"Where are you going? The library? On a Friday?"
Mal tries not to sigh out loud as his shoulders tense. Rather than answer Ken, he simply keeps his back to him, opens his dresser drawer, and begins shoving clothes into his backpack. Behind him, he hears his roommate sit up in bed.
"Oh," he says, and his smile is obvious in his voice. "A weekend bag. You going to visit that girlfriend of yours?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm going home for the weekend," Mal says back, his tone biting. He throws a few of his notebooks into his backpack, then zips it up and slings it onto his shoulders. When he turns, Ken is looking at him strangely.
"Seriously?" he asks. "We've only been at college for a week and you're going home?"
"Yes."
"That's so lame!" Ken says, sitting all the way up in his bed. "Weekends at college are the best, and you're actually going to waste it by going home? Why would you do that?"
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Mal tells him, his lip curling. "I'll be back Sunday night. Don't touch my stuff."
He turns and leaves. Just as the door is closing, he thinks he hears Ken mutter something that sounds like "What a loser," but he doesn't turn back.
His mom throws her arms around him a second after he steps through the door. He drops his bag and hugs her back. "Hi sweetie!"
"Hey mom," he smiles at her.
"How was your first week at college?" She pulls him into the living room and sits down with him on the couch. Mal flops back against the cushions.
"It was alright," he says. "Nothing super memorable."
"Meaning he skipped half of his classes," Cynthia chimes in from where she's appeared in the kitchen.
"Did not," he says. "Actually, I went to every single class."
"That's a first," Cynthia laughs. Mal flips her off without looking at her.
"Mal," his mom chastises him. He gives her an apologetic smile, and she only shakes her head at him.
He doesn't know if her appearance has actually changed dramatically in the past week he's been away or if not seeing her every day has given him a new clarity, but she looks awful. Her skin is a sickly gray color, her eyes are sunken and bloodshot, her skin is riddled with bruises he doesn't remember her having when he left last week, and she looks exhausted just sitting on the couch. His eyes prick with tears, but he looks away as he blinks rapidly. He's not going to cry in front of his mom, especially when she's never cried in front of him.
"How's Natara doing?" his mom asks.
"She's good, I think," he says, still staring at his shoes. "I talked to her a few times on the phone, and I sent her a letter. She must have gotten it by now, I think."
"That's good," his mom says warmly.
"What about you guys?" he asks. "What have you been up to since I've been gone?"
"Well, it's only been a week," his mom laughs. "We haven't been doing much. I'd much rather hear about your classes so far."
"I mean, it's just school," he says. "Nothing super exciting has happened yet."
"There's got to be something, though, right?" his mom prompts. "Have you made any friends yet? What's your roommate like? Are you getting along?"
"He's fine, I guess."
His mom makes a face at him. "Is he really? Or are you making things up?"
"He's kind of a jerk," he sighs. "He basically made up his mind to not like me the second we met. I don't know what his deal is."
"Have you tried asking him?"
Mal groans and throws an arm over his eyes. "I don't really care enough to ask, Mom," he grumbles. "We don't have to be friends. We just have to share a room." He feels his mom rest her hand on his leg.
"I know that, hon," she says. "But it might be easier to share a room if you could be friendly. At the very least, what would it hurt?"
"I'll try," he promises.
"Well, don't try just for me," she says, giving his leg a feeble squeeze. "I want you to give it a try for yourself."
"I know."
He lifts his arm from his face as he hears his mom sniff suddenly, then watches her dab at her nose with her thumb. It comes away stained a deep red, and he's suddenly very alert. He sits up straight, startling her a bit.
"Mom?"
"It's fine," she says, giving him a smile as best she can as she pinches her nose and reaches for a box of tissues. "It's just a nosebleed. No big deal." She holds a tissue to her nose.
"Another one?" Cynthia asks. She's suddenly standing next to Mal, holding another box of tissues. "That's the third one today."
"It's okay," their mom says. "See? It's already slowing down. It'll stop in a bit." Cynthia gingerly takes the used tissues from their mom's hand and walks back to the kitchen to throw them out.
"The third one?" he asks.
"It's okay, Mal," she says. "The nurses said this might happen. They've been very helpful through this whole thing. You don't need to worry." His mom dabs at her nose with a clean tissue, and this time it doesn't come back stained with blood.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"I've dealt with more dramatic bloody noses before," his mom says with a small laugh. "Usually they were yours. Or your father's."
"I know, but-"
"Everything is fine, Mal," she says. She stands slowly, then turns toward the stairs. "I am a bit tired though. I think I might go lie down for a bit."
"Yeah, of course," he says. "You need to rest. Do you need any help?"
"No, no," she says with a shake of her head. "You stay here, you're probably tired from travelling. Plus you've probably got some homework to do, right?" He nods.
She moves like an old woman, he thinks. She shuffles more than actually walks, and it seems to take an eternity for her to climb the stairs. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until his lungs begin to burn. He stands from the couch too, but instead of grabbing his backpack, he walks into the kitchen and takes a seat at the table across from his sister.
"How is she, really?"
"She's trying to be strong-"
"Cynthia." His voice is more forceful than it's been in weeks, and his sister lowers her gaze. "I can handle it."
Cynthia sighs. "She's not good, Mal," she admits. "She's always tired. She's been sleeping longer and longer, and every time I go to wake her up, I'm terrified she'll be… gone."
"What do the nurses say?"
"That she's doing pretty well, all things considered. But it could change really quickly." A single tear streaks down Cynthia's cheek. "It's getting harder for her to move around. A few days ago they talked to me about setting up a hospital bed in the living room. You know, so she doesn't have to walk the stairs anymore."
Mal's breath hitches in his chest. He hadn't thought it would come to that. Truth be told, he'd tried not to think about it much at all. He hadn't wanted to deal with it, and he had the luxury of choice. Cynthia had taken on all the responsibility when it came to their mom. But now he had nowhere to hide, and the reality of the situation was staring him in the face.
"Do they know about how long she has?" he makes himself ask. Cynthia shakes her head, then shrugs her shoulders.
"It's hard to tell, they said. Could be weeks, could be days. Could even be months." He watches his sister bite down on her lip so hard the skin around it turns white. "Can I say something without judgment?"
"Sure."
"I really hope she doesn't have months left," she says. More tears stream down her cheeks as she buries her face in her hands. "I feel awful saying that. But I can tell she's in pain, no matter how hard she tries to hide it. And I don't want her to suffer through that for months."
"Me too," he says, because it's all he can say.
By the time he gets back to campus on Sunday, he's absolutely drained.
His mom had seven more nosebleeds during the two days he was home. He and Cynthia worried over her, despite their mom's protests. There was a particularly scary moment when she stumbled on the bottom step. She was able to catch herself, but her ankle turned a deep purple from even that small of a fall, and Cynthia had insisted on calling the nurses.
Honestly, the worst part of it all was the act she kept up. She kept insisting she was fine, that they didn't need to hover over her. She put on a smile and told them to go out and enjoy the weekend. He knew she was doing it out of a desire to protect them. But he wished she wouldn't.
She'd made him take a photo with her before he left again. Guilted him into it, really, since they hadn't taken a photo together before he officially left for college. Cynthia managed to fish out their dad's old polaroid camera for her. He thinks maybe it was worth it, judging by her smile when she saw the photo. She made him take it with him back to school. But part of him hates it. She doesn't look anything like herself, and it'll only remind him how sick she is while he's away at school.
He's a little surprised to find Ken in their room when he walks in. He figured his roommate would be out with friends on a Sunday evening. They both nod at each other as a greeting, and Mal begins to unpack his bag.
"Have fun at home with your parents this weekend?" Ken asks. He thinks he can hear the teasing undertones in his voice, but he just doesn't have the energy to respond with any venom.
"My mom," he corrects him quietly. "And yeah, it was fine."
"Cool."
Mal grits his teeth, and makes himself ask, "How was your weekend?" He did, after all, promise his mom he'd try to be friendly.
"It was fine," Ken says. "I went out with a few buddies last night."
"Cool."
He throws his dirty clothes into his hamper, dumps his notebooks on his desk, and then collapses onto his bed. He really doesn't have the energy to do anything but just lay there, which doesn't bode well for the coming school week.
"Oh, hey, did you drop this?" Mal looks up just as Ken picks up a photograph from the ground. Mal jumps up from his bed and reaches for it, but not before Ken turns it over and freezes. He hands the photo over without a word, and Mal tucks the photo of him and his mom safely in the back of one of his notebooks. He climbs back on his bed.
"Look man," Ken finally says after a minute of silence, "I know you said it wasn't my business. But are you sure you're okay?" Mal turns his head to look at his roommate, and for the first time it seems like there's nothing but sincerity behind his words.
"I don't know," he answers honestly.
"That's a hell of a thing," Ken says, nodding in the direction of the notebook the photo is tucked in. "I had an uncle who had a brain tumor when I was a kid."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. He was sick for a long time, and the treatments only made it worse. But he was lucky. He's fine now, and it's been almost ten years, I guess."
"That's good." Mal swallows hard before speaking again. "My mom's not doing well. She hasn't been for a while. And, uh, I don't know how long she has left, but I do know it's not very long."
"Damn," Ken says, turning toward him fully. "I'm really sorry to hear that."
"Me too."
