Tell Me Something Real Read Online Free Page B

Sometimes I open my dictionary and read the definition of “terminal” as a reminder. Miracle drug or not, Laetrile won’t save Mom. She says so herself. When we point this out to Dad, he tells us that hope gives her strength, gives us all more time, more days, maybe weeks, maybe even months. He looks like he’s aged ten years too. I didn’t know you could watch someone’s hair turn gray. His full head of hair has lightened from sandy blond, the gray almost looking sun bleached.
    Mom picks the cheese off a second piece of pizza. “What time is Zach picking you up?” she asks Adrienne.
    â€œIn an hour.”
    â€œLet’s play a game. Why don’t you get Parcheesi?”
    We crowd around the kitchen table taking turns playing the Royal Game of India. Marie teams up with Dad and we all let Mom win. She knows we’re doing it, and with each roll of the dice, she looks happier reaching this small victory. It’s like we’re carrying her over the finish line.
    After Adrienne, Dad, and Marie leave, I rinse the dishes. Dad came home with a dishwasher the week we found out about the leukemia. In my mind, I link the machine to Mom’s decline, another failed attempt to treat her illness. I only remember seeing her use the dishwasher once, loading it for the inaugural wash.
    â€œDo you want to rest, Mom?” This is a record: two hours straight without needing to lie down.
    â€œI’m okay. I have some energy. Do you wish you had gone with your father instead of babysitting me?”
    â€œI’m not babysitting you,” I say.
    â€œWant to play another round of Parcheesi?”
    Suddenly, I want to do anything but sit in the kitchen. Last year, it would have been inconceivable to scatter in different directions. Mom and Dad would have planned something special, like dinner on a boat—anything to mark the beginning of summer. Last year we went to the Hotel del Coronado and listened to music, a dozen men playing trumpets and clarinets. Dad loves big band jazz, and he’d persuaded all of us to dance. I flinch at the memory.
    â€œIf that’s what you want,” I say.
    â€œYou look disappointed.”
    I shrug. I want to go to Swensen’s for ice cream or see a movie: Bad News Bears or Freaky Friday . Even Jaws for the sixth time—it’s still playing at the second-run theater. What I really want to see is Taxi Driver , but I know she won’t take me to anything R-rated. I’m old enough for cancer, but too young for sex and blood.
    â€œWhy don’t we go to a movie?”
    â€œI’m sorry, but I don’t want to overdo it.”
    I look at the silverware scattered at the bottom of the sink, like silver fish flailing in a shallow pool. Maybe I should have gone with Dad. I want to be with Mom, but in this moment, I want to be out of the house, with or without her. Nothing sounds better than the cool, quiet movie theater.
    â€œThe theater isn’t far. I’ve been practicing. I could drive with my permit.”
    â€œI said I don’t feel well enough, Vanessa.” Her voice sounds thin.
    I can’t turn around and look at her. “I meant I could drive myself.”
    â€œThat’s out of the question.”
    â€œWhy? It’s the last day of school. I want to do something fun.”
    She coughs and I listen as she sips her tea. “You should have gone with one of your sisters. I’m sorry I’m not any fun.”
    â€œYou used to be.” The words fly out, and while I knowthey hurt—they hurt me—I can’t bring myself to stop. “Why can’t you go? All you have to do is sit there. That’s all you’d do here.”
    â€œLook at me,” she says.
    I feel equal parts embarrassed and angry. I collect a handful of silverware and shove it into the dishwasher. The forks clank in protest.
    â€œYou’re acting like a child.”
    I turn to face her. “That’s