There was no mistaking the diagnosis; ‘cancer’ was the same in English and in Spanish. Even so, Maricela asked her abuela to say everything again. Cáncer de pulmón. Cancer of the lung. Se ha mudado al cerebro. It’s gone to Mama's brain. Maricela slumped into her sofa. “How much time?” She asked.

     “No sé, mija. No sé.”

     “No importa. Voy en seguida.” The call clicked off. Before anything, for reasons Maricela didn’t get, embarrassment hit her. A blurry kind she hadn’t felt in years, the kind that came whenever Abuela flew in from Panama. Abuela would listen to Maricela stumbling over Spanish with her gringa mouth. The smell of fresh mangoes smuggled past airport security. The sound as Abuela rustled open the plastic bags she’d hid them in, the clunking of the suitcases against the banister as Dad carried the luggage upstairs. The frown on Abuela’s face and the inevitable fight that followed. Abuela pressing Mama: “Por qué ningunas de ellas saben hablar?” Why don’t any of them know how to speak?

       Mama biting back, in English, “They speak fine.”

       And Mama? How long had she known? How long had it been since they talked last? Two years? No, the big blow-up—that was three years ago. Even before then they had pretty much stopped calling each other.

       Maricela rested her head in one hand. With the other, she picked at the loose threads of the cushion beneath her, then the fresh scab on her tattoo. Could they fix cancer once it went into your brain? Her stomach tightened the way it did whenever she stepped into a new restaurant or mall and the blasting pop music and the groups and groups of people suffocated. She bent to put her head between her thighs. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4. The sweating would come soon. And the constriction of the throat. She needed her medicine. Where was her backpack?

       She scanned the room—the drained plastic bottles littering the floor, the carpet she hadn't bothered to vacuum since she moved in. The blotch of red wine, left from the night Tina and she nearly bit each other’s heads off, sat like an indictment. Mama would have a conniption if she saw the balls of kinky hair strewn along the floor, the expired food and trash in the fridge. She would come over herself with her original scent Pine-Sol and her own mop. Maricela's throat knotted. She reached for her phone and dialed. "Hey, Xiomara."

      "Mari? Did Abuela talk to you yet?"

      "Yeah-"

      "I was just about to call. Are you alright? Have you taken your Clonazepam?"

      "No, not yet."

      "Don’t you need it? Are you having a panic attack?"

      "I'm fine," Maricela lied. Her hands fumbled with cushion threads again. "What do we do?"

      "I was looking for the soonest flight to Norfolk. I’ll book yours, too. We can ride to the airport together." Nope. No flying.

      "I was thinking about driving."

      Xiomara sighed through the phone. "You can't drive right now; you shouldn't when you're upset. The plane's better. I can pick you up."

      "You know I can't with planes. The drive should only take a few hours."

      The words had sounded solid in Maricela's head, but they ended up feeling bare once they left her mouth. Even ignoring the flight, though, the airport alone would be hell—the swarms of people passing by too close and the bright colors and the noise and smells and on top of that the knowledge that Mama was dying-

      "Fine," Xiomara said. "Get packed. I'll come and we can drive together."

      "You can still fly."

      "I can't just let you drive on your own. Get packed up. I'll see you in fifteen." The call clicked off again. That familiar sting of Xiomara’s self-inflicted martyrdom.

      Maricela dragged her jumbo suitcase from under her bed. The briefcase’s fabric had the eggplanty-red coloring of a bruise. It engulfed the handful of clean shirts, pair of shoes, the makeup bag, sketchbook and the computer she threw in; the setup almost looked like a joke. Maybe she needed to add more. What did a person typically bring for this kind of thing? Maricela sat on her bed, then laid down on it, ignoring the funky smell that clung to the sheets. Did brain cancer hurt? Could you feel it at all? Maricela picked at the scab on her tattoo again. This one on her forearm, she’d just got. An arrow piercing a pinwheel, all line work in black ink. For Tina.

      The dust, suspended in the moldy air of two o’clock, seemed sad almost. The crooked daylight peeking in through the blinds had a blue tint. Maybe the cancer in Mama’s brain would turn her into a vegetable. There would probably be nothing worse for her. Years ago, when Dad still hung around and Alma was going to Norfolk High, all of them sat silent, watching the latest news update on Terry Schaivo. When the ‘before’ and ‘after’ footage popped up on the screen, Mama sighed “Ay, no.” She said, “If you ever see me like that, girls, you better come pull the plug yourselves.”

     The doorbell rang.

     Xiomara jumped into Maricela’s arms before she could get the front door open all the way. They only stayed in the loose hug for a few seconds, the feeling of it unfamiliar. When Xiomara pulled away she stared at Maricela, lingering like she had something heavy to say. But all that came out was “Have you packed?” The awkwardness deflated a bit.

      Maricela cleared her throat and fiddled with the door handle. “I’ll bring my bags out,” she said. Xiomara stepped toward her anyway. “You don’t need to come in; I can get the stuff myself.” Maricela pictured the look that Xiomara would get if she saw the shambles of a house—probably one identical to Abuela’s, whenever Maricela tried to speak Spanish.

      “I came here to help.” Xiomara said. “Let me help.”

      “You can help by driving.”

      “Mari, you shouldn’t be driving anyway. Especially not on your meds.”

      “I haven’t taken them.”

      “Did you forget to pack them? I can get those for you. Where are they?” Xiomara inched forward again.

      “Don’t. Just-” Maricela sighed. “Just wait here, please. I can get the meds myself. I’ll get my suitcase, too. There’s really not much in it.”

      Xiomara nodded. Her tone softened, sounded bruised. “Right. Ok, well, I’ll wait here.”

title: Mother's Sick

genre: Realism. Full-length novel.

age range: 20-35 

word count of this selection (from Chapter 1): 1068

author name: Maya Chesley

why my project is a good fit: Trident Media Group specializes in well-written stories of all genres. I aim to write well-told scenes that are relatable and that resonate with an adult audience. The two go hand-in-hand.

synopsis: Three sisters (Maricela, Xiomara, and Alma) come together for a road trip home when they find out their mother has stage III cancer. Along the way, family secrets come out, tensions burst in a cramped car, and all-out blow-ups keep us guessing. Will the trip end with the Silván family coming together or imploding? As fate would have it, a little bit of both.

target audience: Adults ages 25-30, especially adults of multicultural backgrounds and adults who hail from complicated families