THE GIRLS STEPHANIE TRAIN
“I can’t do this.” Boyd’s mom muttered into the porcelain bowl, the bowl that Boyd cleaned at least once a day for her so she wouldn’t have to stare at vomit stains or hard water buildup. Boyd’s mom had the acute nausea that came a few hours after her chemo. Then, twenty- four hours later she had the delayed vomiting. When they started her on the anti-nausea medication, she had what they called breakthrough vomiting. Boyd made sure she was stocked up on mouthwash and toothpaste so she could freshen her breath and so the enamel on her teeth wouldn’t rot away from the regurgitated acid. One day, after she had vacated the contents of her stomach, Boyd’s mom looked up at him. “I want to get the marijuana.” “Come on, Ma,” Boyd said, offering her a warm, wet washcloth. “I mean it, Boyd, I want to try the pot. I’ve been reading about it on the internet.” “It’s just pot mom, not the pot.” “Do you know where to get it?” “No, of course not,” Boyd said. She looked at him with her red-rimmed eyes, hunched over the toilet bowl. She had wet spots on the front of her gray sweatshirt from drool or backsplash. Her hair, what was left of it, was pulled back into a thin, wiry-looking ponytail. Boyd could see patches of scalp beginning to show, patches that grew bigger and bigger every day. She eyed him for a moment, her bottom lip protruding forward in an exaggerated pout. She inhaled and opened her mouth to speak, but another heave erupted from her insides. 96
Berkeley Fiction Review
