The Man I Knew

By Christine Barfknecht

I'm your lover and your best friend.
We share a life, but do you know who I am?

It's supposed to be a quick stop at the mall, a last minute errand. To Lia Drake, it doesn't feel right from the start. Maybe it's the eerie silence as closing time looms. Maybe it's the hooded stranger watching her every move. Or maybe she's just on edge after an emotionally draining day at her job with Child Protective Services.

But within minutes, gunfire peppers the hallways, sending Lia and her husband, John, cowering in a storeroom. Hiding does little good. Footsteps near. Gunshots explode. John's lifeless body pins Lia to the floor.

Overwhelmed with grief, Lia assumes it's another random act of violence until police suggest that John had been their target. It doesn't make sense. John is easy going, funny, and genuinely kind-hearted. She can't think of anyone who doesn't like him, yet alone someone who would want to see him dead.

But Lia has demons in her closet that could be to blame.

A quest for answers reveals more than Lia bargained for. Every new detail exposes a suspect with motive to kill. Worse, those details paint an unrecognizable picture of John, revealing a side to him she knew nothing about.

Lia's desperation lands her in a race for time with John's increasingly restless killer. It could be a complete stranger, or someone she trusts. She must figure it out before she becomes their next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Barfknecht
• Release date: Aug 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463181348

Christine Barfknecht

Christine Barfknecht has a passion for weaving the darkest bits of the human psyche into page-turning fiction. She’s been crafting stories since before she printed her first word and credits her overactive imagination to a lifelong love of reading. She seeks out books that keep her hiding beneath the covers at night or turning pages long after her eyes begin to cross, and strives for those qualities in her own writing. Christine lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband, children, and pets where she is also a virtual bookkeeping entrepreneur. In addition to reading and writing, she enjoys gardening, crafts, time with family, and traveling.

Book preview

The Man I Knew

By Christine Barfknecht

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 Christine Barfknecht

All rights reserved

Cover art by selfpubbookcovers.com/goodCoverDesign

Author photos by Hallie Barfknecht Photography

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is available in print at select online retailers.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Start of The Man I Knew

To the Reader

About the Author

Connect with Christine Barfknecht

Other Books by Christine Barfknecht

Preview of Apple of My Eye

Preview of Throw the Key

Lia

He leans against the wall beside Barnes & Noble, a three-dimensional shadow in the dimming light of the mall. His black hoodie conceals his face, yet I feel as if he’s watching us – watching me. I imagine his eyes as dark as his clothing, his glare villainous.

My heart pounds as though I have reason to fear him. It’s ridiculous, really. Probably the result of a day run long and an evening sure to run short.

The rapid click of my heels on the tile flooring seems to echo through the rarely-empty space. Most shoppers have left for the night, but a few stragglers remain, likely those in a last-minute rush. Like me. I glance at the narrow-banded watch on my wrist, gold hands ticking over a shimmering pearl face.

Eight fifty-three. Seven minutes until closing time.

John shuffles beside me, smirking as he notices my panicked glance at the watch. I bought you that thing so you’d be on time once in a while. Clearly, it didn’t help.

I’d have been late whether I knew what time it was or not. I couldn’t bring myself to leave work until I knew that Jailyn Adams would be safe and cared for. Six years old, so small, heartbroken. She’d have received the best of care with or without me, but I was there when her world fell apart. The least I could do was stay with her until her temporary guardian arrived.

It’s the part of my job I hate most, having to pull a child from their home. Regardless of what they’ve been through – in Jailyn’s case, a world of serious neglect blurred in a fog of drug abuse – it’s the only life they know. I wanted to be a Social Worker to do good for others, but in that moment, when pure fear and agony pours from those little bodies, it feels like the worst of wrongs.

John nudges me with his elbow, a smirk still on his face. What? No comeback?

Every night I’m thankful to come home to my husband, to the twinkle in his eyes and quick wit that never fails to clear my head of a difficult day. Lately, I need it more than ever. Confusion and self-doubt cloud every decision I attempt to make, encircling me in a stifling ring of anxiety. It’s a far cry from the confidence I once possessed, but also a necessary evil. Some mistakes shouldn’t be made in the first place, yet alone repeated.

Trust your gut, always.

Never again.

I grab John’s hand and pull. Less talking, more walking. We’ve got to hurry.

Despite the warmth of my husband’s hand and the July heat still clinging to my skin from outside, a shiver curls up my spine. The mall lighting seems to dim, eerily dark in the absence of music, chatter, and hundreds of bodies passing through. It puts even more of a rush in my step, a subconscious need to get out of here.

Or maybe it’s the creep outside the bookstore causing me to feel the need to flee. Why is he wearing a hoodie on such a hot day, anyhow? I glance over my shoulder, hoping to see that he’s gone and relax, but he still stands there, his shadowed face pointing in my direction. I can’t tell whether he has facial hair or not, a narrow or round face, or if his skin is light or dark.

Stop it, Lia. It’s nothing.

But can I be sure? I don’t know anything about him. His wife or girlfriend could’ve just left him for another man, pushing him to seek revenge. Maybe I remind him of her or John of her lover. Maybe he knows who I am, or at least, where I work. He may have recently had a child removed. He could be a mental hospital escapee, a sociopath set on stalking, if not murdering the first person he sees. Me.

The possibilities seem endless, flitting through my mind in a blurring whir.

What I don’t consider is the most likely scenario of all: He is only standing there, oblivious to my existence.

Would’ve been silly to buy the shoes at the same time as the dress, John says. Can’t you just wear black or something?

Without slowing my pace, I shoot him a glance. The dress is pink Champaign. Black would look ridiculous. Leila will notice if the shade is off, yet alone the color. She wants her day to be perfect. My sister is ever the perfectionist, bordering on OCD.

John keeps my pace, but rolls his eyes.

I speak before he has the chance. Besides, it’s a wedding, not a funeral.

Matter of perception, he says. The poor sap getting stuck with Leila might beg to differ.

I nudge his elbow, shoot him my shocked face, the wide-eyed, O-shaped mouth, I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that look. The truth is, he’s right. We don’t refer to her as Princess Leila for nothing.

I swing in the door of Frivolous Footwear, the shop Leila insisted would have the shoes I’m looking for. Of course, that was a few months ago, when I was supposed to get them.

I confirmed it. They have a store right in Duluth and the shoes are in stock.

Right in Duluth. Where I work. Where John’s office is. Not where I live, though. Once we’re finished here, it will be another forty-five minutes before I can kick off my shoes and relish in the comfort of home.

At the office they ask why John and I don’t move into the city – the state, for that matter  and save the daily commute. I wouldn’t give up my small town, northern Wisconsin home on the shores of Sandy Lake for any amount of convenience. Other people visit the quaint town for a summer getaway, but for us it’s like we’re on vacation every time we return home.

John chuckles. You know I’m just kidding. I’m sure Leila’s last two husbands were the problem, not her.

I spot a row of pumps and head down the aisle, bright and soft colors mingling into a brilliant rainbow of footwear. My head shoots right to left, my eyes searching for the right shade. I don’t let it slow my comeback, though. They could say the same for us.

He shrugs. Second marriage for both of us. Not third. There’s a difference.

The vibe in the shop is more unnerving than in the corridor, the small space abandoned of all shoppers except for us, half of the overhead lights turned off as if to emphasize that I need to hurry up and get out.

A girl with a name badge pinned to her shirt peers down the aisle and runs a hand through her dark hair. I do a double take, verify that it isn’t my own daughter looking at me. This girl’s complexion is a bit darker than Kara’s and she looks younger, but the way she holds her head – slightly high, a likeable confidence – with long hair sweeping her shoulders, she could be my daughter.

I once had hair like that, a shiny coffee mane absent of the gray that would eventually dull its appearance. Thank God for hair dye and the salon. If only the other signs of age would be as easy to cover.

The girl steps into the aisle. Is there something I can help you with? My boss is getting ready to close up.

I glance at my watch again. Five minutes. I’ll be out in plenty of time. I reach for my purse, pry it open, pull out a silky swatch, and hold it out to her. I’m looking for something in this color.

The girl bites her lip. I think we have… She glances over her shoulder, then turns and walks away from me. Over here.

I follow her into the next aisle and spot three potential matches lined beside each other, darkest to lightest. I take the swatch back from her and hold it against each of the shoes. Same shade, but too dark. Still too dark, but close. A shade off and too light.

Carlee? A voice calls from the front of the store.

The girl turns her head, then looks back at me. We really need to close now. Can…

Is this all of them? I ask before she has a chance to ask me to leave.

She nods, so I grab the closest match to my dress. Leila will have to get over it. It’s enough that I agreed to suffer the humiliation of squeezing my menopausal belly into a much-too-tight dress. Besides, as her three-time maid of honor, I matched perfectly the first two times. So I’m a little off this time.

Mom would get a kick out of it, this unspoken stand I’m taking against Leila. If she could join us. If she was in her right mind. If the doctors didn’t think she’d now have more bad days than good thanks to the dementia devouring her brain.

The thought causes my throat to constrict, the all too familiar emotion choking off my breath. Mom may be physically alive, but the presence of body cannot replace the presence of heart and mind. She doesn’t speak lately, doesn’t even seem to hear. I miss the sound of her voice, even when she wasn’t sure which of her daughters I was or if I was her daughter at all.

I swallow to open my throat and hand the shoe to Carlee. Could you see if you have these in an eight? I’ll try them on fast and be out of your way.

The girl bites her lip again, but nods, rushing toward the back of the store. I sit on a plush bench along the wall and slip my shoe off, readying myself for when the shoes arrive.

Hoping for a new fella, Cinderella? John says.

I roll my eyes. Don't tempt me.

In front of me, a little to the left, an aisle filled with children's shoes grabs my attention. Little girls’ shoes. Brightly colored tennis shoes, sparkly sandals, and shiny ballet flats. Like Jailyn would wear. Her face flashes in my mind, red cheeks, puffy eyes, streaming tears that will haunt me long after they’ve dried.

It attacks me again, that churning in my stomach, increasing heart rate, and cold sweat beading on my skin. If I was wrong, if Jailyn’s circumstances weren’t what I thought them to be…

I take a deep breath, blink the images away. I wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t have been. The physical evidence removed by police proves it. This time.

John stands in front of me, hands stuffed in the pockets of his black dress pants. His royal blue button-up shirt brings out the brilliance of his eyes, the gray streaks in his dark hair complementing the distinguished appearance. He looks every part of the pharmaceutical scientist that he is, save the crooked smirk on his face.

It’s your fault we’re here, I bite out before he can comment. If you hadn’t booked such an early flight, I’d be able to take care of this in the morning.

He laughs, points to himself. My fault? Would you rather drive to Florida?

I press my lips into a line to suppress a smile. We have this humor in our relationship, a way that seems to make everything, even a late night shoe emergency, seem fun. It’s such a far cry from my last marriage, every moment so serious, tense.

John shakes his head, bends down, kisses me. Fine, I’ll take the blame this time. He kisses me again. But only because you’re cute when you’re crazy.

I feel the tension bleed from me, the effect of his warm lips. You call this crazy?

He shrugs. Well, not as crazy as Leila. He wrinkles his brow. Tell me again why we’re going to this wedding?

I play-slap his arm. For the past two weeks he’s been making up forgotten business meetings, unheard of illnesses, and a variety of appointments to get out going with me. I only waved him off. He may not admit it, but the truth is that he’d never send me off to deal with Bridezilla on my own. He too supportive for that. He’s my rock, the one person I know I can always count on for anything.

Because she’s my sister. Whether I like it or not.

Could be worse, he says. At least Mitch isn’t going with us. His voice lowers, the pain of a father-son argument bleeding through.

I tip my head, unsure of what to say. I know how much it hurts John to have his only child angry with him. They’re usually so close, practically inseparable. There’s more to it, though, and I know this is what John worries about. Although I won’t admit it to John, I’m a little worried, too.

John sits next to me, exhaling slowly, deflating. I’ve never seen him so mad.

I’ve seen Mitch this mad before, even angrier. John has seen it, too. He just doesn’t want to allow himself to remember those days, the unwarranted outbursts, Mitch locking himself in his room, the constant fear over his safety and unspoken musings over ours.

But that was a long time ago. Mitch is a different person now, confident, sweet, stable. He’s just…off. Today. A one-time thing, surely.

John shakes his head. He ran to Maggie, for Christ’s sake! He never does that.

Maggie. The woman who gave birth to Mitch. That’s where her parenting ended.

I rest my hand on his thigh and squeeze. He’s a smart, good boy. He’ll get over it. Everything will be…

A loud bang echoes from within the mall.

John jumps from the bench and looks toward the front of the store, his back to me. Voices echo off the walls, angry shouts. Then another bang.

John spins back to me. A gun. He grabs my hand, pulls me to my feet and toward the back of the store, one shoe on, the other still resting on the floor beside the bench. I limp, lopsided without the other heel. He keeps me close to him, maneuvering through rows of shoes to the counter.

A woman around my age, her hair rolled into a neat, loose bun appears from behind the counter and I guess that she’s the boss, the one in a hurry to close. Her gaze shoots to the front of the store.

Another series of bangs, loud, echoing, one right after another.

Back here! The woman says as she runs behind the counter. John follows, pulling me into a storage room lined with metal shelving and boxes.

Bang. Bang, bang.

Closer this time.

John guides me to the corner of the room, behind a shelf of shoe boxes that towers over my head. He leans against the wall, pulls me close to him, wrapping his arms around me as if to shield me from the spray of bullets somewhere outside of the store.

He must feel the way my heart pounds, throbbing against the wall of my chest. It’ll be okay, he whispers in my ear. Whatever is happening is out there. He nods toward the store exit. We’re safe.

I nod, chew on my lip. What he says makes sense, but then why don’t I feel safe?

The answer crashes in on me, an image recreated from moments ago: The man in the hoodie.

Is he to blame for this? Were there others posted throughout the mall, all dressed in black, waiting to strike? Maybe I’d been right to fear him, a psychic voice in my head warning me.

The next bang is even closer, possibly right outside of the store. I whimper slightly, turn and bury my face in John’s chest, try to find comfort in the familiar scent of his cologne. He squeezes me tighter.

My head dizzies with my racing heart, my ears ringing, but not loudly enough to drown the sound of approaching footsteps.

John! I whisper, but it comes out in panicked shrill.

He holds his finger to his lips. Shh. He gently pulls me to the floor, both of us crouching as if reducing our height will make us invisible to the madmen out there. Cold, damp concrete seeps through the thin fabric of my dress, chilling my skin.

The steps grow closer, louder.

The next bang slices through my ears as if the bullet has pierced my head.

I pinch my eyes shut, squeeze John’s arm. The footsteps don’t stop. John rises slightly, wrapping my body with his own, shielding me.

The footsteps pause, a false moment of relief.

Back here. The voice is deep, like a roll of thunder.

Despite my terror, I can’t help wondering who he is looking for. Carlee? The owner? Maybe they had reason to close the store in a hurry. Or maybe it’s just another sign of a world gone bad. Another shooting, more innocent lives lost.

I hold my breath, pray that mine isn’t one of them.

The next bang I feel as much as hear, vibrations shooting through me as if I pulled the trigger. I peer out from beneath John’s elbow, see a pair of black clad feet nearing. They stop, the toes awkwardly pointing inward, pigeon-like.

Another bang. Then two more.

John’s body slumps, pinning me beneath him. A sticky, warm liquid dribbles onto my cheek. I want to scream, but I can’t even breathe.

Lia

My lungs beg for breath, John’s weight too much for me to bear. A warm stream of what I can only assume to be his blood trails down my face. I blink it away from my eye, fight the urge to cry out for help.

Be okay, John. Please. Be okay.

I know the odds are against me, but blood and a seemingly lifeless stance doesn’t have to mean the worst has happened. It could be an act, an attempt to convince the shooters they’ve succeeded in taking yet another life. It’s something he would think to do. John is quick like that. Despite his typically relaxed demeanor, his mind works at the speed of light, assessing situations, forming plans, and executing them before I’ve even determined a situation exists. Like the time we went on a road trip and ended up surrounded by endless fields in Nebraska when a couple massive tornadoes appeared on the horizon. Somewhere inside, I knew what to do but I couldn’t bring the knowledge to the surface. The sight of the funnel clouds swirling toward me paralyzed my mind. I could only sit in the car, hoping and praying they’d spin in another direction. John didn’t miss a beat, though. Within seconds, he pulled the car to the side of the road, got out, opened my door, and pulled me into a ditch.

He just knows what to do and has the focus to act on it. Right now, maybe he knows that the best thing to do is play dead.

Please be playing, John…

I picture the mall, so quiet in a state of near abandonment just moments ago. Now, it’s likely showered in blood, shards of blown out glass spewed over the floors, dust and chunks of plaster sprinkled over the top, a sundae of destruction.

I lie as still as I can, listen for the faintest trace of my husband’s breath, feel for the slightest twitch, anything to give me hope.

I only hear my own heartbeat thrumming in my ears.

It’s too quiet, too still. Not just John, but everything. Where are the gunmen and the other two women in the storeroom?

The shrill of a ringtone slices through the silence. What? a deep voice bites out, presumably into the phone. Then, Shit!

I lay beneath John trembling, my eyes pinched shut even though I’d see nothing but darkness if I opened them. I’m so cold, even the warmth of his body no match for the concrete floor.

Let’s go. Now! the voice says.

Not until we’re finished, someone else says, his voice calmer.

I can only hope this means that police have arrived with an ambulance in tow. They’ll get rid of these men, help John.

An unnerving pause, then, We are done. For now.

Footsteps scramble, those heavy feet pounding the floor, this time growing quieter with each step, retreating.

Another round of gunshots echoes in the mall. I can only imagine how many dozens of bodies these men are leaving in their wake. I hope and pray that my husband isn’t one of them, that even though he’s obviously hurt, he’s alive.

I can’t stay pinned like this any longer, folded into a pretzel and crushed. John? I don’t bother to keep my voice down. They’re gone.

I pause, wait for movement.

I feel nothing except his crushing, lifeless weight on me.

No, not lifeless. It can’t be. He’s the definition of life, taught me how to live again after my divorce, cured me of thinking living meant working, raising my daughter, and catching a few hours of sleep at night. He brings life into every room he enters, relaxes people with his calm demeanor, makes them laugh. He has his priorities straight, dedicating himself to his work, but also understanding why it is that he works.

He gets life. He is life. How could he be gone so fast?

John! I scream this time, a hysterical plea for a response.

Feet shuffle toward me, softer steps than the gunmen’s. Ma’am? It’s Carlee’s voice.

My…my husband! I cry out from beneath him.

Oh, dear Lord… It’s the other woman speaking now, the one I assumed to be the boss, the one with the neatly twisted bun. Oh… By the patter of her feet, it seems she takes a few steps back. Quick Carlee, 9-1-1. Call!

Is he breathing? I ask.

I…I don’t think… Let me help you.

Don’t move him! I yell. We don’t want to hurt him more than he already is.

Oh…honey…I’m so sorry. Her voice is soft, yet heavy, weighted with words she doesn’t dare speak. I’m going to help you.

I know what she’s thinking; it doesn’t matter how much she moves John. He’s gone, dead. My mind chooses to play dumb, though, hold out hope. Anything is possible, even his survival.

The woman must pull on John because the next thing I know, he’s sliding off of me. Not lifting as if to carefully remove his weight. Not rolling as if there is muscle involvement. Instead he drops lifelessly onto the cold concrete with a sickening slap.

That word again. Lifeless. I won’t accept it.

I push to my knees, take long, deep breaths. I blink to adjust my eyes to the sudden light, yellow and dim as it may be. Neatly stacked shoe boxes on tall metal shelving sit directly in front of me. I quickly turn away from them, look for John.

I wish I hadn’t.

Beneath a veil of crimson, I see my husband. He lies flat on his back, the side of his head shattered, red blotches bleeding into his gray streaked hair. Half of his face looks normal – structured cheek bones, chiseled chin, the soft curvature of his nose – but what remains of the other side is unidentifiable. His shirt, moments ago bright blue, is now soaked purple.

I crawl over to him, my chest heaving, stomach turning. John! I press my fingers to his wrist. If the bullet missed anything vital, there is a chance he’s alive. I’ve heard stories before, people who shot themselves in the head and survived because the bullet missed their brain. This could be one of those situations, one of those miracles.

But I don’t feel a pulse.

It still doesn’t have to mean to the worst. A lot of people can’t find a pulse on a perfectly healthy wrist. I can’t find my own that way.

I sit on my feet and reach for his neck, my shaky fingers bathing in my husband’s blood. Wake up, John! I feel for any indication of life, starting beneath this jaw and working my way around his neck.

Still, nothing.

Come on, John. Open your eyes. Wake up! I don’t recognize my own voice, scratchy, high pitched, desperate. My breathing is hysterical, my stomach flopping one too many times. Without getting up I turn around, reach for a discarded box and wretch.

Behind me, someone caresses my hair. Either Carlee or the other woman. I’m not sure. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, push the box aside, turn back to John, and stare at his bloody chest. With all my inner strength, I will it to move, even the weakest attempt at breath.

I have one more thing to try, one last effort before my final bit of hope shatters into a million pieces. Slowly, I raise my hand over his nose, hold it close so I can’t miss even a wisp of breath. Just a light brush of warmth, anything.

I feel nothing but the cold, artificial air in the room.

I lean over John, try to tip his head back, an idea sparking. Oh god…CPR. He needs…

The woman touches me on the shoulder. I look at her, meet her green eyes swimming in tears. I’m so sorry. He’s… She sniffles, shakes her head. It’s too late. He’s gone.

No. He can’t be. I wrap my arms over him as if holding on tight enough will prevent him from leaving me. Somewhere inside, there has to be a bit of life. I just can’t see it. If there is any chance at all, he’ll pull through, fight for his life, fight for his son, fight for his step-daughter. Fight for me.

He didn’t quit pursuing me eleven years ago, convinced me that a second chance at love was worth the risk of loss. He didn’t give up on my dad, patiently waiting the three years it took to gain his acceptance and trust with his daughter and granddaughter. He didn’t quit on Kara when shyness and the influence of her father held him at an arm’s length. He didn’t give up on Mitch when it would’ve been easier to institutionalize him, let someone else help him get better.

John is a fighter, not a quitter. He would not quit on life.

But beneath the blood, I see his eyes, partially open, unmoving.

It’s the final detail I need to accept the truth. He left me.

The agony pours out of me, a piercing wail. The woman puts her arm around my shoulders, blood smearing her perfectly tailored clothes. Come here, she says. Let’s back up. Just a little bit.

The next thing I know, I’m sliding backward with no effort on my part. The woman keeps her arm wrapped around me and Carlee appears beside me, helping to gently push me against a rack. Lean back and rest, one of them says. Help is coming.

My eyes stay glued to John, lying in a sticky puddle of red. I can’t do it, sit here and stare at all the blood. I look at my lap, but the sight is no better. His blood is all over me, soaking through my chambray dress, staining my skin.

I pull my knees to my chest, bury my face in them. A trail of tears drips over my fingers, diluting the blood.

It’s so quiet. Too quiet. My mind wanders, taking just a few steps back, picturing John joking with me for not picking up my shoes earlier.

If it wasn’t for those shoes... Stupid, stupid, god damn shoes.

I think of Mitch. How can I tell him his father is gone? He’ll be devastated, possibly erasing all the progress he’s made over the past several years. Kara will slip into a state of disbelief and Mom, even if she becomes alert, her mind is just too fragile to handle this. She loves John, waits for his visits. He never fails to lift her spirits. He has that effect on people.

Had.

God, I can’t take this.

My head spins, my body feels light. My stomach turns again and I tip my head back, resting it on the cold metal rack behind me. I feel like I’m dying, wish it to be true.

It’s my last thought as blackness sets in.

Kayla

Before

I gingerly lower myself to the chair beside the bed, careful not to make a sound. The old wood still creaks as I settle onto it, protesting my meager weight. I've never been heavy, but lately pounds seem to vanish overnight, the kind of fat burning power only the worst kinds of stress can create. It's a wonder there is anything left of me, trapped in middle of two crap storms.

I glance at Ma, holding my breath, hoping I haven't disturbed her sleep. Her slow deep breaths continue and as I watch her, I can't help noticing how pronounced her cheekbones have become and how the smooth skin over them has grown more pale that it was just a day ago. My suffering form looks overweight next to her.

That feeling churns in my stomach again, a combination of sickness and anxiety twirling around inside of me, the strongest appetite suppressant in the world. She's too young for this, should have another twenty good years left in her.

Even after her diagnosis of ovarian cancer, I didn't think I'd be in this position so soon, if you can call it that.

Your mother is a miracle, the doctor told me the last time she seemed to be knocking on death's door. The average person diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer is lucky to have three years left. She's beaten the odds twice over at seven years.

I didn't care. Seven years wasn't long enough. Until that point, Ma had been doing so well. I just couldn't see her going from seemingly healthy to so sick in no time flat. I understood that one of her tumors began to grow rapidly, but it still didn't make sense. Shouldn't progression of the disease have been slow? A little sick, more sick, a lot sick, and then this? Whatever it was, it could be fixed by my estimation.

Ma proved me right that time, made a turnaround after a surgical procedure to remove the tumor. Without it inside of her, the pressure that caused her constant back pain and nausea disappeared. It took time to recover, but she managed to return to her old self. For a while, at least.

I glance at Ma, her cheek resting on her hand, a fluffy comforter tucked beneath her chin. Now it's been eight years since the diagnosis, and this time will be different. At first