Chapter 14 - THE QUESTION ROSIE ASKED AT FOUR YEARS OLD
Gertrude’s treatment continued into the fall.
Her energy slowly improved.
Her hair thinned somewhat from therapy but did not disappear entirely.
She hated photographs.
Rosie did not understand why.
One afternoon Rosie found an old family picture.
Gertrude’s mother stood beside teenage Gertrude and young Carol.
“Who’s that?”
“My mother.”
“Where is she?”
“She died a long time ago.”
Rosie considered.
“Was she sick?”
Gertrude glanced toward Nicole.
Nicole did not answer for her.
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
Gertrude swallowed.
“Cancer.”
Rosie nodded.
Children often accepted direct answers more easily than adults.
Then:
“Did you know?”
Gertrude’s eyes filled.
“What?”
“That you could get sick too?”
Nicole felt the room change.
Rosie had overheard more than they thought.
Gertrude could have softened it.
Redirected.
Said she was too young.
Instead she answered carefully.
“I knew something in our family could make some people more likely to get certain cancers.”
Rosie frowned.
“Me?”
Gertrude’s face broke.
Nicole immediately stepped closer.
“We don’t know anything like that about you, sweetheart.”
Rosie looked at her mother.
“Am I sick?”
“No.”
“Daddy?”
“No.”
Brandon came into the room.
He had heard enough.
He crouched.
“Our family learned some health information that helps doctors know what to watch for when people are older.”
Rosie thought.
“So doctors know a secret?”
Nicole smiled.
“Not a secret anymore.”
Rosie seemed satisfied.
Then she went back to coloring.
Gertrude watched her.
“I almost lied.”
Nicole nodded.
“I know.”
“I wanted to say it had nothing to do with her.”
“I know.”
Gertrude looked ashamed.
“Would that have been wrong?”
Nicole thought carefully.
“Reassuring her that she’s healthy is good.”
“And?”
“Pretending family history doesn’t exist because the truth makes us uncomfortable is what got us here.”
Gertrude nodded.
That evening, after Rosie went to bed, Gertrude asked Brandon:
“Do you hate me?”
He looked surprised.
“No.”
“You should.”
“No.”
“I could have hurt you.”
“You did.”
She looked down.
Again, he refused the easy version.
“You also raised me.”
Gertrude looked up.
“You loved me.”
Her eyes filled.
“You scared me.”
He continued.
“And you taught me some things I’m trying to unlearn.”
Gertrude whispered:
“Can you still love someone after that?”
Brandon smiled sadly.
“That seems to be what families spend most of their time figuring out.”
Gertrude laughed through tears.
There was no total reconciliation.
No clean moral.
May you like
Only a woman who had finally stopped asking whether fear excused her.
And a son learning that loving his mother did not require protecting her from the truth about herself.
