After spending time with Patty, I made my way home. I felt exhausted but excited, too. Finally, I was having success with my promesa.
As I turned onto my street, I heard the familiar roar of a lawn mower. Mr. Landon, our neighbor, was working on his yard. I could tell he had just started because most of the grass was still long. When I got to my front yard, I waved at him, and then Dad stepped out.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, eager to show him the names I had collected.
“In a minute,” he answered. He seemed angry, and I wondered if Jimmy was acting up. Maybe I should have stayed home. With Mom ill, Jimmy was hard to control, and Carmen liked to pick on him, making things worse. But Dad wasn’t angry at the family. He was angry with Mr. Landon because he went straight to him and said, “Can you mow another time? My wife can’t rest with all that noise.”
Mr. Landon shrugged. “Sorry. Got to do it now.”
“But she needs her sleep,” Dad said.
“If it’s too loud, tell her to wear earplugs. Why’s she turning in so early anyhow? It’s only four o’clock. Who goes to bed at four o’clock?”
“Do you want to know who goes to bed at four o’clock?” Dad said, his voice getting loud. “You really want to know? People who are sick, you hear? People who have cancer.”
I could tell Mr. Landon felt bad because he got apologetic. “I’m sorry to hear that Lisa’s sick. Really, I am. She’s always been a kind lady.”
Dad stood there a minute, took a deep breath. “Thanks,” he said, calmer. “Thanks for understanding and for agreeing to do your yard another day.”
“Now wait a minute,” Mr. Landon quickly said. “I said I’m sorry, and I meant it, but I have to mow today. I work all week, so it’s the only time I have. I’ll do it quick, though, I promise.”
For a minute, Dad looked like someone who had just lost a championship game. Then he looked like someone who felt cheated by the referee. “How’s this for a promise?” he said. “Next time you need something, don’t bother to ask because I promise not to help.”
“Oh, come on now, don’t be that way,” Mr. Landon said. “Don’t be making a mountain out of a molehill.”
Dad ignored him and stomped toward the house. He didn’t even remember that I was standing right there. Somehow the anger had blinded him.
But Mr. Landon saw me and said, “Tell your folks I’ll just be an hour, if that. Sorry about the noise, but I have to do my yard. Hope you understand.”
“It’s okay,” I said, feeling embarrassed because Dad wanted quiet rules for the whole neighborhood now.
I went inside and found Jimmy on the floor with his toy cars, while Mom lay on her recliner all bundled up. Her lips looked chapped and her skin paler than usual because she hadn’t been enjoying the sun. She was watching TV, but her eyes were nearly closed. When her head fell forward, she jolted, surprised. I could tell she was fighting to stay awake awhile longer.
“I got some more names for the cancer race.” I held up the clipboard and my manila envelope.
“That’s wonderful,” Mom said.
I sat on the couch, got comfortable. “Are you doing okay?” What was I thinking? I just asked the dumbest question in the world. Of course Mom wasn’t doing okay. She was sick.
She answered anyway. “I’m fine.”
Dad must have heard because he stepped in. I could tell he was still mad. “You are not fine.”
“Maybe not,” Mom said, “but why worry if I don’t have to?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, sensing that something had happened.
Mom sighed. “Last night,” she began, “my arm started to feel funny. It didn’t hurt, but it felt tight, like something inside was pushing against my skin. And when I woke up this morning, it looked like this.”
She pulled down the blanket and showed me.
“Fat arm! Fat arm!” Jimmy laughed as he pointed at Mom. Her right arm was totally bloated. I could see her skin stretched tight like a spandex gym suit. She had no wrist, so her arm looked like a preschool drawing, a puffy rectangle with five sticks for the fingers. “Fat arm! Fat arm!” Jimmy laughed again.
“One more time,” Dad said through clenched teeth, “and I’ll spank you.”
He gave Jimmy the harshest stare-down, and Jimmy’s eyes started to water. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to cry. Dad never got this angry.
“What’s the matter with you?” Mom said to him. “Jimmy’s just making an observation.”
“He’s making fun of you.”
“But he’s only two,” Mom said. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
Jimmy started to sob. I picked him up, and he wrapped his arms around me, putting all his strength into the hug.
“You’re upsetting him,” I scolded. Now I was angry, and I sounded like the parent instead of the kid.
“We’re sorry, mijo,” Mom said to Jimmy. He hid his face in my shoulder, but little by little, he calmed down. “Besides,” Mom added, “I do have a fat arm.” She lifted it and studied it as if it were a separate part of her body. “It looks like an elephant leg. And it’s got these hard cable things under the skin. Come touch it.”
“Lisa,” Dad warned.
“It’s my arm,” she snapped back. “I can’t hide it or pretend it’s normal. Maybe I’m crazy, but I think the way the body reacts is fascinating, too.”
Dad stared at her. Then he stared at her arm. He looked… afraid.
“Don’t fight,” I pleaded.
“We’re not fighting,” Mom assured me. “Sometimes your dad takes things too seriously.”
“And sometimes your mother doesn’t take things seriously enough,” Dad answered. “Like the neighbor. If he weren’t mowing the lawn, you’d be able to rest, and your arm would feel better. I’m sure of it.”
“He has every right to mow his lawn,” Mom said. “I told you to leave him alone, but you talked to him anyway. Now you’re all short-tempered.”
Dad shook his head, too tired to argue. After a few seconds, he stepped out. When he left, Mom seemed sad. I could tell she wanted to fight the sadness just like she had tried to fight sleep a minute ago.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “These are tough times, and we’re all a little anxious.”
That part was definitely true. Lately, my mood ring’s favorite color had been black, for “100 percent stressed out.”
“Come touch my arm,” Mom suggested again.
Jimmy and I poked it. There were hard cables under the skin but the areas between were squishy.
“Does this mean the cancer spread to your arm?” I asked, trying not to sound afraid but unable to keep my voice from trembling.
“No,” Carmen said, walking in with the laptop. She must have been in the other room doing research. She set the computer on the coffee table and studied the screen. “This is a side effect from the treatment. It’s called lymphedema. It happened because Mom’s lymph nodes were damaged, and one of the things they do is drain tissue fluid. It’s like she has a clog in her armpit, so the fluid is all backed up.”
“That’s what it feels like,” Mom said. “It’s very uncomfortable. I already called the doctor, and he wants to see me tomorrow. He said I’ll have to go to physical therapy again.”
“They’re going to massage you and put wraps on you,” Carmen said. “Look.” She showed us pictures of swollen arms and legs being wrapped. Most of them were a lot bigger than Mom’s. “That’s how they get the fluid to move along. But it’ll take several days for the swelling to go down. If you don’t do anything, your arm will just get fatter and fatter.”
“I sure hope this is the last side effect,” Mom said. “I’m already dealing with nausea and fatigue. The arm isn’t so bad as long as something else doesn’t happen. I want to do things again. I feel like I can’t do anything anymore.”
So why was she having these side effects? It made no sense, especially after I’d been working so hard on my promesa. Was it because I wasn’t working fast enough? But what else could I do? I had gone to lots of doors, many of them twice. I had asked all my friends and called my aunts and uncles. Why did I promise five hundred names when I didn’t even know five hundred people?
“Since I can’t lift my arm,” Mom continued, “I won’t be able to go to radiation treatment for a while.”
“Does that mean the cancer’s going to spread?” I sounded more panicky than before.
“I don’t think so,” Mom said, though I could tell she wasn’t exactly sure.
Carmen scrolled down the website and started to read. “It says that lymphedema can happen after surgery and that it occurs on the same side as the mastectomy. That’s exactly what’s happening to you.” Mom nodded. “You’ll have to wear compression bandages to ‘assist with lymphatic flow.’ How cool is that?” She was getting more and more excited, while I was getting more and more butterflies in my stomach. “Can I go to therapy with you?” Carmen asked. “Maybe they’ll let me help. Maybe they’ll teach me how to bandage the arm. That way, I can take care of you at home.”
Mom nodded. “You should be a doctor,” she told Carmen, and my sister smiled as if she had just received the biggest compliment. That’s when I stopped listening to all her medical facts. After all, no one ever told me I could be a doctor. But why would they? You had to be smart for something like that, and I couldn’t even come up with a promesa that was good enough to help Mom.