My parents.
My mother sat beside the bed, tissue clutched in her hand. My father stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder.
The shock of seeing them—actually seeing them, not through a screen—knocked the breath out of me. They were here. In Vegas. In this hospital room.
“Mom?” My voice cracked on the word.
Her head snapped up, and relief flooded her face. “Oh thank god. You’re awake.”
She reached for my hand, and when she touched me, I felt the tremor in her fingers. She was shaking—really shaking.
My father moved closer, and I realized with a jolt how long it had been since I’d been in the same room with both of them. I’d talked to them on the phone. Video calls where we caughtup on surface-level things. But actually seeing them, being close enough to notice the details?—
How long had it actually been?
“How are you feeling?” my father asked.
“I’m okay.” My throat felt rough.
“You hit your head,” my mother said softly. Her thumb traced small circles on the back of my hand—an old gesture from childhood. “They had to do stitches.”
I reached up and felt the bandage at my temple. The skin beneath throbbed dully.
My mother was still holding my hand. I looked at her more closely. The lines around her eyes seemed deeper than I remembered. Or maybe I’d never been close enough lately to see them properly. Her hair had more gray in it—streaks I didn’t remember.
When had that happened?
My father looked older too. The realization came unwelcome but undeniable. He’d always seemed unchanging to me, but now I could see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the deepened lines around his mouth.
The missing year sat between us like a wall I couldn’t see through, that gap in my memory where anything could have happened. But even before that, how often had I actually seen them? Made the trip home, or had them visit?
The guilt settled heavy in my chest.
“It’s been a long time,” I said quietly. “Since I’ve seen you. In person.”
Mom exchanged looks with Dad, then she said, “It has,” Her voice was soft.
“Too long,” my father added. His voice gentle.
“You flew all the way here.” I remembered passing out, but I supposed it wasn’t anything serious to have them taking a flight to Vegas.
“Of course we did.” My father’s hand moved from my mother’s shoulder to rest on the bed rail, close to me. “Our daughter is in the hospital. Where else would we be?”
Before I could respond, Jack appeared in the doorway.
He stopped when he saw me awake, and the expression that crossed his face made my throat go tight. Relief so profound it looked painful.
He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled me into a careful hug, his arms wrapping around me like he needed to confirm I was real. A frown pulled on my face, like my parents, he was overreacting too.
“Jesus, Claudie,” he said into my hair.
“I’m okay.” I squeaked, feeling crushed by his embrace.
“You’re in a hospital bed.” He pulled back, hands still on my shoulders, looking at me like he was checking for damage. “That’s not okay.”
His hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled—like he hadn’t stopped moving since he heard. He looked like he’d ran all the way up to Vegas from Carlifonia.
I looked between the three of them—my mother with red-rimmed eyes, my father’s exhausted face, Jack’s barely-contained fear—and felt the full weight of what my fainting had done to them.
