One Last Miracle [complete]

XVIII

XVIII

one month, twenty-six days...

"I was going to buy that one! Dad, tell Alyson she can't buy it!"

"She landed on it before you did, Rick."

"But we made a deal!"

"This is Monopoly—no one makes deals."

"Mum!"

She only laughs. "Rick, you have more money than your sister anyway. You're winning."

Rick pouts like the whole world is against him.

I wink at him as Dad passes me the card for Boardwalk. "You are winning," I say, because he is by about ten grand. Mind you, that's because everyone is letting him but no one will tell him that.

"You took the one I wanted," he grouches.

I roll my eyes, not even bothering to respond. Truth be told, I've missed this: family board game night every Friday. Throughout the period of my diagnosis and treatment, a lot has had to be sacrificed—and that's included family traditions like these.

"Anyone thirsty?" Mum stands, straightening her pile of money. "I'm grabbing some water so if anyone wants anything tell me now."

We all respond with some variant of no, so she leaves the kitchen table to head into the kitchen. Still watching the game go on, I watch her out of the corner of my eye. Even as she opens the fridge to get the water jug out, given how far she is, I don't miss the sad smile on her lips. Since the start of the game she's been staring at me as though she can't believe I'm actually here—like I'll disappear if she looks away. She's feigning that everything is perfectly fine but I know she's on the verge of tears.

I want to say something but I know that will only make it worse.

Her chair scrapes on the wooden floor as she returns from the kitchen to sit down again and take her turn. After her go, anticlockwise from her, I take my roll, moving my piece. I pretend to be put out at paying dad his rent from my tiny cash pile.

Next, Rick takes his turn. As he counts up the dice, offhandedly he says, "Why haven't we done this for so long?"

For him, it's nothing but an innocent moment of curiosity. For the rest of us though—who go eerily still at the question, myself included—it's so much more than that. Its layers and layers of deceit and pain. All those times I needed to go to hospital for treatment but we acted as though nothing was wrong. The near comatose state we were all in days after we'd found out the life-altering news.

The question has so much baggage he cannot even begin to comprehend—so much we refuse to give him the chance to.

Surprisingly, Mum is the one who responds. "We just haven't had the time. You've had soccer practice. Other things have come up."

Rick hums noncommittally, moving his piece. A nod and the question is forgotten—accepted easy as that. We all breathe a sigh of relief. Then, he says, "Dad, your go."

Dad takes his turn. Mum follows suit. I go after her. Around and around the game circles. We make light conversation: funny stories about things that happened and plans for the weekend among the many. Rick doesn't ask any more close-call questions—and that helps me to relax and truly enjoy the competitiveness of the game.