I whisper, “I’m on my way,” as my phone slips from my hand, dropping to the floor.
This is what I’ll remember later: Lukas gathering up the pieces—of my cracked cell phone case, of me. Ushering me to the passenger seat. Getting my inhaler out of my purse and pressing it into my hand. It will occur to me later how unhesitating he was.
The first time, the diagnosis shook my world like an earthquake. I clutched the door frames; I fell to my knees. And when it was over, we straightened the photos on the walls. We swept broken vases into the dustbin. I let myself feel relieved, even if I never forgot the fear.
“This isn’t possible,” I whisper, somewhere between downtown and my house.
I can hear everything: the low blast of the air-conditioning, the hum of the engine. The cringing silence from Lukas.
“She had a lumpectomy.” I say this as if it refutes a new diagnosis. I say this as if he hasn’t been there with me through everything. “They said it worked. She didn’t even need a mastectomy or chemo.”
Lukas scratches the back of his neck. “We just don’t have all the information yet. It could be really, really minor. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
The first time, we repeated that refrain over and over. It was our credo, our hymn. I prayed while scrubbing dishes after dinner. I prayed with every stroke, back and forth, back and forth, down my swim lane. I prayed while walking between classes.
I didn’t even beg God—I said I trusted that His will would be done.
I should have begged.
“But . . . you’re not sure,” I realize out loud, turning to Lukas. “No one can be sure.”
“Well, it doesn’t help to think like that. We have to trust God on this one.”
He turns onto my street—how did we get here so quickly and so slowly? We’ve lived in the parsonage for ten years, and it’s felt cozy and worn in since the first day. It’s ancient—silver-sheened radiators, narrow hallways, and floral wallpaper in the bathroom that we never bothered to take down. Instead, my mom decided to embrace antiquity. She hung lace curtains, bought a beautiful brass bed for my room, and put out her collection of old quilts. Why am I thinking about this? My present reality has detached, and it is floating away like a child’s lost balloon.
“Wait.” I reach across the console to grip Lukas’s arm. “Pull over.”
Lukas obeys, drifting the car to the side of my tree-lined street. The church looms ahead of us. It’s so close to our house that in the daylight, the steeple casts a shadow across our roof.
Leaning forward, I try to slow my breathing. “I just . . . I need to get it together before I walk in there.”
He nods. Of anyone in the world, Lukas would understand my need for composure. It’s like a tacit agreement in his family: straight-back shoulders, soft expressions, always in control. Their whole house is full of tall windows and cream linen upholstery. The possibility of smudges or stains will simply not be indulged.
“It’s my mom, Lukas. My mom.” These are only two words, but they glint with a hundred facets. She’s my closest friend, my cheering section, my nurse, my teacher, my confidant. The least I can do is collect myself and try to handle this with grace.
“I know,” Lukas says quietly.
When my mom was originally diagnosed, I tried to memorize her. Even in small moments—ducking her head into my room to say good night, singing along to the radio in the kitchen—I mentally freeze-framed every detail. Curly hair to her shoulders, always pulled back to reveal her trademark dangly earrings. The soft, pale skin that she rarely covers with makeup. The wide-set hips, so like mine, that she has never once complained about.
Deep breaths, air expanding my lungs until they ache.
“Hey. You’ve got this.” Lukas reaches over to clasp my hand.
He says this when I’m nervous before a swim meet. But these types of inner strength pull from different reservoirs. Competition jitters call for adrenaline, for confidence. Your mother’s mortality? I have no idea what that requires. Faith? Because I tried that before.
Lukas means well, though, with his clammy hand on mine.
I give myself one last slow exhale, then a puff of my inhaler.
“Good?” Lukas asks. He’s seen a few stress-induced asthma attacks, and each time, he calmly talks me through it.
“You’ve got this,” he repeats, with one last hand squeeze.
This is what I’ll never, ever forget: My parents waiting for me on the couch. The stiffness of my beaded dress as I sink into the armchair. It’s in my breasts again. My mom’s soft hands holding mine. Gonna fight it. The teakettle shrilling. Double mastectomy. Sipping for the comfort of the heat, not even able to taste the mint. Trusting in God like we always have. How quickly I fastened a mask of bravery onto my face.
“We don’t want you to worry,” my mom says. “Surgery is scheduled for Monday morning. That’s the first and hopefully only step.”
“This Monday morning?” I gesture down at my ridiculous, jewel-encrusted dress. “You let me get all dressed up and go to prom when . . . when this is happening?”
“Oh, honey.” She looks so genuinely sad, like telling me is the worst part of all this. Pressure builds behind my eyes, but I refuse to succumb to tears. “We wanted you to have your night. You deserved that much.”
But don’t they see? Prom night—my perfect prom night—doesn’t matter at all compared to this. Why do they think I’ve stayed home every Friday of high school for our family movie night? Because I swore—to myself and to God—I’d never take this for granted, and I meant it.
“How long have you known?”
My parents exchange guilty glances, and for the first time in my life, I wonder if they’ve lied to me before. If protecting your child trumps the ninth commandment. It’s my dad who speaks this time. “They found a lump at a checkup two weeks ago, and the biopsy came back pretty quickly.”
Maybe it would be different if I had a sibling, but it’s the three of us. I’m the only one who’s been going on her merry way while the rest of this family worried, suffered, planned ahead without her.
“And when were you going to tell me?”
My dad answers more steadily this time. “Tomorrow morning. Before I tell the congregation. We didn’t want you to worry for any longer than you had to.”
I understand their good intentions—I do. But understanding doesn’t make me feel any less lied to.
“Oh, Luce,” my mom says. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”
“I’m sorry it’s happening at all.” Yes, I feel burned by their secrecy. We’re supposed to be a team, and I’m old enough to handle this. But mostly, I wish there was no awful diagnosis to keep secret in the first place.