“What recovery room will she be in?” Kate thinks to ask, and gratitude has me pulling her tighter against me.
The doctor taps the screen of her tablet. “Fourteen.”
“Thank you,” Kate says. “Is he alright to wait beside her as she wakes up?”
The doctor bobs her head, turning to me. “That will be fine. She’ll be wheeled through that hallway there, so keep an eye out and you can follow them in.”
Tears leak from my eyes against my will as the doctor leaves us. My mom is still alive. She’s going to have a hard recovery, but she’ll live. Relief pounds in my chest.
Kate rests her cheek against my muscle tank, not deterred by the dried sweat that I’m sure has turned fragrant by now.
“She’s going to be okay,” she murmurs as she rubs small circles across my back.
My eyes find the wallpaper over Kate’s head as my gaze slides out of focus.
“What if she was drinking, though?” Is she gonna recover only to find a court case and another DUI? “I can’t…” My voice cracks. “I can’t lose her, Kate.”
Kate pulls back, face stern, though her eyes are soft.
“Don’t talk like that, Brandon. We don’t know for sure. And from what you’ve told me about her, she’s one hell of a strong woman. Just imagine what it takes to commit to recovery day after day. To turn your life aroundwhilebeing a single mother? That’s not weakness, Brandon. That’s strength. And if she’s overcome that multiple times, don’t you think she deserves credit?”
My tears stall as my face flushes warm. I’ve never viewed alcoholism from that perspective before.
My brain delves deeper into memories. At such a young age, it was impossible to look past the amber-colored bottles ruining my life. The ones stealing my mom day after day. Impossible to forgive for the evenings I spent alone or under the supervision of a neighbor.
But for the first time, I see the woman showing up for my wrestling matches, slightly worse for wear and chronically late. The woman busting her butt working longer hours after AA meetings, selling houses to make ends meet. I watch each hard-earned day pass, her green eyes growing brighter and brighter.
My mom’s not strong.
She’s a damn warrior.
A hospital bed rattles in my peripheral vision, an IV bag standing guard over a messy pile of black waves tangled on the pillow. A whimper escapes my throat.
The last thing I register is Kate’s fingers falling from mine as I dash away.
forty-five
PRESENT DAY
BRANDON
My pencil skates thin lines across the back of one of Mom’s forms. The scenescape of the ocean by Marisol Bay begins to take shape, a black and white horizon that does little to distract me from the beeping monitor looming over Mom’s head. I wish I had the leather-bound sketchbook Kate gifted me in the airport. Flipping through sunny memories topped with bunny ears might have loosened the panic knotting itself in my gut.
I flick the pencil in thin, wavy strokes, trying to capture the way ocean water moves, but the beeping monitor pulls my focus again.
Shouldn’t she be fully awake by now? All I’ve gotten in the past few hours is a few eyelid flutters and a cracked-lip smile before the drugs pull her under again.
I scan the thick cast covering Mom’s left leg for the hundredth time. It’s bulky, and I try not to think of the shattered fragments and pins and screws beneath it.
The pallor of mom’s face beneath her tan skin worries me. Scattered cuts litter her left cheek and forehead, and a gnarly bruise shadows her jaw.
Is her face a shade paler than ten minutes ago? Or do the fluorescent hospital lights make everyone look like they’re on the brink of death? I curse, dragging a hand across my stinging eyes.
The nurses gave me no information on Mom’s blood alcohol level. Surely they’ve already checked that kind of stuff. I can’t help but brace myself anytime footsteps pass by the door. Surely an officer would have been here by now, wouldn’t they?
My fingers begin to tremble around the stray pencil, drawing crooked lines across Marisol Bay.
“Hey.”
