The Shine Journal

Spy Games

by

Salena Casha

“It’s nothing,” my mother said, covering her neck with her hand. My eyes widened, staring at the yellowish bruise that was tattooed across the middle of her throat. I raised my eyebrows, staring as hard as I could into my mother’s eyes.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” she repeated. “I just had to go to the hospital for some tests. You know, a monthly check up.”

I narrowed my eyes, but she shrugged and slipped away from me, saying I should pick up my sister from school. Maybe it was my love of mystery novels or my intense fascination with spies that drove my imagination into hyper drive. Knowing it would be useless to pursue the subject, I grabbed the car keys, and left the house.

Over the next few weeks, my mother sent me to pick up my sister more than usual. She kept telling me she had lots of doctor appointments. Whenever I asked her what they were about, she would simply say, “Nothing. You know, checkups.”

The phone started ringing nonstop, the hospital number illuminated in flashing letters on caller ID. My parents became secretive. They had discussions late at night in whispered tones that made my stomach flip with uneasiness. Whatever was happening couldn’t be good. I kept asking them if anything was wrong, but time and time again they closed me out, refusing to tell me what was bothering them.

One night after more doctor’s appointments, I went to sleep so agitated about the whole ordeal that my discomfort about reality oozed into my dreams. In the dream, I sat in a white windowless and door-less room. A plastic table and three wooden chairs were arraigned at the center of the room. On the table was a blank piece of paper. Without thinking, I folded it in half as though I was making a home-made birthday card.

My sister appeared next to me in the chair to my right and then my mother entered. Her face was faded, nearly transparent. She smiled at me and nodded at the card in my hand.

“I want you to write all the things you wanted to tell me,” she said, her eyes crinkling.

“Wanted to tell you?” I asked, staring at her in surprise.

“Yes,” she said. “Last night, I died from cancer. Write everything you wanted to tell me before I leave on that card.” As she spoke the last word, her image began to fade, her body becoming spectral. I scrambled for a pen, dashing words as fast as I could onto the paper, the ink running with my tears. I could feel my hand cramping, sobs escaping my lips.

And then, I woke up. My face was wet and I wiped my hands across my eyes. I felt empty as I woke up and nearly burst into tears again when I saw my mother standing at the kitchen counter, drinking her tea. That bruise still remained, unaccounted for, on her throat. She must have noticed my pained expression because she set down the mug, the porcelain clinking against the granite countertop.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her brow creasing.

I shook my head, looking away from her gaze, and walked around the whole day contemplating my dream. It wasn’t real, I tried to reassure myself. It’s all in your head. But I could hear the phone ringing. I could hear my parents’ whispered tones. When my father came home from work that night, he asked us how our days were.

I hesitated, the air crushing down on me. I remembered the tears that had stained my pillow the night before. “Not good at all,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.

I took a deep breath, my fingers nervously curling into fists by my sides. Opening my mouth, I let all my worries spew out. My eyes watered as I recounted the dream, a pang of loss shooting through my body.

“I didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye,” I whispered, wiping a hand across my face. “Everyone was being so secretive and I was scared that there was something wrong,” I choked out. I hoped that they would comfort me, that they would wrap their arms around me and tell me I had nothing to worry about.

“We all need to talk,” my father said. My stomach clenched, his words slamming into my gut. My mom sat down on the couch and the rest of us sat down on the floor of our living room.

“She has thyroid cancer,” my father explained. His gaze was serious, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening as he looked at us.

“But I’m not going down without a fight,” my mother said, squeezing my hand. Always optimistic. I hugged her knees, burying my face in her jeans. Why did something so terrible have to happen to her? Why couldn’t it be me? Her image winked in and out of my mind’s eye as the dream flashed before my eyes.

“We’ve got the best doctors who are going to take good care of her,” my father continued. “And if you have any worries and any questions, you can always talk to me.” We all sat together, holding one another as hard as we could because we were all afraid of slipping away. The realization of your worst nightmare is far from comforting because dreams do not belong in reality.

Cancer survivor. I always repeat it to myself whenever I think of the dream and the image of her slipping away from me. She survived. What reassured me was that my mother would not become a statistic of those who died from cancer. Instead, she was a number that held much more importance to the world, the kind doctors used to keep up morale. She was among the people who had created a 96% survival rate. Among those who would push others to dream that maybe they could outlast their fate. Among those given the chance to live.

BIO: Salena Casha is a freshman at Middlebury College intent on majoring in English. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Niteblade Magazine, Six Sentences, Sonar 4 Ezine, Muscadine Lines, and Writer's Bloc (Rutgers).

Image by: Eduardo Schäfer