Everything Between Us by Mila Ferrera Page B

five year survival rate isn’t bad,” my mom continues. “It’s fifty percent or so. I don’t mind those odds.”
    “You don’t?” I snap. “Because I do.”
    “Son—” says my dad, but I don’t need him to continue.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, Mom.” I clamp my eyes shut. “You just—” I don’t even know how to say it. You’re my mom. I love you so fucking much and I can’t deal with this. But I have to. She doesn’t need to worry about me—she needs to worry about herself. I slow my breathing and think of tablecloths and garlic bread and toothpaste and possums and sable hair paintbrushes. I hook onto any piece of randomness as it floats by in my thoughts, and I hold on tight. It works. I open my eyes. “I’m glad you told me,” I tell her. “I’ll be there, whatever you need.”
    Her expression crumples, as does my dad’s. “We know that, Daniel.”
    I reach for her hand, and she gives it to me. My dad reaches over and grasps my shoulder. We stay like that for a minute, my thumb stroking over Mom’s skin, which feels painfully thin and fragile, and then we all let go. It’s a silent agreement—time to get on with it. A moment later, my dad is talking about his moronic boss’s latest antics. My mom talks about a movie she watched last night. I talk about how Caleb’s got a girlfriend, and they grin and wonder if they should invite us all over for dinner. After , is what we don’t say. After we get through this. After is the space between our words, between every topic that comes up. It’s there in every pause, every sentence that trails off, every sigh.
    When we finish up, my dad and I do the dishes. We talk about hockey and whether the Red Wings have a shot this season. He’s right on the edge, just like he was when Nate shipped off, and so I know I have to keep it light, because that’s how we do. Neither of us is going to talk about what’s going to happen to Mom, because what’s the fucking point? We can skim the surface or we can dig deep, but the outcome won’t change regardless—and one of those two options hurts a lot less than the other.
    After I dry the last dish and put it away, I sit in front of the TV with Mom and watch her instead of the screen. Then I kiss her and drive back to my apartment. I sketch, I watch more TV, I play Assassin’s Creed, I jack off, I take a shower, I go to bed. I’m fine. Just like always.
     
    I get up before the sun and go to the gym, where I lift weights and push myself until my spotter gives me this look that says I’m scaring him. But I need the fatigue, the heaviness in my muscles that weighs me down and keeps me from wanting to make any sudden moves. On the way to Stella’s, I flip through channels on the radio. There’s supposed to be a major storm coming in a few days, but it’s late January in Michigan, so what else is new? I pull up to the side entrance and go in, my heart already thumping a little harder, but Liza meets me in the breezeway. Her hair is loose and she’s dressed more casually than usual. She grins when she sees me. “I was hoping I’d see you before I left.”
    I stand still as she wraps her arms around my neck and presses her hips to mine. It does nothing for me, but she doesn’t notice. She kisses me, sliding her tongue between my teeth and squeezing my ass. Still holding my sketchpad and toolbox, I do my best to give her what she wants. Finally, she pulls back and smears her thumb along my lips, telling me I’m wearing her lipstick now. “The car’s coming for me in a few minutes.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “Spa. Just for a week. Lou’s off to Germany with one of his little playthings, and I really need to get away. But don’t worry …” Her hands slide down my sides. “I’ll be back in plenty of time for your gallery opening.”
    I smile, hoping it fools her. “Cool. So … is Stella going with you? I mean, you seemed pretty worried about her.”
    She gives me this are you