“So…you and my mom,” I say awkwardly, while Mark and I sit at opposite ends of the waiting room. His feet have been non-stop tapping on the vinyl floor while I’ve stared at the blank wall behind him.
Whenever he’s been at the salon, conversation has always been short, and to the point.
All I know about him is that he’s divorced, and has no kids. I made the general assumption that he was a creep because he gave me those vibes. Now I'm not so sure.
I wonder if he even knew she was my mom when they started…whatever this is.
Knowing Becky Rogers, though, probably not.
The ambulance got to my apartment three minutes after I’d called them, and I rode in the back with Mom. Mark followed behind us in a cab.
Neither of us have said a word to each other until now, and we got here almost an hour ago.
“It’s still very new.” He sighs but doesn’t look at me, rubbing his hands together while his elbows dig into his knees. “She was working at the salon, and I guess we just hit it off when she was rinsing the color out of my hair,” he says with a slight shake of his head.
There are a thousand questions I want to ask him, but I don’t know where to even begin.
I’m terrified of potentially losing the woman who gave me life, but my heart is so conflicted over.
“Has she been acting out of character?” I ask, wanting to keep the conversation vague. He knows Becky differently than I do. He could say ‘yes’or ‘no’, and I wouldn’t know what he meant.
Margot said she was working herself to the bone, that she was a lot more tired than usual, but I thought nothing of it. I just put it down to her, trying to prove herself to yet another man.
I brushed it off.
Guilt.
But when I saw her in my apartment, she looked…off.
She had dark circles under her eyes, which isn’t unusual for my mom, but she typically prides herself in her appearance as best as she can afford to do.
But the lopsidedness to her smile, the way one leg buckled under her.
Guilt.
“She’s been feeling a little off all week. I told her to get checked, but she refused.”
“Jennifer Rogers?” A doctor’s voice cuts through.
I rise to my feet, rushing toward him. “Present,” I say awkwardly, in a panic.
“I’m Dr. Mansfield.” He gives me his hand to shake, and I squeeze it, feeling the uncomfortable warmth of Mark’s body beside mine. “Your mom is ok for now. She's awake and a little bit groggy, but we won't know the full impact that stroke had on her until we run a few more tests,” he says, and I sigh, and draw a deep breath.
She’s OK.
“I knew it,” Mark whispers, and it's the last thing I hear before I zone out.
A stroke?
I don't focus on their conversation anymore.
Guilt. Guilt.Guilt.
She was having a stroke, and I hesitated.
Can strokes kill you? Oh God, I hesitated, and she could be fucking dying.
Everything around me falls silent. There are no nurses, no beeping machines, and no family members eagerly awaiting news.
