BIANCA
Astonished, I watched Jackson go until finally he disappeared into the night, melting into the darkness like a phantom.
I went back into the restaurant in a daze, avoiding Eeny’s and Pepper’s excited questions with an order to get back to work that must have sounded appropriately sharp because they did what I asked, lickety-split.
The rest of the night was a fog. I kept seeing Jackson’s face when he told me I was beautiful. I kept going over everything he said.
I kept trying not to think about how a million dollars would change my life. And Mama’s.
I kept wondering what woman would take him up on his offer.
Because one would, I was certain of that. Somehow he’d find a woman who would be more than happy to take his money and give five years of her life in return. Lord, I could think of half a dozen off the top of my head. And then she’d be living in that icebox of a mansion and interacting with that sweet boy Cody and getting to see Jackson every day.
Maybe even getting to kiss him.
Or share his bed.
That was the part that really tripped me up. No sex. We could be married, and he wouldn’t expect sex. For heaven’s sake, what man in his right mind would offer that?
One who wasn’t in his right mind, that’s who.
Or one who was desperate.
I supposed Jackson Boudreaux was a little bit of both.
I didn’t know it then, but after another few weeks went by, I’d find myself both of those things, too.
The doctor’s office was like every other doctor’s office in the world. At least that’s what I thought, sitting with Mama in uncomfortable plastic chairs across from a desk in a room that was small and starkly bare except for a half-dead plant in one corner and a few framed diplomas on the walls.
“You okay?” I asked my mother gently, holding her hand.
She nodded, though I wasn’t buying it. She’d lost almost twenty pounds, her skin was ashen, and all her hair had fallen out, so she’d taken to wearing head wraps that reminded me of Eeny’s colorful turbans. Only there was nothing colorful about Mama now, in her clothes, skin, or spirit. Chemo had washed the once-vibrant woman into a sickly shade of gray.
“Mrs. Hardwick.”
Doc Halloran entered the room, manila folder in hand. He was bearded, stout, and red cheeked, and bore more than a passing resemblance to Santa Claus. He shook Mama’s hand, then mine, then settled himself behind his desk and opened the manila file.
“So?” I asked, impatient for an update on Mama’s condition. That’s why we were here after all.
Doc Halloran looked up at me. He turned his gaze to Mama and smiled. He said, “Good news.”
I just about fainted. Mama raised a shaking hand to her mouth.
He continued talking. “The scan shows the tumor has shrunk about fifty percent, which is where we needed it to be before we could do surgery. Your body has reacted very well to the chemotherapy drugs, Mrs. Hardwick. How are you feeling?”
Mama said softly, “Like I went twelve rounds with Muhammad Ali.”
The doctor nodded. “Once chemo is stopped, you’ll start to feel a whole lot better.”
My whole body was shaking. Water pooled in my eyes. I couldn’t catch my breath. I said, “So does this mean she’s going to be okay?”
Doc Halloran flipped the folder shut, leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands over his belly. “It means the treatment is working. Which is excellent, mind you. Many times we have to try several different drugs before we see a result. But I don’t want to sugarcoat anything. After we remove the tumor, we’re looking at an additional five to fifteen weeks of chemo to get any stray cancer cells that might have been left behind in the lung or chest wall. We also need to consider radiation, depending on the outcome of the surgery. The lymph nodes are only marginally involved, which is good, but we won’t really know if the cancer has been contained, or eradicated, for several months.”
He kept speaking, but all I could hear were the words five to fifteen weeks of chemo. My heart beat fast and furious as a hummingbird’s inside my chest.
We didn’t have the money for that. We didn’t have the money for surgery or radiation, either. I’d already applied for assistance from the local social services department and been told it could take months to get a response, and even if we were approved it wouldn’t cover much. I’d applied for online grants but knew those were a shot in the dark. I’d done everything I could think of to search for financial help and was amazed to discover that if you had lung cancer and no health insurance, you were basically up shit’s creek without a paddle.
“I’d like to schedule the surgery for the week after next,” said Doc Halloran, looking at me.
What could I say? No? It’s too expensive? I don’t have the cash to save my mother’s life?
Suddenly all my self-righteous arguments about why I couldn’t marry Jackson Boudreaux for money seemed as flimsy as a fart in the wind.
So I squeezed my mother’s hand and forced a smile. “Do it.”
When I got home that afternoon, I picked up the phone, called Jackson, and asked him if his offer was still on the table.