------------------------------------------

Mom POV.

-------------------------------------------

I am deathly afraid of spiders.

I know.

Such a cliche phobia.

When I was younger, I remember a spider crawling all over my body. I was so scared that I screamed. I screamed so loudly that people that lived on the other side of the neighborhood actually heard me screaming.

Other than spiders, I had never had a phobia.

At least, that's what I told people.

That's what I believed.

But every mother has one phobia in common.

The fear of losing her child.

And no matter how loudly I screamed with that spider crawling all over me, I had never in my life screamed louder than when I saw my only child, my daughter, collapse on the field.

I don't remember what happened next too clearly, but I remember jumping the bleachers and snapping my heels, but I didn't care.

I remember shoving people out of the way, but I didn't care.

I remember knocking a soda out of a kids hands all over my clothes. My expensive clothes that I couldn't really afford, but still bought.

All I remember is getting onto the field and seeing my daughter covered in blood.

I remember hearing someone screaming so loudly that it almost shattered my ear drums.

Who was screaming?

Oh.

Wait.

That was me.

"Mrs. Brownstone. I just called an ambulance." The coach said to me, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"My baby." I cried. "My little girl."

I sobbed and sobbed.

It felt like hours before the ambulance arrived, although it was probably minutes.

I watched them load her into the back of the ambulance. I tried to get to her. To touch her, but a man held me back.

We drove in the back of the ambulance. I stared at her. I took her in.

She was okay, I reassured myself. She was okay.

Then I ran the excuses through my head.

She was dehydrated.

She was overwhelmed.

She was distracted by the fact that she had bumped into Justin.

But no excuses helped me.

Nothing could reassure me that she would be okay. Nothing.

In my head I was praying.

I had never prayed before.

I didn't believe in God.

I believed that we controlled our own actions.

That we controlled our own futures.

But if this was true, why did she fall?

I prayed and prayed that she was okay. I prayed all the way until we got to the hospital. Until they put her onto the wheelaway. Until they wheeled down the long, white hallway.

I prayed until they placed her into the examination room. Until a man told me that I wasn't allowed in there. Until he told me to sit outside. To wait for her. To pray, although I was already doing that.

I prayed and prayed the entire time.

Until I was alone.

Then I just cried.

*****

"Maria! Maria!" The shrill sound broke the emptiness of my space.

The voice, so shrill and high pitched, sounded nothing like my husband, although I was sure it was.

"Maria! Come help me! They won't let me in!" Ethan shouted to me.

I stood up and walked slowly to the receptionist. There I saw Ethan, my husband, standing over the desk, one finger raised in the air, directed to the lady behind the counter.

"Maria." He said, spotting me. "Help me. They won't let me see her. Tell them I can see her."

"I can't." I whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because they won't let me see her either."

We just stood there and stared at each other. His eyes boring holes into mine. His beautiful brown eyes. His beautiful charcoal colored hair. His face. His beautiful face, which reminded me nothing of Aubrey.

So when Ethan hugged me and held me close to him, I felt nothing. My pulse didn't quicken like it usually did. My heart didn't skip a beat like it usually did.

Nothing.

I felt nothing.

All I wanted at that moment was to see my daughter. For someone to tell me she was going to be okay. That she was just dehydrated, or something of the sort.

But no one did. Not a single person came up to me. No one went over to tell me what was happening. To at least let me know when I could see her. No one.

So there I stood, wrapped in my husbands muscular arms, feeling nothing. Not returning his embrace. There I stood, waiting. Waiting for some God or Gods to come down and help me.

But no one came. This was reassurance enough that I was on my own. No God or Gods were going to come and help me.

God didn't exist.

I was completely, entirely on my own.

***

"Mrs. Brownstone? Mr. Brownstone?" A thick voice, laden with professionalism asks me.

"Yes." That is all I manage to muster out, when the older man with gray hair comes out to greet me, wearing half-moon spectacles and a doctor coat.

"I'm Doctor Brandshen. I was leading the examination on your daughter. We think she may have some sort of Lymphatic abnormality. We need to produce further testing on her. Rest assured she is alive and breathing."

"A Lymphatic abnormality? What is that exactly?" I ask. My voice trembles with the fear of what he might answer.

"A Lymphatic abnormality is cancer. To be more precise, it is cancer in the blood cells." I expect to gasp. I expect to break down. I expect some reassurance.

I get none of those. Tears don't stream out of my eyes. My breath lags, but no gasp escaped my swollen, cracked lips. And I get no reassurance. The doctor who delivered this horrific news, spoke so impartially that I don't believe him for a second.

It is as if he doesn't care.

As if my daughter may not have cancer.

As if this is some horrible nightmare that I will wake up from.

But I don't wake up.

Instead I hear my husband sob. Still I don't shed a tear.

"Can I see her?" I whisper my voice barely audible over the phone ringing at the receptionist's desk.

"I'm afraid not. She is about to go into further testing." The doctor shrugs and frowns, as if he is giving his hand at sympathy. It's not working. He is failing miserably.

"Can I see her." This time it isn't a question. It's a statement. It's a demand.

This time my voice carries far. My voice is strong and full of persistence. My voice causes the doctor to shrink in size. My voice makes him nod.

***

It has been a couple of hours since the MRI scan. The doctors explained what was going on to me.

An MRI is short for Magnetic Resonance Imaging. This could determine Aubrey's health. It would tell us if she had cancer. Again I prayed. Please God. I know you don't exist. But if you are out there, I beg you. Spare my daughter. Let her live. Don't give her cancer. Please don't. I will pray to you every day of my life if you spare her. I will be Jewish. I will be Christian. I will be Muslim. I will be Buddhist. Just spare my daughter and I will be anything you want. I will. I promise.

The chairs in the waiting room are not comfortable. They are a light blue color and look brand new, but the cushions are thin. They remind me that, even though there is a cushion, there is a hard surface underneath. A metallic bench. One that, despite the comfortable looking cushions, I can feel right to my very bones.

My husband holds my hand as we wait. Aubrey is in the room to our right. We can go in. We can visit her. But she is asleep. She is peacefully asleep. We don't want to bother her. I wonder what she is dreaming about?

"Mr and Mrs. Brownstone?" The heartless doctor is back.

I glare up at him, daring him to give me anything but good news.

"Um. The results have been accounted for...and unfortunately, the patient has AML or Acute Myelogenous Leukemia."

The tears don't come. The anger does.

Anger at this doctor who refers to my daughter as 'patient'.

Anger at the God that doesn't exist.

Anger at myself because I can't help feeling that this is entirely my fault.

But when the doctors lead me and my husband inside the room where my daughter lies, I burst into tears.

My daughter lies there. She looks absolutely positively the same.

None of those changes you read about have happened to her yet. If you were to see her walking down the street right at this moment, you would think that she was okay. That she was healthy.

But she isn't. She is sick. This is entirely my fault.

***

A month has passed.

The nurse brings gelatin, cookies, and a sandwich into my daughters room in Saint Jude's hospital for children.

Aubrey pokes at it with her fork. Then, after a moment of thought, she throws the whole thing in the trash.

***

Two months have passed.

Aubrey is sick. Her beautiful skin, once a fair, peachy color she always complained about, is no longer fair. No longer beautiful. It is pale. It is almost see-through. It's as if I can see inside of her. See the life and hope slowly draining out of her.

***

Three months have passed.

"Aubrey." Dr. Michelle says. "You still haven't made your wish. Whatever you want in the whole world, you can have it. Anything at all. Tell your mom when you think of something, okay kid?" Dr. Michelle is beautiful. Her dark hair and skin, free of wrinkles. She looks nothing like my daughter, but she is everything Aubrey might never get to be.

As Dr. Michelle stands up, she rubs Aubrey's head through the rough beanie. She rubs it, right where Aubrey's beautiful brown hair used to be.

***

Four months have passed.

"Mom." Aubrey's voice, weak and hoarse asks me. I thought she was asleep.

"Yes baby?" I respond. Whatever she needs, I am prepared to run. I am prepared to grab it for her. Whatever it may be.

"I've thought of my wish." Her wish? Oh. Her wish.

"Yes honey. What is it?" I reply. A trip to Paris? A trip to Disney? Harvard, where she always wanted to go when she grew old? What was her wish, I wondered thinking to myself how she wouldn't live to achieve these goals on her own.

"I want to go on a date," she pauses, "with Justin." A date? That's all?

Then it hits me.

She wants to go on a date with her crush. Perhaps she, just like me, doesn't think she will survive long enough to have a boyfriend. I hate myself for believing this. Optimism was never my strong suit. I am the reason she believes this too.

"Of course honey. Go back to sleep. We'll talk to Dr. Michelle in the morning." This, this date with Justin, that is the one thing in my life that I can control. It feels nice to know that something is in my hands, at least.