He’s already talking about her in the past tense. Fuck. Pressure roars behind my clenched eyelids. None of this should be a surprise. She never took care of herself. If I’m being honest, she was hellbent on doing everything possible to end her life prematurely. All the drugs and booze were bound to catch up with her.
“Do you think she knew?”
Miles chews on my question for a moment. “Did she ever mention her health? Not feeling well?”
I snort. “We didn’t have that type of relationship.”
He nods, a glimmer of understanding dawning across his features. “A prideful woman.”
“More like loose cannon.” I scrub over my face, reality beginning to crash down from the ceiling.
Miles hums. “Well, her charts make no mention of regular appointments or general check-ups. Considering the condition of her organs and the severity of disease, I’d say she was either ignoring the issues or self-medicating enough to not notice.”
And isn’t that the gist of her existence. Damn. I dip my head, slouching low in the chair. Words stick to the roof of my mouth. What was left to say?
The good doctor must read my mood. “Please stay as long as you’d like. There’s no reason to rush. Are there other relatives you need to contact?”
I offer a limp shrug in response. Anything more might break me.
“If so, feel free to do so now. There’s a nurse station just down the hall. They can call me if necessary.”
“Got it,” I mutter.
He pats my back. “I’m very sorry you ran out of time with her. Take comfort in knowing she’s no longer suffering.”
But is that really true?
The door closes behind him with a soft click. We’re alone, cocooned in endless silence. The steady beeping from her monitor spikes my own pulse. The urge to run and never return surges into my veins. I can’t fucking handle this. My heart screams for comfort that only one person can give. The phone slips off my clammy palm. I grip the plastic until it’s ready to crack. Mincing words has never been my specialty. With trembling fingers, I type out a message.
Me: I need you, Sutt. Now. My mom is dying. She’s at Springs Regional. You have to be here.
24
Sutton
Happy something #51: Finding freedom in letting go.
An indescribable pain rips into me when Grady’s text comes through. It’s as if we’re connected by that electronic ping. Everything he must be feeling pours into my soul. His grief and suffering become mine. Tar pumps into my limbs and standing up is a chore. A tortured whimper quivers off my lips. I struggle to regain a normal breathing pattern. Tears are already racing down my cheeks.
I don’t bother responding to him. We’ll be together shortly. I spin in two fast circles, trying to get my brain screwed in straight. Other customers inside the diner are turning to stare. Let them look. I couldn’t care less about the hush falling over the small restaurant. Their faces blend into a single mask of intrusion.
After packing up my shit, I haul ass to the car. The engine rumbles to life with a sharp crank of my wrist. I type in the address and stomp on the accelerator. The drive should take me fifteen minutes. I make it to the hospital in eight.
My thoughts are a scramble as I breeze through the sliding glass entrance. I scan the lobby with urgency. The thundering in my ears echoes like a frantic pack of buffaloes chasing me. The tiled floor ripples and tilts beneath me. Shit, maybe I need to slow down. But the clock is ticking, each second a swift strike across my frazzling nerves. If I’m this spooked, Grady must be a complete mess. I yank at my hair and dart forward. A woman at the greeter desk takes pity on me.
“Miss? Are you all right?”
I’m certain my eyes resemble full moons. “No.”
She motions me toward her. “Who are you searching for?”
My legs wobble as I stagger over. “Camilla Bowen.”
A couple taps on the keyboard follow. A frown twists her features. “Oh, I see.”
“What?” My voice is shrill.
She refuses to meet my gaze. “She’s on the third floor in room 313.”
