Knocking on Heaven's Door | 𝐒𝐀𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑

4 - BETWEEN THE LINES

FOUR MONTHS LATER

"Is your mom doing better now?" Summer's eyes were alight with unease, like there was a soft candle sizzling just behind her irises, flickering in a reminiscent ballet that appeared vaguely like home.

Bellona gnawed at her bottom lip and nodded, her gaze downcast. She toyed with the cotton, flower-patterned fabric of her sundress, twirling fragments of the printed orchids between her fingertips, watching as the glimpses of the pink flowers flickered simultaneously with the fractured phrases that were traipsing through the lobes of her brain.

My mom is doing well. The doctors still don't know what's wrong with her. She'll get better soon. She's dying.

She knew what her nod had really meant. And Summer knew too. The simple jerk of her head had turned Bellona into a liar, because her mother was most definitely not doing better. When Summer repeated her question, this time accompanied by an adamant "Are you sure?", Bellona nodded once more. This time, her nod was more forceful. Insistent.

'I'm fine,' the extra burst of force promised.

As if that would matter. Promises hold no integrity when they are laced with lies.

Bellona's fictitious insistence that her mother was healing would be inconsequential in a matter of months. Her assurances to Summer, her hope for an ample future, all bundled up together to be protected like a swaddled child - none of it would make a difference in a matter of months. Not if Agnes Wesson couldn't be diagnosed.

It had been months since she'd received that first phone call. Since the tips of her fingers had gone numb along with every muscle and nerve ending in the rest of her body. Since she'd slammed the brakes of her car in the hospital parking lot and stumbled out onto the layer of gravel, just to stand atop it and wait, wallowing, while the rain and the tears mingled on her face in an indecipherable torrent. She'd stumbled into her mother's hospital room, her sweater torn and her boots ridden with moistened mud.

Her return to Stanford hadn't been much better. With most of her time being spent at her mother's side, she'd nearly failed her classes. But she hadn't cared. It'll be worth it, she liked to swear, teeth gritted and throat contracting. Mom will get better soon.

When weeks passed and all the medical personnel in the state still hadn't been able to give Agnes a diagnosis, much less a cure - how can you cure that which you do not know? - Bellona's shoulders had begun to slump. Her back had begun to curl, her spirit shriveling in concurrence with her posture.

Bellona pinched a piece of her sundress between her nails. The flower bended in half, and she scowled. It was a grotesque reminder of the perpetual loop she'd gotten herself into. Bills. Schoolwork. Doctor's appointments. Schoolwork, bills, appointment, bills, appointment, school, work. Cry. She used to be an orchid too. Coruscating, her petals reaching out to grasp every bit of sun within reach. She'd held on tight, tried to absorb the light so it would reside in her for all eternity, so her joy would have no maturity date. It would be young forever. She would be young forever.