My stomach twists. I don't have the energy to pretend everything's okay. Or to hold my tongue.
I pick up anyway. "Hey."
"Kay. Hey." Mom's voice is soft. Loving. "How are you? How was your first day?"
"Okay. It's been Latin and American lit. Tomorrow is chemistry and creative writing."
Her voice perks. "Yeah?"
My shoulders rise to my ears. Is that a why would you waste your time or interesting, tell me more. "It's just an elective.
"
"No, sweetie. That's great. You've always been such a wonderful writer. Your grandma keeps going on and on about your stories. She misses them."
"Are you going to tell me the truth?"
"What?"
"About how she's doing?" I don't have the energy to pretend like I'm okay not knowing. Or to deny that things are fucked. They are. And I need to know how fucked.
"We're not sure. Honestly, I don't understand half of what the doctors say. Something about heart disease and clogged arteries. Her condition is terminal, but they're not sure if it will be months or years."
"Oh." It might only be months. It might be nothing at all.
"I asked Mr. Kane about the best time to fly you out. He wasn't sure."
It's so weird, her calling Brendon Mr. Kane. "Any weekend. I just need to know in advance. Jake will give me the time off." Probably. But even if he doesn't, I'm taking it. I've worked at The Pizza Kitchen long enough. I can find a better job if I have to.
"You're just starting now. You need time to adjust."
"I need to see Grandma."
"I'll check flights. See what I can do with miles. But school needs to come first, sweetie."
School can wait. School can happen next year. Grandma might not be around next year.
But this is the best I'm going to get from Mom.
That's okay. I have my own money. I can buy my own ticket to Jersey. She's not going to stop me once I'm there.
"Okay." My voice is a whisper. It's a million degrees today, but I feel cold. It might be months. And if it might be months, it might be weeks.
"Grandma wants to talk to you. I'll hand the phone over soon. When's your next class?"
"Half an hour."
"Tell me about it."
I do. I spill all the details of my day. My inability to sleep. My talk with Emma this morning. My professor bragging about all her Latin tattoos.
I don't say anything about how awful it feels, knowing Grandma might only have months.
Or about how bullshit it is that they've been keeping that from me.
I don't want to focus on that.
I want to focus on the good. On soaking up what I have while I have it.