Nathan Marsh's State of Being

Chapter Nine

I nodded dumbly. I couldn't feel my legs and I slumped down in my desk chair heavily. Everything felt tingly.

"Well is she going to be okay? I mean what's going on?" I pressed, hearing the panic in my own voice. It felt like an echo.

"We think it'll be alright."

"Think? What does that mean?"

"It's inoperable right now. The tumor." I felt like I was going to pass out, and my breathing quickened. The businessman in my dad came out then. His voice became firmer, like he was trying to sell me an idea. "But she's going to undergo chemo and then they'll check again to see if they can remove it."

"Where's the tumor?" I asked, feeling my hands begin to tingle now.

"In her left breast. She's going to start chemo soon--oh." His voice softened considerably. The businessman was gone and he was just my dad again. The same one from when I was a little boy. I wished I had ice cream. "Hey, Nathan. Don't cry, buddy."

His words registered in my brain and I realized at that moment that I was crying. In fact, I was sobbing, my breath ragged and getting caught in my throat. I squeezed my phone in one hand, the other gripping so tightly on the edge of my desk that the knuckles were white.

Hot tears flowed down my cheeks and dropped onto my lap, falling from my chin and leaving little wet dots on my sweatpants.

"I'm not crying," I choked, even though it was obviously a lie.

"Hey, hey. It's gonna be okay, buddy." His words only made me cry harder. I missed him, I missed our relationship from when I was so small. I missed everything from back when life was as easy as going to the beach and screaming at seagulls in the sunshine. "When you come home for Thanksgiving I'll be there. You're still coming home, right?"

I nodded, wiping tears off my face. My voice was thick, my throat sticky. "Yeah, I am."

"Good, good. I miss you, bud. We'll all be okay." He paused and I could hear someone speaking in the background of my dad's surroundings. Then he came back to me. "Listen, I gotta head into a meeting now for a conference call with Melbourne, but we'll talk more later. Okay?"

It seemed like my dad never slept. It was late at night and he was still in the office so he could talk business with people from across the world.

"Okay," I muttered.

But it wasn't. I wanted him to stay on the line. I wanted him to have never left us in the first place, having those calls with people from across the world in our living room and not some fancy city. I didn't understand why he always had to be somewhere new.

"Love you, kiddo."

"Love you too, dad."

When the line went dead, I cried even harder, head dropping down to rest on the desk. It was slick with tears and I thought about how I'd need to clean it later.

Then I felt a hand on my back and I jumped. My tears came to an instant stop as my body flew into flight mode, emotions changing so drastically I felt dizzy.

I turned to see Noel looking at me with soft, sad eyes. The late afternoon sun filtering into the room cast them a golden honey color.

"Shit," I said, hiccuping.

I didn't know when he'd come in. I could only remember hearing the blood rushing loudly through my ears as my chest felt like it was caving in as I spoke with my dad. I cringed at the way I must have looked and rubbed at my face even though there was really no point. It was obvious I had just been bawling my eyes out and from the look on Noel's face, he'd heard some of my conversation with my dad.

"I'm sorry," I said, forcing my voice to be steady.

Noel's brows furrowed and I couldn't look at him. "Don't be. Are you okay?"

I nodded, standing up and putting distance between us. His hand fell against his side, his fingers drumming over his black jeans. I said, "Yeah, of course. I'm fine. Don't worry."

"Nat, hey, don't--" he cut himself off as I stepped around him. "Uhm, you can talk to me. If you want to."

Noel looked uncomfortable and I hated it. His intention was kind but I knew he didn't really want to talk. I knew I wouldn't have if I were him.

We were in college. We were young and free and we were supposed to be having the times of our lives, not awkwardly walking in on our roommates crying in the middle of the day.

I shook my head and went to the door. I shoved my feet into my shoes and smiled down at the floor, hoping the falsified expression was mirrored in my voice.

"No, I'm good. I'm just gonna..." I didn't turn to look at him. I was mortified, devastated, and angry. I grabbed my jacket and slipped out of the room.

******

I spent hours wandering around campus by myself. I went to the library. I went to the student lounge. I got something to eat at the dining hall but couldn't finish it and left. Lastly, I went to the athletics building and walked laps around the track, wishing I'd bothered to grab my earbuds before I left my room.

I tried not to think about what had just happened, but of course that wasn't how things worked.

It was all I could think about.

How could my mom have cancer? How was it fair?

My mind filled with so many questions that I felt sick and my head hurt more than ever.

How long had my parents known before my dad called? Why was he still in Germany? Why did he always fucking have to be working?

I was mad at the world for allowing this disease to exist, but I was more prominently pissed off at my parents. I wished they'd been there more throughout my life. Because I loved them so damn much and now that the possibility was out there that my mom could actually die, I was angry for all the lost time.

I'd spent years upset with her for not letting us move around with my dad. He was my whole world, and when I was a kid, I didn't understand anything. I thought she didn't love him, that she didn't want to be with him and that's why she kept us in California.

Now, I knew it was because she wanted me to have a steady base. A place to call home and build lasting friendships. She tried to tell me so many times that it was for the best, but I never let her words sink in. I spent far too long seething and painting an evil picture of her in my head.

When I was in high school, I was more forgiving, but the damage had been done. I'd spent five years rebuffing her and wallowing in the loss of hardly ever seeing my dad.

In that time, my mom had grown distant, tired of fighting with me and realizing that no matter how hard she tried to connect with me, my walls were firmer than ever. So she put up her own as well.

I remembered her telling me a hundred times that I got my stubborn side from her own mother, whom she'd also never had a solid relationship with. And now she, my grandmother, was gone too.

I cursed myself as I walked around the track, wishing that I'd been a better son. I wanted more than ever to go back to the day my dad left for Sydney when I was ten years old. He'd spent weeks trying to convince my mom to let us both go with him for the next year. I remembered sitting outside their bedroom, holding my breath so they wouldn't hear me, and listening to them argue. I only caught bits and pieces of their conversations but the only thing I focused on was that she kept saying no.

Now, I couldn't stop myself from remembering the look on my mom's face, after we dropped my dad off at the airport and returned home, when I first screamed at her that I hated her.

I got off the track and left the building, tears pricking painfully at my eyes.

I sat on the curb outside, the cold night air making my cheeks burn.

I never hated my mom.

I hated myself.