Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
I shuffled to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I took a good, hard look in the mirror. I saw a nice enough face. A little rounder than I would've liked. But I'd always liked my eyes. They were definitely my best feature. Even back in my pimple-faced teenage years, I'd had one feature I felt good about.
I stopped in to check on Mom and found Nick sitting with her as they chatted companionably.
My heart filled up. Just like that. It didn’t matter that he looked like a model and I . . . didn’t. He liked me. More than a little. He wanted to be here.
And I thanked God for it. I thanked God for him.
“How was your nap?” my mother asked. I did my best not to be too obvious. I stole a glance at Nick and saw the smoldering look in his eyes. I was pretty sure my whole body blushed.
“Sorry. I guess I was tired.”
“Of course you were, sweetheart. You’ve been doing too much. Isn’t that right, Nick?”
He nodded in agreement.
“No more burning the candle at both ends. Especially now that Dana is here.”
“Dana? She’s here already?” I asked, looking around. I noticed a tray on the dresser. It had neat rows of medication and an open binder. I stepped over and saw that it had a list of Mom’s medications and a chart with times. Several of the times were already filled in for the day.
“I’ll show you everything,” Nick said softly from behind me. I stared at the binder, horrified.
“I should have been here when she did this.”
“It’s not a big deal, sweetheart,” he said. But it was. It was a big deal. I looked around again. The oxygen tank had moved up by the bed. Mom wasn’t using it. But I wasn’t even sure how to operate it if she needed to.
My eyes blurred as I stared at the page in front of me. There were drugs on here I hadn’t known about. A word jumped out at me.
Morphine. My mom was taking morphine. She must be in so much pain . . .
I forced a smile and excused myself, running for the kitchen. The sun was getting low in the sky. I should make dinner.
I was careful not to make too much noise as I took out some pots and opened the fridge. My eyes bugged out when I saw everything that was in there. The fridge had never been this stuffed. It wasn’t just groceries, either. A lot of the food was already prepped. Veggies washed and cut up. Two roasted chickens. A couple of store-bought pies.
I squinted.
No. At least one of the pies was a quiche. Normally, I loved quiche. It was one of my favorites. I pretty much loved anything that involved eggs or pastry. But I had no desire to eat.
My appetite was long gone, but that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was getting Mom to eat. I prayed I could get something together from all this that she could actually stomach. She normally loved food as much as I did. I was tempted to pile a plate high with options, but I knew that would only make her feel guilty and force something down.
I started pulling things out that I knew were easy on her stomach. A small serving of rice. Some plain chicken breast. A side of applesauce.
I heated up the food in the oven in a casserole dish, covering it with a lid so it didn’t get dry. I looked around for something else to do, but there was nothing. I didn’t even have to make iced tea or lemonade. I didn’t need to rush out to the stables to check on the horses. I had nothing to do but stand there and feel.
I knew everyone meant well, but having something to do might have made me feel less helpless in that moment. Distracted me from the unrelenting truth of my mother’s impending death. I slid to the linoleum tiles as the urge to completely melt down came over me.
I was being ungrateful. Didn’t care. Selfish. Didn’t care about that, either. But I shouldn’t be selfish. I couldn’t. Not now. I wasn’t the one who was sick. Mom should be the one who was upset. Instead, she was fine and I was the one who was on the verge of falling completely apart.
“Melissa?”
Nick stood in the doorway, looking worried. I brushed my wet cheeks off and stood. I hadn’t even realized I was crying. In a flash, he crossed the room to stand in front of me.
“I’m fine,” I lied. He didn’t budge. He didn’t reach for me, either. He must have sensed that touching me would shatter me in that moment.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” he said.
I looked away.
“She’s hurting and I was . . . we were . . .”