29

TONIGHT, I HAVE A HORRIBLE DREAM. I WAKE WITH a start to find the hospital room chilly and dark, lit only by the flickering light of the TV. An infomercial. I stare at it for a moment, too weary to get up and shut it off. Too busy swimming in shock from the dream I just had, which lingers with me even now, muddling my thoughts and making my eyes throb.

In the dream my mother overdosed and lay unconscious in a hospital bed. Then a doctor came in to inject her with that last little bit of heroin she would have needed to finish herself off. I begged him to stop, but he couldn’t hear me. I grabbed my mother and shook her hard, screaming at her to get up, but she couldn’t hear me either.

I wake up like that, screaming, “Get up, Ma!” But there is no doctor in the room, and Ma is still lying in her bed comatose.

My shirt is damp with sweat and eventually makes me shiver in the overly air-conditioned room, forcing me to find the energy to get up. I check the time. It’s only 9:20 p.m. I’ve completely lost track of when I should be awake and when I’m supposed to be sleeping.

I turn off the television and grab my iPod, hoping to find a song, any song that’ll release the tragic feeling overloading my veins. It used to be whenever I was feeling nervous or stressed, I could always count on music to help me relax. When I was pissed off, music calmed me back down. When I was depressed, music cheered me back up. When I was happy, I could always find songs that expressed how good I was feeling.

Certain songs even had the power to make me feel safer. Protected. Hearing the right song in the right moment is like being in a cocoon. Like being in a shell no one else can get inside, a shell I can curl up and totally lose myself in.

But not anymore. Not since I blew my chance to play at Fever. Now every song I play feels bland, and every time I start to lose myself even a little, I get hit by a flashback from that dream: an image of my mother giving up or of that faceless doctor leaning over, ready to inject her. I pull my headphones off in frustration. I can barely breathe, I’m so upset.

I walk over to Ma’s bed and kneel beside her body. I close my eyes and think of my father.

Pop, please help me.

I don’t know what to do anymore.

I can’t fix this on my own.

Why did you have to leave?

I slowly lay my head down against my mother’s stomach and stare at the emptiness of the dark room around me. Why did you leave us, Pop? I silently ask again, but the words feel wrong. Like I’m blaming him for something and I’d never blame him, not for anything. He was the best father a kid could have. He was just walking home from a long night working at the shop when that car hit him.

Losing him felt like the end of the world. And now Ma did this. I may not be close to her like I was with Pop, but she’s still my family, and I can’t afford to lose her too. I lift my head and force myself to look at my mother’s unconscious face. Then I do something I’ve thought about doing since Jewel first mentioned it but haven’t had the courage to do until now. I talk to her.

“Ma?” I say, my voice hesitant at first. “Ma, I’m so sorry.”

And the next thing I know I’m talking like crazy, the words spilling out of me in a waterfall of honesty and rawness and sorrow. It’s like the words are real painful to speak, but also like I’ve been holding them in way too long, and now that I’m finally purging them, they’re coming out of me all at once.

“Ma, I’m sorry for all this you’re going through,” I say. “But right now I really need you to hold on. I know how much you wish Pop were still here, and I know it’s hard now that Michael is gone. But I’m still here. I’m here and I really need you to be here too.”

I reach out and slowly take hold of her hand. It’s limp but warm and surprisingly soft, like the hand of someone who has been taken care of her whole life. Someone who has never experienced a moment of heartache or suffering. Someone my mother could never be.

“I want to tell you something,” I whisper. “My friends? They think I should’ve walked away from you a long time ago. They never understood why I stuck it out, why I supported you even when it was clear you wouldn’t stop using. I’ve explained lots of times that I did it because you’re my family and I’d rather sacrifice to keep a roof over your head and know you’re safe at least some of the time than have you living in the streets and being afraid for you all the time.

“But what nobody ever knew was that I also stayed because I secretly believed in you. I always knew there was a chance you could get clean. You just had to want it.

“Then all of a sudden you did. You got clean all on your own. It was awesome and I was so proud of you and you can still have it, Ma. You can get clean and sober, like for real, like for good. I know that now. I’ve seen how strong you can be. Think how far you could get if you let me help you. I can take care of you. I’ll find you the best rehab there is, a real residential treatment program. And then, when you come back home sober, we can take care of each other. All you have to do is give it a chance. Just wake up. Please.”

I know I’m gripping her hand too hard now, my fingers squeezing hers too tightly, but I can’t let go. I’m desperate. I’ve given up everything to have this one happy ending. I need this so badly.

“I wish I could have told you stuff,” I say. “I wish I’d let you know how much having dinner with you and Michael those three times meant to me because it really meant the world to see you like that. I loved those dinners. And I do want you in my life, Ma. I really do. So please come out of this. I’ll move back in and everything. Just come back, okay? I really need you to come back now and be my mom.”

I feel ashamed when the tears break through and I’m not sure why. They well up in my eyes and spill over onto my cheeks and drip off my chin. They’ve built up over years of secretly wishing for something I could never have. They’re way overdue. But there’s no relief in them. They feel awful. Wimpy. Helpless.

I wipe at my cheeks with the back of my sleeve and kneel there beside my mother’s body in silence for a long time. I find myself thinking about what a trip life is. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how it can be so cruel and sad and unfair, yet so beautiful at the same time. My mother is lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Yet this is the closest I’ve ever been to her—the first time I can remember wanting to touch her or hug her. The first time I’ve told her everything.

I press my hand to my forehead and feel all the broken pieces that run over themselves like records haunted by the tiniest little scratches. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get past that one, single, damaged note.