I’d been sitting in the waiting room for three hours without an update on Cathy’s condition when Cassie finally walked from the back of the hospital, where the triage rooms were, back into the waiting room. She looked completely spent. Sleep pulled at her eyelids as she hunched over with exhaustion deep in her shoulders. She plopped down next to me, closing her eyes as she laid her head on my shoulder.
“She woke up about an hour ago. They said she’s going to be fine. No major injuries—other than a broken nose and a few lacerations on her face,” Cassie explained, releasing a long breath. She didn’t sound as relieved as I expected, considering her mom had been barely conscious a few hours prior.
“Why do I feel like you’re leaving something out?” I asked, resting my hand on her thigh, hoping to ease some of her tension.
Cassie gave a humorless laugh and shook her head. “Because I am. She’s high as a kite back there, Jace. Fresh track marks all over her arms.” Her voice cracked just slightly before she caught it. “She said the guy was looking for some drugs she was supposed to be holding for him. But she used them instead. Right after she took her last hit, he showed up.”
I stayed quiet, letting her get it all out.
“I begged her to go to rehab,” Cassie continued. “She said no, of course. She’s already asking when she can get discharged from here—probably so she can score again. Too much longer in here and she’s gonna start coming down, if she isn’t already…”
Her words trailed off, frustration and sadness blending in her tone. All I could do was squeeze her leg a little tighter, wishing I could take away even a piece of what she was feeling.
“I’m going to the vending machine. Do you want anything?” Cassie asked, standing and rummaging through her purse for loose change.
“No, I’m okay. I’ll stay here in case someone comes out looking for you.”
She nodded, her shoulders still tense, disappearing down the hallway. The faint hum of fluorescent lights filled the waiting room, along with the smell of burnt coffee and that sharp, sterile scent hospitals can never quite hide. I rubbed a hand over my face as exhaustion settled deep in my bones.
A few minutes later, a man in scrubs came through the double doors, scanning the small group of people scattered around the room. “Family of Cathy Blake?” he called out.
I stood quickly. “That’s me,” I said. “Her daughter stepped out for a minute—she’ll be right back.”
He gave a short nod, looking relieved to have someone to talk to. “We can’t get her to calm down. Maybe you could try talking to her?”
“Uh…” I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to calm down a woman I barely knew. As I contemplated the situation, a loud yell came from behind the man in the scrubs.
“That’s her,” he said, pointing in the direction of the noise, desperate for help.
I walked toward the noise, following the man. What the hell did I have to lose at this point?
As we walked down the chilly hallway, each step I took echoed off the tile. When I reached her room, Cathy was sitting halfway up in bed, with a hospital blanket draped over her legs. Her hair was messy, and dried blood had crusted beneath her nose. The IV in her arm tugged slightly each time she moved.
“Well, look who it is,” she rasped. “You’re that McKinley boy my daughter was hanging around with the other night.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, stopping just inside the doorway. “Cassie went to the vending machine. She’ll be right back.”
“Good,” she muttered. “While you’re here, maybe you can ask them when I can get the hell out of this place.”
I hesitated, then took a small step closer. “You’re right, you shouldn’t be here. Where you need to be is rehab.”
She jerked her head toward me, eyes narrowing. “You sound just like her,” she snapped. “You think you know better?”
I met her gaze. “Actually, I do,” I said quietly. “I’ve been in your exact position. Everyone’s telling you what they think is best for you, and you’re so confident they don’t know a damn thing about you or what you need.”
Her expression faltered for just a second.
I reached into my pocket, my thumb brushing against the familiar smooth edge of my AA coin. Pulling it out, I held it in my palm so she could see. The overhead light caught the metallic surface just enough for the number two to glint faintly.
Her eyes widened, confusion flashing to something else—something closer to disbelief. “You go to Alcoholics Anonymous?” she asked, trying to determine if I was making this up or not.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Two years sober this month.”
She blinked, processing. “Didn’t figure a McKinley boy would know anything about that,” she said, her voice less defensive now.
“You’d be surprised what people hide behind a last name,” I said. “That’s exactly why judging a book by its cover is bullshit––the same applies to people, too. Everyone goes through shit, some worse than others. Just because someone has money or a name everyone in town recognizes, doesn’t mean they don’tunderstand what it’s like to struggle—to go through hell and back,” I said, stepping closer to her bed.
“What makes you think you can come in here and convince me to go to rehab?” she asked, her irritation clear.
