Page 109 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
“‘I was looking up,’” I say in my best Deborah Kerr impression. Avery gives me a bemused smile. “You’ll understand in about two hours. And you’ll never look at the Empire State Building the same way. In fact it’s almost like the movie is a statement on the dangers of corporate excess.”
“Oh hush,” Mom says, pressing play. “It’s pure romance.”
The three of us gorge ourselves on butter-coated pumpkin seeds, licking our fingers to get all the salt. Cary Grant and Deborah fall in love on their cruise, even though they’re engaged to other people. Pure romance, my mother said. And it’s true. This is one of the most romantic movies ever made, except for the woman Cary Grant’s character didn’t marry. The man Deborah’s character didn’t marry. Strange, how love makes everything understandable. Even if it breaks someone else’s heart.
We reach the middle of the movie when I realize my mother’s fallen asleep, her head tilted to the side, the blueish veins visible in her eyelids. A knot in my throat, I pull up a blanket around her waist.
“Should I stop the movie?” Avery whispers.
I shake my head, but it’s not really an answer. Part of me wants to shake her, to demand she stay awake long enough to watch her favorite few minutes of her favorite movie. She’s been sleeping more and more, sleeping in late, taking naps.
The nurse told me it would happen.
Frieda also told me to consider a hospice facility, because this is one of many signs that my mother is dying. Her lack of appetite. The bruises that appear on her body even when she didn’t fall down. The way she sometimes wakes up without knowing where she is.
A hospice isn’t going to make that better. No, I should be the one who reminds her gently where she is. I should be the one who coaxes my mother to eat, who sits in vigil beside her while she sleeps.
I take her hand in mine, feeling how terribly cold it is. Unnaturally cold. That’s another sign from the nurse. Fevers and drops in temperature that come and go. How long? I asked her, but the nurse, so full of information, hadn’t wanted to answer that. It could be anywhere from a week to six months. Then you don’t really know. That’s what I wanted to scream at her. Instead I just thanked her with tears in my eyes, stupid, useless tears.
Avery hits the pause button on the remote and comes to kneel in front of us. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Is there anything I can do?”
“She’ll probably sleep for a couple hours,” I say, shaking my head.
A small smile. “I mean for you.”
That makes me laugh, a watery, strangled sound. “I don’t know.”
Avery takes my other hand, holding it as gently as I’m holding my mother’s hand. We remain linked like that, a chain of solidarity against an enemy that none of us can fight. And maybe that is what I need. Someone to sit here, quiet and still, not asking for anything.
Dark falls around the house, taking away the purple glow. “You should get home,” I murmur, my voice rusty as if I’ve been crying, but I haven’t been, not tonight. It’s like my body feels it the same way, even the times when I can hold in the tears.
“I can stay in a guest room,” Avery says, her hazel eyes troubled.
“Is Gabriel home?” I’m asking about more than his travel arrangements. I’m asking about whether he still feels distant to her. If she needs a place to stay as much as I need her to be here.
She bites her lip. “He had to extend his China trip.”
“Oh. Then by all means, stay in the guest room. We can watch the grand finale tomorrow morning over French toast, which is maybe the only thing that tastes better than roasted pumpkin seeds.”
“Do you think…”
I squeeze her hand gently. “Do I think what?”
“Do you think he would do that?” A glance toward the black TV screen. “You know, find someone else while he’s traveling. Fall in love with her while I’m so far away.”
“Oh God. Oh, honey, no. I shouldn’t have let you see that movie.”
“No, of course you should. It’s her favorite movie.” She glances at my mother’s face, her expression softening. “She deserves to watch whatever she wants to watch.”
“Gabriel Miller would never cheat on you.”
“Right,” she says, but she doesn’t sound sure.
“And if he did, I would cut off his balls and feed them to—”
“He probably isn’t cheating. I just wish he’d come home.”
The hint of doubt in her eyes makes me furious. Not the kind of furious where I want to yell at someone or stomp around. The kind of furious that’s cold and empty. Helpless. That’s what it makes me feel. Which is exactly what my mother’s cancer makes me feel.
