The Red Strokes - Chapter 8

Chapter 8 of my latest release, 'The Red Strokes', available on Amazon

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

The vanity in Mia’s bathroom looks like the cosmetics counter at Macy’s, lipstick sorted by shade to the right, individual eye shadows line a jewel-encrusted box in the center, and lip liners, eye liners and brow pencils in a matching cup to the left. She stares blankly at the box of shadows. Light for daywear, dark for nightwear, but what for funeral-wear. One-by-one she picks them up, turns them over in her hand, and then returns them to their place in the box.

“Darling, there are three times as many people outside today than there was yesterday�"and it’s raining. I’m wondering if telling the press was the best idea,” Roger says, as he peeks out a bedroom window.

She pushes the eye shadows aside and begins picking through lipsticks. “Of course it was. Please don’t get righteous on me. I get enough of that from my sisters.”

Roger lets the curtain fall back across the window. “If you ask me it seems your father knew what he was doing.”

She ignores his last statement. She knows that when he mumbles his words are meant more for his own benefit than for hers.

“Mom, do I have to go? I don’t feel good.”

Replacing the cap on her favorite shade of coral, she sets the lipstick on the vanity and meets Rowan at the bedroom door. She places a hand on his forehead and leads him to the bed. “You do feel a tad warm. Honey, what doesn’t feel well?”

“Everything. Can I go back to bed?”

Mia sits down next to him on the bed and wraps both arms around his shoulders pulling him into her. He used to be more specific when asked what hurt, but now all she ever gets are vague responses and generalizations. She knows his condition is worsening and can only pray that his indistinctness isn’t a sign that he is giving up the fight. The wait in his treatment had been emotionally crippling for her, but she can’t begin to fathom what it’s been like for her son.

“Honey, this isn’t for you or for me. This is for your grandfather. I promise that as soon as it’s over, no stops anywhere. Directly home and to bed.” She gives his shoulders a squeeze. “I’ll call Dr. Chaing before we leave and see if can fit you today, okay?”

Rowan stands and nods, but she catches his frustration. The sparkle that once danced in his gray-blue eyes had been replaced by pain, defeat, and sadness. She wonders if he notices the helplessness in hers.

The bathroom door opens and Roger says, “Did I just hear Rowan? Is he alright?”

She looks away. “He’s not having a good day.”

Roger sits down next to her. “I think we have to start thinking about the next step�"”

“No.” She interrupts.

“I know the doctors feel he should be a little older, but they aren’t the ones watching him give up a little bit each day. If he loses his will to fight I’m not sure a transplant will help at that point.”

She wants nothing more than for her son to be well, to be able to do the same things Stevie can do without pain or fatigue. She knows that a transplant is inevitable, but in a part of her that she can never share with another living soul, she felt relief when Dr. Chaing told her that he wanted to wait until Rowan was a little older before discussing that avenue. A transplant would save her son’s life, but the doors it would open and the questions it would raise would likely end hers as she knows it.

She pats Roger’s knee and stands. “I told him I’ll call the doctor and see if I can get him in today. Why don’t we wait to see what he has to say before we have this talk?” Rather than wait for his reply, she opens the door to her closet and begins casting outfits aside one at time.