Because Quan’s still standing in the doorway.

   Looking at his mama. His mama whose chin seems to be quivering in time with the drumroll sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. He can’t even force down one of his special recentering breaths the way Tay told him to when she and Liberty were “preparing” him.

   The meeting/session/whatever the hell you wanna call it was strange for Quan. It was his first time in who-knows-how-long sharing a space with two women at once, and seeing the rapport between them, the way they fed off each other in pursuit of “the optimal circumstances” for his “mental and emotional well-being” shook him down to his molecules.

   “So,” Liberty said as she sat down across from him in one of the cushy chairs that takes up the center of the office space where Quan has his regular counseling sessions with Tay.

        (Libz was wearing this long yellow dress and had her hair tied up in this dope wrap-thing that reminded Quan of the kente-print shirts Martel sometimes wore. Made Quan feel he was being addressed by the sun. Actually makes him feel a little better in this moment to think about her.)

       “First I want to apologize for inserting myself into your weekly session,” Liberty began.

              (Like I mind, Quan thought.)

   “But Tay and I agreed that this was important enough to break with routine,” she continued.

   Tay nodded.

        Quan smiled. Basking in the sunlight.

   And then:

   “Your mom called the facility to ask about visitation hours,” Liberty said.

   Quan went hot all over.

   “Ms. Bernice, who works at the front desk and received the call, immediately reached out to me after checking the visitation log and seeing that this would be your mom’s first time coming.”

   “And then Libby immediately reached out to me,” Tay said.

   Over the next hour, they “discussed.” Was Quan okay taking the visit? (He was allowed to refuse.) Did he feel ready to see his mother? Was there anything he wanted to talk about or work through prior? Did he have any questions?

   And he did:

        Why now?

          What does she want?

           Does this mean she still cares?

     Then why don’t she answer my calls?

   But he didn’t ask any of them. Because the overriding one is still clanging around in his brain like an eight-alarm fire alert as he crosses the visitation space:

        What happened?

   She doesn’t get up when he reaches the table, and it occurs to Quan how good it is that the thing is cemented to the ground. Because watching her sit there and cry like she’s suddenly moved by the sight of him makes Quan want to flip the whole shit over.

   He sits without a word.

   Even with her brown skin, Quan can see the dark circles beneath her eyes. She’s lost weight too. More gray in her hair.

   She wipes her face and smiles. Sort of.

   And then they just sit. For who knows how long.

        Staring.

    At each other.

   Quan’s certainly not gonna be the one to break the silence so—

   “Gabe misses you,” his mama says, and she might as well have dropped a bucket of ice water on his head.

   He’d get up and walk away if not for the fact that it’s his mama.

   And beneath all his fury,

              he still wants her to love him.

       “What you here for, Ma?” he says, and her gaze plummets to the table. Through the table, even.

   “I’m not tryna be rude,” Quan goes on, “but in all honesty, you popping up out the blue like this has me a little shaken. So if we could avoid dragging this whole thing out—”

   Quan stops, not wanting to go any further. He’s sure that stung—it pricked his throat on the way up. He knows if he keeps talking, all the mama-related rage he hasn’t gotten to in his sessions with Tay will shoot off his tongue in sharp-edged words.

   Mama sighs. “Your sister is sick, LaQuan.”

   “Huh?”

        (Though of course he heard exactly what she said.)

          (He wasn’t expecting her to just give in to his…aggression.)

   “Dasia was diagnosed with leukemia a few weeks ago.”

   Now Quan has

        NO IDEA

    what to say.

   “It’s pretty aggressive, and she starts chemo next week…”

   Quan opens his mouth to speak this time, but it’s no use: the rest comes pouring out of Mama like hot coffee gulped down too fast, scalding her mouth on the way out, searing a path into the table and burning Quan’s hands and arms as it overflows the edge into his lap.

* * *

       FirstDoctor​WeWentTo​SaidTheChemo​WasPointless.​”There’sNo​WayWe​CouldGet​ItAll.​SheMaybe​HasTwo/​ThreeMonths​ToLive.”​ButYouKnow​YourSister,​StubbornSince​TheDaySheWasBorn—​Ain’tEvenReally​WannaComeOut​INTOthisCrazyWorld​—AnywayShe​RefusedToHearThat​“Bull”AndDemande​dWeSeekOutA​SecondOpinion.​PrognosisWasBetter—​IThinkIt​Probably​Helped​ThatTheSecond​DoctorWas​ABlackWoman​WhoActually​GaveADamn​WhetherOrNot​MyBabyGirl​LivesOrDies.​ButThePointIs​EvenWithALess​ShittyDoctor,​CancerIsStill​CancerAin’tIt?​It’sExpensiveAnd​Time-Consuming​AndWeWere​Uninsured​AtFirst​AndThoughWeGot​TheInsurance​NowAnd​It’sRetroactive,​IRecently​LostMyJob,​LikeLastWeek.​JustSo​HappenedThat​TheNextDay,​YourFriendCameBy​ToCheckOnUs​CuzHeSai—

* * *

   “My ‘friend’? What friend is that?”

        Montrey, she says.

    (And now there’s a new little stab of rage—and maybe even fear—in Quan’s gut.)

    (Ain’t like he heard any more from his “friends” than he did from Mama…)