Stardust

The city lights stretch out, gold and red and silver, tall buildings built like spires stare defiantly into the heavy, charcoal sky. Heady raindrops blur the windshield, sloshing around along the asphalt as cars charge past in a bluster of wind. The air conditioning blows steadily onto my knuckles, turning them an unpleasant shade of gray, gripping the steering wheel. Mom lays in the reclined passenger's seat, her toes curled under her and her fingers clutching her fleece close. She's been asleep since we first set off towards home. It's been a long day.

I reach behind me and flip open the Dunkin' Donuts box, snag a bear claw, and stuff it in my mouth. Chewing so all the world can see, I signal to change to the right lane so I can turn off at the next exit. Home, Anacortes, is now about an hour away. Mom and I were up in Renton today as we are every few weeks for chemo and another dooms day report. Mom's doctor is this terribly serious English guy who wears pants that give him a male-camel toe and he almost never doles out good news. So every two or so weeks, when he announces that my mother is most likely going to die soon, prepare funeral arrangements, calla lilies are nice for such occasions, my hatred for him only grows stronger and mom's distress begins to exponentially build. But aside from Dr. Doom, the whole facility is nice and as homey as eminent death can be. Mom and I also get a kick out of this one nurse who looks and talks just like Jane Fonda. And they play this pretty cool spanish guitar music with pan flutes and glockenspiels around the center.

A gigantic rumbling comes across the sky, jostling the car so that the mirrors and the dashboard shake. Mom's head lifts up with a sharp intake of breath. "Shut up," she says groggily, her head buried in her sleeve once more.

"Good morning," I say casually.

Mom groans and she shifts, legs stretching out as far as the SUV will allow. She reaches her arms above her with a yawn. "I had a dream about paint samples," she mumbles.

I nod.

She nods too. "Some sort of shades of… umber."

"Brown?"

"…You're a boy, what am I thinking?" she grumbles.

The pain meds mom's on give her these really weird home improvement dreams. I suppose it could be worse, though.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Think you've got it cold enough in here?" she asks, changing the subject, like she does.

I switch off the air conditioning.

"Good boy."

And then we're quiet and mom's breathing slows and I know she's asleep again, curled up into a little ball once more. She looks small now. She's lost a lot of weight due to the therapy and she lost her hair in the surgery, so now she just wears a soft, green knit I gave her on her birthday a few years ago. It's really strange to see her like this, because my whole life she's been this huge, lively person. A… super mom, if you will. When I was younger she was my protector, my indestructible hero, coming to swoop me from off the playground, armed with Neosporin, Band-Aids, and a juice box. And now I have to try my best to return the favor. To stay strong and fearless for her, but I'm not sure if I can.

One of the nurses actually pulled me aside today and gave me some pamphlets about dealing with grief and the card for a psychiatrist who specializes in family losses. I wasn't sure what to say. I knew she meant well and she just wanted to help, but it was like she had given up and had already made up her mind that mom was going die, and I best prepare and say my goodbyes now. She told me to be strong and that I seemed like a good kid and “your mother really loves you, just know that. She talks about you all the time.” But it was like she was speaking in past tense, like she's already dead and gone and we're reminiscing. But that's not it. She's still alive and she still has hope and a fire and a life. She can still get better, she still has a chance, but she was giving up on my mom. And that pissed me off to no end. I tried to be civil about it, but she kept on talking and talking and trying to soothe me, pretending like she knew what I'm feeling and what I'm going through. But all she was doing was making me angrier and angrier until and I took all those pamphlets, ripping them between my fingers as she spoke and finally I just walked outside, slamming the papers in the trashcan on the way. She didn't come after me, but when I came back in later everyone who had witnessed it was giving me sympathetic looks. I'm getting really sick of that, those looks. So unintentionally sad, like I'm the one making them feel that way. I doesn't help. Not one bit.

The street signs streak past, buildings and houses and empty land wash away and down the storm drains with the rainfall. Soon Anacortes appears, and then our neighborhood, and then our house. The car's headlights flash on the empty windowpanes, and finally settle on the garage door. I take the keys and hop out, round the car to mom's door and tug it open. "Hey, Mom, we're home."

I gently shake her shoulder and her bleary eyes open slowly. Her shoulders shudder in the winter wind that cuts through the open passenger's door and she turns slowly to work her way out of her seat belt. I back up into the dark, heavy rain and glance up at the night sky. Dark clouds muffle the stars, only the small white moon shines, hovering over the slick tree tops. My eyes dart back to the Jeep as the door clicks shut and Mom stands shivering in her coat, closing her eyes to the cool moisture collecting on her cheeks. She's pale and purple and thin in the dark lightness under the rain cradling clouds. Her eyes open begrudgingly and her boots struggle up the slick driveway leading to the front door. I trudge behind her, hunched over in my coat, watching her in case she falters on the porch steps. The light on the front stoop clicks on as I unlock the door and follow Mom inside, the faint smell of vanilla and the soft lingering scent of cigarette smoke permeating the front room. The hall lights flickers on and I kick off my soaked shoes next to Mom's. She stifles a yawn.

"I think I'm gonna go on to bed, Finny."

"Do you need anything?" I ask, peering at her tired face.

She smiles at me half-heartedly. "I'll be alright." She ruffles my hair and I duck my head away with a grin. "Night, kiddo," she says and pulls me into a hug, patting my back heavily.

"Night, Mom. Sleep tight."

She gives a scout salute and disappears into her room at the end of the hall.



It's ten thirty and I'm out in the backyard, sitting on the wet grass, watching the sky as more and more stars are revealed. Clear nights are rare in Washington, and it seems really special, like it's a light show just for me. I know it's selfish to think like that, but it just feels like I'm the only one alive tonight. I dig my fingers into the grass behind me and slowly sink down to the earth, staring at bright, glimmering panorama overhead. I fold my hands behind my head and stretch my back out, feeling little pricks of cold water stain my jacket.

I'm reaching that full-out zen mode now. My eyes are drooping low and the sky goes all blurry and black and I'm a second away from sleep until—“Psst!”

I sit up fast and glance around the dark yard, my head spinning. I just catch glimpses of shadows, but no one appears to be there, but I still call out. “...Hello?”

“Fi-inn...”

I shift my eyes from side to side. “...Yeah...?”

“Finn...”

“Who is this?” I whisper.

“Finn.”

“What?”

“Finn.”

“What—stop it.”

“No.”

“Max,” I sigh.

“No fair! You weren't supposed to know it was me,” Max whines, her paint-stained arms leaning on the wooden fence separating our yards.

I clamber to my feet and head over to where she is, her wild red hair in a heap on top of her head. “Tough,” I reply indignantly.

She ignores me and flicks the scraggly strands of hair out of her face. “I'm coming over,” she announces and begins to monkey over the fence in her bare feet. I stare incredulously at her as she drops over on my yard with a satisfied grin, hands on her hips. She looks like a weirdo as usual in a huge beige shirt with golden retrievers on it and her color-stained skin and rainbow gashes that spiral down her arms. Max is a creative soul, and by creative, I mean nutty, bonkers, looney toons. She's been my neighbor since 7th grade and we've looked out for each other ever since. She's like the little sister I never had and never wanted to have, but, hey, you can't pick your family, or your neighbors, I suppose. “So, how did it go? How's your mom?”

“Ah... She's good, I guess. It's pretty much the usual, y'know,” I say, shrugging.

She cocks her head at me and gives me a curious look. “It doesn't look like the usual.”

I shrug again. “Well, it is.” I can't help but feel that Max is right, though.

“Do you need a hug?” she asks seriously.

“No, I'm—good.” But Max has me around the waist, her little rainbow tooth-pick arms pinning down my own so I can't move.

“Okay, I think we're done here,” I say, trying to pry her off me.

“Nope. Not yet. Hug back.”

I sigh and pat her arms as best I can without full use of my own appendages. This apparently appeases Max, so she lets go.

“Feel better?”

“Not really,” I say, rolling my eyes.

She shrugs it off. “So, what're you doing out here?”

I shake my head. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Mmm. Avoiding the question. Definitely hiding something,” she comments, stroking her imaginary mustache.

“Well, I think you should answer my question first, given that you're in my backyard,” I quip.

“But then again... Common curtesy. It's only polite to answer when someone asks you a question,” Max says. “Didn't your mother ever teach you that?”

“But what about ladies first, huh?” I grin.

“Fine, fine, fine,” she says. “My brother blew chunks all over the living room and I left before Mom could guilt-trip me into cleaning it up.”

“Ew. Nice one, Rodney.”

Max gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Oh, yeah. It was real nice. Regurgitated Taco Bell. Tasty.”

I nod appreciatively and sit down cross-legged on the grass once more.

“Your turn,” Max says and lays down on her stomach next to me.

“Couldn't sleep.” I shrug. “You know how sometimes home feels weird after you've been gone for a while? Like, it's not home at all? I dunno.”

“Yeah. I get that.” She nods and then stretches out on the ground like a cat. And then we're silent among the stars and the blades of grass and the barking neighborhood dogs. “Hey, Finn?”

“Yeah?”

“...Did something happen today?” Max asks.

I squint at the sky. “...Yeah. I mean, it's really nothing that different. It's just that it seems like mom's getting worse and everyone knows it and thinks it... it's the end, y'know?”

“It's not the end, though.” Max says, sitting up. “Your mom's strong. And you know that and I know that and they just don't know who they're dealing with, right?” She gently punches my shoulder and smiles.

“...Yeah.”

“She'll be okay, Finn.”

I hope so.

“Hey—look! A shooting star.” Max points up to the sky at a glittering bright light sailing downwards. “Make a wish.”

So I close my eyes and I wish with all my might.