A searing pain threatens to split my skull in two. I try to pry my eyes open, but the room’s harsh light forces them shut again.
The room is filled with the soft hum of machines and hushed whispers, but despite my best efforts to stay conscious, sleep pulls me under, and I’m swallowed by darkness once more.
I come to again, this time jolted awake by a tug on my arm. I try to pull away, but my arm feels heavy, as if it’s made of lead. I blink my eyes open, but something’s off—I can only see out of my right eye.
Startled, I reach up to touch my face, but before I can, my hand is caught in a firm grip. “Don’t touch, Mr. Winter. You have bandages on the left side of your head.”
I turn my head, curious to see who’s speaking. It’s not the nurse from last night. This voice is different—sharper, yet somehow warmer.
A young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, stands beside me. Her face is smooth, her eyes large and brown, and she has a kind expression. “The surgery was successful. The doctor will be in later this afternoon to give you more details, if all goes well.”
I try to respond, but my tongue feels like it’s coated in sand, my throat as dry as a desert. The nurse chuckles at the sound of my dry mouth smacking.
After a while, I’m wheeled back to my room, and I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I wake up again, I notice someone sitting in my room, feet propped up on my bed. I’m surprised at first, but when I recognize the visitor, I can’t help but smile.
“Well, good morning, son. Did you bring the stuff I asked for?”
Rob doesn’t smile back. His face is grim. “This isn’t a joke, Dad. You said it was just a routine checkup, not brain surgery!” His voice rises with each word.
I lean back against my pillow, closing my eyes. “What was I supposed to do? Tell you I might have a fatal brain tumor? You lost your mom just over a year ago. I didn’t want to worry you. I thought it was just a routine checkup, not surgery. I guess I didn’t pay enough attention to what the doctor was saying.”
I apply my makeup with precision, adjust my favorite scarf, and take one last look in the mirror. My face looks white and bloated, and there are dark bags under my green eyes, the only part I still find a little bit beautiful about myself. A moan of disappointment escapes my lips, and I heave a deep sigh. I feel so not pretty.
From the bathroom, I hear a familiar tune and smile. Nena is still up, getting ready for bed. But I let her be—she doesn’t have school tomorrow.
I tap lightly on the bathroom door. “Hey, sweetie. I’m heading out. Be good!”
Before I can turn away, the door swings open, and I’m enveloped in a tight hug, peppered with kisses. “Have a good shift, Mom.”
I look at her, surprised. “What’s gotten into you? What’s the occasion?”
Nena giggles. “Just because I love you,” she says, spinning me around and nearly knocking me off balance.
“Bye, Mom!” she calls out, slamming the bathroom door behind her.
As I walk to the corridor, Bart comes out of the kitchen. His gaze passes over me and lingers on my scarf. I know he hates seeing me with a scarf around my head. He put so much effort into making me wear a wig, something I hated because it made me feel like a clown.
Quickly, I walk toward him to give him a kiss, but when I put my hands on his shoulders, he takes a step back. When our gazes meet, his is cold and dismissive.
“I have to work late tomorrow, so you’ll need to find a babysitter for Nena,” he says with a disdainful look as he pulls my hands away from his shoulders.
I stare at him, taken aback. “Tomorrow’s my last night shift. It’s on the calendar. You can’t just bail!” I practically yell as my surprise morphs into anger.
“Don’t make a scene,” Bart says while he rolls his eyes. “She’s thirteen, Alex. She can take care of herself.”
I only feel defeat at how he dismisses me. “It’s not that, Bart,” I plead. “It’s not just the babysitting. You haven’t been home much lately. I just want you to spend more time with her.”
He says nothing for a moment, just stares at me with contempt. Then he crosses his arms. “Listen, Alex. I’ve done everything for you these past few years. I sat by your hospital bed, listened to your constant whining. I nearly vomited every time you did. I always handed you a bucket and wipes when half of it ended up on the blankets anyway. I had always to clean up everything. I’m so sick of cleaning, and I’m so sick of chores. I need time for myself right now. Look, I’m happy for you that there are no metastases, but I’m tired of you bossing me around.”
His gaze travels over me again, and his eyes look so distant. “You can stop wasting your time with that makeup. No matter how much you put on, it will never hide your puffy face.” He turns abruptly, heading back to the kitchen. But before he disappears, he turns back to me. “Oh, and by the way, I won’t be home tomorrow night.”
