother’s closet in December, and I had no idea he was such a packrat.” She smiles, but it fades quickly. “But it didn’t go away, and so I made a doctor’s appointment.”
    “You never mentioned that.”
    “I didn’t want you to worry if it was nothing.”
    Under the table, I’m gripping my thighs and doing my best to keep looking at her, to keep listening.
    “I’ve had a lot of tests over the last week or two, and yesterday, we finally found out what it was,” she says, her voice getting raspy. My father takes her hand and she squeezes his fingers. Her eyes go shiny, and mine probably do, too, because goddamn, seeing my mother cry is like having someone dig a dull knife into my chest. She shakes her head, and that’s when my dad takes over.
    “Your mother’s been diagnosed with Stage II lung cancer. Something called an adrenocarcinoma.”
    I slump forward a little as I absorb that blow. “What does that mean?”
    “I have to have surgery to remove a tumor,” my mother says quietly. “And then it’s chemo.”
    “What does it mean ?” I repeat, staring into my dad’s eyes. My eyes are burning. My throat is burning. I feel like someone’s filled my chest with broken glass.
    “The