I hate the smell of hospitals. I hate the ghastly white walls and the fake comfort they try to encourage with all the happy pictures on the elevators, the beach scene paintings, and the murals in the halls.
The last time I was in one—this one, actually—I had a concussion and Kelsey… She never even made it to the hospital.
Maybe if she’d made it here, all of this might be different.
I lose track of the turns up to my mom’s room. My dad is speaking, updating me on the logistics of everything going on with her, yet I hear none of it. One hand is in my pocket, the other clutching the water bottle, as I try like hell to keep the visions out, to hold the monster who already wants to run at bay.
And as we turn the final corner and I glimpse the flowers lining her room at the end of the hall, I bring the straw to my lips and let the cheap vodka burn my throat.
It’s just a visit.
Say hi.
Get in. Get out.
It’ll all be over soon.
Except the moment I see her, my feet feel like they’ve been swept out from under me.
The person in that bed isn’t my mother. She isn’t the lively blonde woman dancing around the kitchen with flour all over her t-shirt, and no care for an apron. She isn’t the woman who sat on my bed and hugged me after I came out. It isn’t the same person who once texted me every morning to tell me to have a good day and that she loved me, the woman who smiled and kissed away my fears when I swore there were monsters in my closet.
This person…
Even still, her eyes light up when she sees me.
“There’s my girl,” she says, her voice weak. “My Bonnie girl.”
My jaw is already trembling. “Hey, Mom.”
There’s a monitor on the other side of her that keeps beeping. I set my bag down in the shitty blue chair by her bed, my drink beside it, then lean over to give her a hug.
She’s so frail that hugging her feels like I’m going to break her bones.
I only mean to hug her for a second, yet the moment I’m in her arms, my will begins to shatter. At some point, I end up sitting on the edge of the bed. She cradles me tighter, hand stroking my hair, and I keep telling myself not to cry.Don’t let go. Not here.
Cry later when you’re at the hotel or alone in bed.
Hold it together during the day.
The night is for secrets and tears.
If I can just make it till sunset, I can let go.
No one has to see me then.
“I need you to tell me all about LA,” she says as if she isn’t on her fucking deathbed. “About this band that you’re going all over the country with.”
I pull back and give her a small smile, my brain halfway detached from this moment just to keep me from showing how hard this is.
“They’re keeping me busy,” I say.
“Very busy,” my dad says as he sits on the couch by the window.
“Phil…” My mom eyes him, and I tense more than I already was.
“Yeah. We play a couple of shows a week, sometimes more. They’re really great guys,” I say.
Mom pushes my hair back. “And… they’re taking care of you? You’re okay?”
