Page 3 of The Scientist
“Would you think about moving back if your mom gets better?”
“Whenshe gets better,” I corrected because I refused to think any other way. “I’ll be on the first flight home.”
“Meet you at Dim Sum Palace.”
We both worked late hours at our jobs and that was our favorite place to get takeout since they stayed open late.
“No need to threaten me with a good time, sir,” I said, playing along.
“Seriously, Hadley. I’ll wait for you as long as I have to. I know you said you weren’t in love with me, but it’s only been six months. We were good together. You have to admit that.”
“I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. I don’t expect you to wait for me.”
“I know you don’t, but I also know I’ve never felt this way about anyone. It took me by surprise when you told me you were moving and that we needed to break things off, but I’ve beenthinking a lot about it since then. When I can get some time off work, I’ll come and visit you. We can make this work.”
“Garrett—” I started to say, trying to let him down easy.
“Don’t say anything right now,” he cut in. “Just think about it. We can talk more after your mom has her surgery and you get settled in there.”
“I don’t need to think about it. We both need a fresh start.”
“You’re saying that now, but things can change. Your mom could have a quick recovery, and then you’ll be back in New York in no time.”
“I told you what the doctors said. She’s going to be in treatment for a long time.”
“Doctors are wrong all the time. Your mom’s tough. If anyone can beat this, she can.”
“That’s nice of you to say but—”
“I’ve got to get back to work. We’ll talk more about it later.”
He hung up before I even got a chance to respond. I put my phone down and pinched the bridge of my nose. This was turning out to be more complicated than folding a fitted sheet. I would just have to be more direct the next time we spoke. Would hiring a skywriter to etch it into the clouds be considered going overboard?
Okay, fine. Flock of carrier pigeons it is.
Chapter 2
“Are you nervous?” I asked as we tore through some of the best sushi I’d ever tasted.Damn you, California.Sunday night had rolled around, and my mom and I decided to venture out for a nice dinner before her surgery in the morning.
“Not really,” she said through a mouthful of the house California roll. “You did a number on my breasts when you were a baby, and they never regained the same pizazz they once had. Not too bummed to see em go.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Forgiven,” she said with a swish of her chopsticks. I looked over at her, thinking of how besides our coloring, there was no denying we were mother and daughter. My dark brown hair and green eyes were my father’s, but my bone structure was all my mom. She had beautiful, wavy auburn hair that she styled the same way for as long as I could remember—shoulder-length cut with her signature fringe bangs. “Besides, Dr. Gremillion said this surgeon, Dr. Fridman, was the best on the West Coast.”
“Yeah, but it’s still scary to go under anesthesia.”
She shrugged her petite shoulders, and I wondered if she was putting on a brave face for me so I wouldn’t worry.
“It’ll be worth it to get a new pair of knockers. Did I tell you insurance is paying a hundred percent of the reconstruction? They’ll be perkier than Elle Woods on her first day at Harvard.”
“I think I’m finally starting to see the upside to breast cancer,” I joked.
She raised her glass, and I lifted mine to meet hers. “To the upside of breast cancer.”
“To a great pair of knockers,” I added. We cheersed our lemonades and spent the rest of the night laughing and catchingup, trying to forget all about breast cancer and its many, many downsides.
The next morning, we got up around 5 a.m. and drove the fifteen minutes to the hospital. Marge was really sounding terrible, wheezing and groaning loudly every time I accelerated. The coast-to-coast drive did quite a number on her, and I was afraid I’d have to call in hospice soon. She was my dad’s car, which is why I was having trouble letting go. He died when I was eight, and I didn’t have much in the way of memorabilia, except for a few pictures my mom had saved and his beloved car, Marge.