I got up with a throbbing in my head. I touched my forehead and the fever had subsided. I had taken a paracetamol, but the harms of self-medication actually didn’t matter to someone who was anyways going to die in the next few years.

And then the events of the night flashed before my eyes. I sat up straight and immediately regretted it as my head spun again.

As if on cue, my mother entered the room and forced me back on the bed.

“You’re going nowhere in this condition,” she glared. “You know you got delirious under the effect of the fever yesterday? You could have passed out there due to your stubbornness. It was with great difficulty that I supported you and brought you home. You were staggering like a drunkard.”

She placed the medication mix on the bedside table and proceeded to open my Mic-Key tube.

“What’s that?” I eyes the mixture nervously.
“I called Doctor Philips and he has advised antibiotics and bed rest. No don’t look at me that way,” she warned seeing my lips curl in disdain. “You’re going nowhere today. If you have a doubt on my words, you can call him up and verify.”

“Mom, you of all people should know how much I need to go meet Daniel.”

“Daniel’s operation has been successful though he hasn’t regained his senses yet, which is normal as doctors say. I talked to his mom half an hour ago. So everything is fine there. You stay at home.”

“Mom,” I said suddenly, grabbing her hand.

She narrowed her eyes, “No argument on that.”

“No,” I pulled her down on my bed and hugged her.

“What’s the matter?” she cuddled me gently.

“Did you see my biopsy report?”

“No, I was going to see,” she reached out for the white envelope on my table.
I caught her hand and shook my head, fresh tears pouring from my eyes.

“Phoebe, what is it?” her voice shook.

“Squamous cell carcinoma.”

She stopped short and stared at me for a moment and then suddenly she blinked and came into life, “What stage?”

“First,” I mumbled.

“Oh!” she let out a sigh of relief, surprising me. “It’s okay. It’s reparable by surgery. I can’t remember the number of times your skin has been worked upon. It won’t be that bad, darling.”

“Mom…”

“Everything is all right. This isn’t what we’ve always feared, just a side effect of your disease,” she hugged me. “Not that it makes it less painful to know that your daughter is suffering. I’m with you through it.”

I told her everything about the need for subsequent biopsies and how Doctor Philips would help me. Then I also informed her about the Debra. It felt good, spilling out everything to her. All the fears and hopes came out in a rush.

Something changed in her demeanour, “That subsequent biopsies are the things for the future. I just pray that everything goes well for now. I need to plan your immediate surgery. Let me talk with your doctor.”

She got up to leave.

“Mom,” I called again, “I won’t go to the hospital but I do want you to take me somewhere, sick or not.”

She turned around at my bizarre request.

“Where?”

“To the church!”

“You’re kidding me right?”

“No, I want to stay in peace for a while and I think I want to get away from this house, from the hospital and from every other thing associated with my life or Daniel’s and so I thought that will be the perfect place. I’ve heard that it calms people and helps in taking better decisions…”

“For only those who believe in Him,” my mother interrupted.

“I’m still not sure whether to believe in Him or not. I put up a good show before others, but I can’t deny that I don’t pray once or twice, unknowingly. It’s like in my subconscious.”

My mother stared at me, baffled.
I nodded, giving her my pleading look.

“Get ready,” she gave a dry smile as she shuffled out of the room.

A/N Phoebe wants to go to church, believer or not. What would you have done in her situation?