Those big families always threw his own situation—the fact that he had no one but the Colemans—into perspective.
“Everyone at our church has been praying for Isabella,” Timothy said to Sebastian. “Her story has spread to other churches in Augusta, and we’ve heard that they’re all praying, too.”
“We’ll let them know about the sepsis,” Megan said, her voice cracking. “And they’ll double down on their conversations with God.”
“You’ll put her back on the transplant list as soon as the sepsis is gone, right?” Timothy asked.
“When the sepsis is gone, we’ll reevaluate.” Sebastian excused himself and turned toward the break room.
He never made promises to family members that he couldn’t keep, because his mother had once assured him that she’d recover. He didn’t know if she’d believed that when she’d said it or not. Either way, she’d lied.
She’d died on a Tuesday, while he was at school.
The hospice staff had believed that she had several days left, and his mom had wanted him to continue his routine. So he’d gone to school even though he’d hated school and been nauseous with worry every morning when the old lady neighbor they were staying with walked him to the bus stop wearing her house shoes.
On that Tuesday when he’d returned home from school, he’d knocked on the door of the old lady’s apartment.
A young female voice had called, “Come in.”
He entered and watched two women raise their faces toward him sadly. The old lady was there, but so was the young one with curly brown hair who’d been coming around. They called her his social worker, except he wasn’t really sure what that meant.
His vision jerked to his mom, in her hospital bed. Smoothblankets covered her to her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and she was too still. Too white.
Terror tightened his stomach.
“Sebastian,” the old lady said, “your mother passed away while napping a few hours ago.”
He couldn’t move or speak.
Your mother passed away.
No.
Your mother passed away.
No!
“I’m so sorry,” the social worker said.
“It was peaceful,” the old lady told him.
His lungs weren’t working, and a terrible buzzing noise filled his head.
“We didn’t know if you’d want to see her before she goes,” the social worker said, “but we wanted to give you that option. It’s totally up to you.”
His mom had died? And he hadn’t been there?
He was going to be sick all over his shoes.
“I want you to know that you’ll be safe and cared for,” the social worker said. “There’s a plan in place. As soon as you’re ready, I’ll take you to a family who lives near here. They have a room ready for you, and they’re very kind people.”
He hated the social worker with the curly brown hair. He’d never be safe, and he’d never be cared for, and he’d never be ready to leave this apartment. This is where his mom was.
His mom.She was his family.
These ladies were strangers.
He’d remained silent the rest of that awful day. They’d let him sit at his mom’s bedside for a long time. He’d stared at her because he’d been too scared to hold a dead person’s hand.
