I army crawled toward the bed, fighting my own weakness with every slight movement. I climbed atop the mattress, joining my mother and nuzzling into her sweaty neck/wrist. Her eyes flickered open and an emphysema-ridden spray coughed from her mouth. She glanced upward where, only moments ago, her body hung.
“I’m down,” she said, belief absent from her hoarse voice. “Thank you, dear.”
“Yeah… you’re down. But it wasn’t me, mum.”
She cocked her brow and smiled.
“Then who?” she asked.
My heroic tumour mounted the bed and crawled onto my chest. It was flashing an unmistakable grin and the proudest eyes I’d ever seen. My mother’s mouth fell open.
“What… what is that?”
My mind rehearsed variations of the truth. I had to give her an explanation, but I didn’t know how. The truth of it all was so absurd. I settled for bluntness.
“That’s one of my tumours, mum.”
I let my answer hang in the air long enough for her to swallow it. Her face was a contortion of attempted understanding and disbelief.
“I don’t think I understand,” she replied in a whisper.
“I can’t begin to tell you how honoured I am to meet you, Ms Miles,” interjected my tumour in a rich, sonorous baritone.
We both stared at it, completely flummoxed.
“Bruce, dear… why is your tumour talking?” asked mum.
“Because I raised it really well. I’m really good at tumours”
I gave it a little pat. It was coated in pink mucous that clung to my hand.
“Don’t touch it! You’ll get sick, dear.”
I couldn’t stop the laughter this advice caused. Each amused heave caused waves of pain.
“Look at me, mum… I couldn’t get any sicker. I’m about as close as you can get to death before you stop breathing.”
Her eyes evolved from the usual sadness and became angry.
“What about the help you were getting?” she snapped.
“Yeah… I got help, but it wasn’t for me. It was for the tumours.”
The anger in her eyes kept intensifying and joining forces with abject disgust. I felt myself shrinking into childhood.
“Why the hell would you allow something like that to happen? Why didn’t you talk to me about it? We could have found help for you, Bruce.”
I scrunched my eyes shut to stop the encroaching tears. I didn’t know what to say.
“If I may interject,” said the tumour, “your son’s condition wasn’t one that bred optimism. I have been a part of a very pernicious illness. Your son’s body is riddled with tumours just like me.”
These words did little to soothe my mother. Her breathing quickened to the point of hyperventilation.
“You’re a murderer,” she gasped, averting her gaze from the fleshy curio.
“That’s not entirely true, Ms Miles. We’re opportunists. Your son merely provided the perfect vessel for us to flourish.”
I bit my tongue. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted any part of. It was enough that I had to listen.
“Like any other biological phenomenon, Ms Miles, we merely exist. I admit… it’s unfortunate that our existence consumes the life of the vessel we inhabit. When our vessel dies, we die, Ms Miles. This isn’t something we particularly appreciate.”
My mother started to writhe around, her plaster cast bulk rocking left and right. I’d never seen her look so wretched and uncomfortable.
“Get this fucking cast off of me!” she screamed. “My whole arm itches and burns.”
The tumour faced me and developed temporary shoulders, which it shrugged in my direction. I gave a slight nod in response.
“Hold still,” said the tumour. “We’ll get you out of there.”
She didn’t respond. She merely allowed her body to still while the tumour got to work. It gnawed on the cast, crushing its culinary path into powder that filled the room in a white plume. My mother started to chuckle.
“I wish that didn’t tickle so much. It’s compromising the emotional weight of the situation.”
The tumour diligently kept chewing, slowly freeing my mother of her plaster prison. Her giant fingers stretched in relief as more and more of her arm was kissed by the air. With one final chew, the whole cast fell away. The tumour rolled down to the bed and gasped.
“I’m spent,” it said.
My mother’s body was scrawled in juvenile tags and profanity. It was slick with sweat and pink with irritation.
“Who did this to you, mum?” I asked. “I want names!”
She glanced down at the source of my disgust and exhaled pent up frustration.
“I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to. The pills I was given knocked me right out. It doesn’t really matter though. It will wash off. This is nothing.”
I considered her words carefully before continuing.
“I’ll make you a deal, mum… I’ll promise not to waste time worrying about who did this to you if you promise to do something for me.”
She stared, refusing to agree to my conditions, but clearly interested in my proposal.
“I want you to… umm… I want you to thank the tumour for freeing you.”
Once again we remained silent. I was letting my words churn in her brain, hoping that somehow she’d find the inherent logic. I didn’t know why it was important to me, but I wanted my tumours acknowledged for the good they did and not just for the damage they wrought. The tumour stared at me like I was crazy and yeah… I probably was. But these revolting little growths were my children. If my mother could, in some small way, accept them, it would make me feel better. It would make me feel like I hadn’t done all of this for nothing.
“Thank you,” she said suddenly, jolting my introspection. “Thank you for getting me out of the cast. Thank you for getting me out of the sling. Although I will never abide your role in the decline of my son, I appreciate the help.”
The tumour beamed a ridiculous smile at me before climbing my mother to kiss her cheek. With each fleshy kiss she coughed and wretched.
“Please get off of me,” she whimpered.
The tumour obeyed without question and made for the windowsill.
“I believe my work here is done. If you need any more help, call on another of your little buddies. We all like you — even the queen.”
With a tilt of his mountaineering cap, he jumped from the window. The tumour was gone. Another of my children had left me. I felt the loss immediately.
In the time that followed, my mother and I didn’t really talk much. We just sought comfort in the other’s presence. I wanted to tend to her in a desperate attempt to atone for my negligence. But strangely, it was her who cared for me. I watched her move around the house, dragging herself with those spidery fingers. She managed to find a tin of lychees in a cupboard that she chewed open. She garnished the lychees with cumin powder and watched over me while I ate. The cumin and lychees made poor bedfellows, but I struggled them down out of respect. The food did imbue me with something resembling strength. I was made to lie in her bed and sleep while she sat by my side in a chair. She sang me folk tunes from her childhood — something she hadn’t done since mine. Despite not having heard them in thirty years, the words were burnt into my memory, irremovable.
She sung like the locked groove of a vinyl — ceaseless and beautiful. I stole snippets of sleep and swam through dreams. I used to crave so much. I used to believe I could be all the things I ever wanted. My mother never dissuaded me. She made me feel so capable. When my father left, he took my confidence with him. When my father entrusted his role to me, he did so with all the included baggage. My mother grew too ill to let me flourish. As much as she hated it, she needed me. I never had a fucking chance.