Between Desire and Denial: Prologue

“Olive Bee, you have to stop trying to take care of everyone,” my mother whispered as she looked over at me, rubbing lotion on her hands. I’d made a specific salve of oat oil and shea butter mixed with tons of other oils just for her because most lotions didn’t work anymore.

Her skin was so dry and cracked it was almost lifeless. My mother, full of life months ago, now seemed extremely tired when she stared at me with her glassy eyes. It’s how I knew it wouldn’t be much longer.

“I’m going to be fine, Mom. Don’t worry, okay?”

She coughed again, then winced as the vibration rattled through her whole body.

“Do you need a nurse? More medication?” I was wound so tight I almost jumped up to yell for someone, but she steadied me with a squeeze of her hand, ever the calming force.

She turned her head and smiled softly, her chapped lips splitting under the strain. I dabbed at them and applied salve for her before going back to holding her thin fingers.

“No nurses. It won’t help anymore.”

“Of course it will. They have pain medication to tide you over until the next chemo round and then you get a break.”

She took a breath, then another as she turned away from me and looked out her window at the rain. It was supposed to be a sunny day, but the clouds had rolled in unexpectedly, unleashing buckets of water. I’d requested we switch rooms so she could at least see the sun some days, but she smiled at the raindrops before she said, “I’m not having more chemo, Olive Bee.”

Her words fell over me one by one. The shock of each of them was too intense to believe. “What?” I drew my hand away from hers, recoiling from the instant break in our solidarity against this disease.

“It’s too much.” Her brows crinkled as she looked at me and then played with the gold necklace she always wore around her neck. It was a calligraphy fountain pen, gold and beautiful. I knew it provided her comfort over the years. She used the pen always to practice her calligraphy before she couldn’t anymore, the pain in her joints getting to be too much. “I’m so tired, Olive. And your father shouldn’t—”

“Dad should be here,” I finished for her, anger bubbling in my veins as I said it.

She smiled softly, but I saw her pain as she said, “Oh, let him be, Olive Bee. You’re so mad at him, but you have to let it go.”

I wanted to rage on her behalf, to tell her she didn’t deserve a man like him. She deserved so much better. But I let it go for her. “You’re right. This isn’t about him.”

“Of course it is. He’s your dad. It’s about all three of you. I don’t care about myself anymore. I had you babies so that we would be a family, and this isn’t what a family is.”

“Mom, how can you say that? We’re a family, we take care of each other.” I took her hand back in mine, trying not to squeeze too hard, trying to reason with her when normally it would have been the other way around.

“Olive, you’re sixteen. So young. So much life ahead of you. You don’t need to be caring for your mother.” And that’s when a tear rolled down her face. “I was supposed to be taking care of you.”

My throat closed up, burned as I tried to hold back my unshed tears. We both knew that was the way it was supposed to be. But life’s unpredictable, just like the dark thunderstorm that rolled in on the perfect sunny day we’d planned for. We could plan for everything, but when the lightning flashes, the thunder erupts, and the winds whip around to disrupt our life, we can either wait it out or fight it.

I wasn’t ready to fold or give in. I blinked back the tears and tried my best to center myself before I said anything else.

“Oh, don’t do that,” she said, shaking her head at me. “Don’t hold back. It’s okay to cry, Bee. I’ve always loved how you wear your heart on your sleeve. You always let us know what you’re feeling. I’d like to see that from you, if only just once more.”

“You’re not leaving us, Mom,” I said, my voice clear and strong so she knew I was determined. My gaze didn’t waver either as I stared her down. “You can’t. Dad can’t even cook a meal, and Knox can barely get himself up in the morning for school.”

“I’m going to make sure to teach him to set an alarm, okay?” She chuckled.

“I can do it. I’ll wake him up,” I reassured her because she wasn’t understanding.

“No. Olive, you are a teenager.” She enunciated my age again like I was missing something. “Live life like you’re sixteen. Make mistakes. Live for you. And when you turn eighteen, you do whatever you want. Go where that big heart of yours leads you. Buzz around like a bee and touch every flower you can. Buzz like a bee and then come back to me.” She winked as she said the signature phrase she always used when I left the house.

“How can I do that if you’re not doing treatment, Mom? How can I do that if you’re not here to come back to?”

“I’m always going to be here in some way, Olive. And don’t you know? Bees are strong, baby.” She reached out and touched the little plumeria I always wore in my hair. “They go back to the flowers they know, and they find their way. You’re stronger than you think. You’ll see.” She said it with such conviction I was sure she had more faith in me than I did myself. I set my hand over hers and held it close as I bent my head to her chest and cried. Not because she told me I could but because I couldn’t hold it back anymore.

I was losing my mom.

I was losing my best friend.

My only friend.

She left us that night after fighting for every extra second she could.

My father wasn’t even there to say goodbye.