Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

“Words have been proven to cause psychological damage,” Alan said.

“All these people of colors need to grow up and quit their whining. I’ve listened to this garbage for eighty-two years, and I’m tired of it.”

“Mom, please. Let’s keep it civil.”

“You don’t think people of color have been oppressed in this country?” Naomi asked, her jaw set tight.

“You certainly haven’t,” Francine said. “When were you born, 2000?”

“1998.”

“You’ve had all the privilege in the world. You’re a congresswoman married to a white man, for heaven’s sake. And you can say whatever you want because you’re a person of color . That is what you want to be called, right?”

“I’d like to be called Naomi .”

Francine frowned at that. “Well, I wouldn’t want to call you the wrong thing. You might have me put in jail.”

Naomi stood from the table. “I’ll wait in the car.”

It had been a long weekend. Derek’s mother wasn’t feeling well, so he’d worked the farmers’ market by himself. It would’ve been nice if Lindsey or April had come to visit. He would’ve loved the company. He trudged down the stairs, bleary-eyed, thinking about the Hannah orange harvest. If his calculations were correct, the late-season oranges would yield enough profit to fix the picker and to carry them through the winter.

Hannah stood in the kitchen, whisking eggs in a bowl. She turned toward her son as he entered the kitchen.

Derek gave her a disapproving look. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I’m fine.”

She looked pale and thin. Well, at least thin for her. She’d always been a stocky woman. “You still look sick.”

Hannah wobbled and leaned back, the counter bracing her. She dropped the bowl, the ceramic dish shattering on the tile, the eggs splattering. She reached down to pick up the shards, and passed out, her legs buckling, falling awkwardly on her side, her head bouncing off the floor tiles.

“Mom!” Derek said, rushing toward her, too late to stop her fall.

Hannah was stable and sleeping in the hospital room. Many years ago, after Derek’s father had died of prostate cancer, Hannah had given Derek medical disclosure permission as well as a medical power of attorney. Derek stood in the hall of the hospital, talking to a small Indian doctor. She spoke with a British accent.

“Your mother has stage five breast cancer,” the doctor said.

“Okay. What can we do?” Derek asked.

“The cancer is very advanced and very aggressive.” The doctor paused. “At this point, it’s too late for DNA cage drugs. We can try epigenetic treatments, which can effectively turn off cancer cells, but those are not covered under your insurance.”

“Why didn’t they catch this earlier? I know she’s had checkups over the years.”

“According to her records, she was diagnosed with breast cancer three years ago, opted against treatment, and hasn’t been to the doctor since that time.”

“That can’t be right.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“How much are these treatments?”

“I’ll have a hospital administrator advise you of the cost.”

“If she gets the treatments, will she be okay?”

“Given her age, the advanced stage and aggressiveness of the cancer, her chances of survival are not guaranteed.”

Derek swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. “What does that mean? Like a 50 percent chance?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reeves. It’s impossible to say for sure.”

“From your experience, what are her chances?”

“Maybe 30 percent, if we begin treatments immediately.”

Derek felt sick to his stomach. “Do the treatments. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

The doctor led Derek to the hospital administrator, who informed him of the exorbitant cost. Thankfully, they had Fed Coin loans for precisely this situation. Derek signed on the digital dotted line.

A few hours later, after Hannah’s first treatment, she opened her eyes, groggy. Derek stood from his chair and approached her hospital bed. Her bed was separated from one other by a moveable curtain. Hannah was hooked to monitors and an IV, the lights dim.

“Mom. How are you feelin’?”

“Tired.” Her voice was raspy. “What happened?”

“You passed out.”

“I don’t remember that. I remember making breakfast and dropping my bowl, but … that’s it.” She glanced around the room, looked at her IV, then back to Derek. “How long have I been here?”

Derek checked the clock on his phone. “About seven hours. It’s almost two.”

“When can we go home?”

Derek took a deep breath and said, “Why didn’t you tell me that you had breast cancer?”

“Is that why I passed out?”

“Yes. You’re really sick, Mom. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her eyes watered. She barely lifted one shoulder.

“Mom?”

A few tears slipped down her cheeks. “I didn’t wanna be a burden. The treatments would’ve bankrupted us. I’ve been through this before. We almost lost the farm when your dad got prostate cancer.”

Derek rubbed his temples, then looked back at his mother. “I don’t care about the money.”

“You should.”

“You’re gettin’ the treatments, and you’re gonna be fine.”

Her eyes bulged. “We can’t afford it.”

“We can. The treatments are a lot cheaper now, and there’s a special program for farmers. It won’t bankrupt us.”

She relaxed a little but narrowed her eyes at Derek. “Is that the truth?”

Derek grabbed her hand and forced a smile that failed to blossom. “You do have a good chance of survival but …” He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“What did the doctor say?”

“You have a 30 percent chance of survival. If we had started the treatments earlier …” Derek started to cry.

Hannah squeezed her son’s hand. “It’s okay, honey. I knew this day was coming. Whatever happens, I’m in God’s hands.”

Derek leaned over the bed and hugged his mother.

As they embraced, Hannah whispered in Derek’s ear, “I love you, honey. You’re the best son a mother could ever have.”

“I love you too, Mom.” Derek let go and stood upright. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

A soft knock came at the door. Derek went to the door and opened it. His girlfriend, April, stood there, wearing tight jeans and a blousy top. She had a heart-shaped face, a button nose, and straight red hair that hung past her shoulders.

April reached out and hugged him, squeezing hard, her body pressed against his.

Derek had called her a few hours ago, so she was aware of the situation. He’d also called his daughter, Lindsey, but she hadn’t returned his call or his texts. April lived in Washington DC, over two hours away from Luray, VA, but she’d dropped everything to be there. They disengaged from their hug.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.”

They stepped toward Hannah.

“How are you feeling?” April asked with a sympathetic smile.

“I’m not dead yet,” Hannah replied with a small grin.

April was great. She sat with Hannah, held her hand, laughed, and empathized. She talked enthusiastically about subjects that interested Hannah, like knitting, food preservation, and Christian romance novels. Derek watched April with his mother, thinking about how much he loved both of them. April was nearly perfect: beautiful, smart, compassionate, and fun to be around.

He’d thought about asking her to marry him, but where would they live? As an accomplished DC lawyer, she made quite a bit more money than he did. What would he do? Sell the farm and live in DC? Outside of farming, he didn’t have any marketable skills. He doubted she wanted an unemployed husband. Their relationship was at an impasse.