Cold harsh light.
Men and women, doctors and nurses, strangers busy at the hospital, asking for answers that I don’t know about insurance and coverage and physicians, asking what happened.
Empty hall.
A buzzing coming from somewhere.
Someone giving me a cup of coffee. Drinking it and forcing myself to finish it.
Waiting.
More questions.
Waiting longer.
Drifting off.
Wondering. About calling someone. Dad, of course. Dad certainly. Dad finally.
Denying.
Rejecting.
Fighting.
Refusing.
Closing my eyes. Drifting further.
“Oh, Chris.”
Mom utters this the moment I walk into the small room and come alongside the bed. Her face crinkles up, and she begins to cry. But it’s not just that. It’s the look on her face. It’s so sad. So sad, and probably ashamed.
I want to ask her things, but instead I just hug her.
She’s so skinny. I didn’t realize how bare-bones she really is.
There’s a lot you haven’t noticed.
She’s apologizing to me, and I feel tears in my eyes and I let the hug linger so I can get back control.
But everything in me knows that some of this—not all, and maybe not even half, but at least some of it—is my fault.
I’ve been the only one around and have been too blind to notice what’s happening.
I move away from her and stand looking down. I wipe the tears out of my eyes.
“I don’t know what happened, Chris, I really don’t.”
I nod.
“I didn’t—I was just out of my mind last night. Please—just sit for a minute.”
I take a seat in the armchair next to the bed. She’s hooked up to an IV and has a few other things connected to her. The people talking to me earlier said she’s going to be fine. But they said that in a cautionary way, as if she’ll be fine this time.
“I haven’t told you everything,” Mom says.
Really? Well, join the crowd.
“There was someone I met at work. I—I mentioned him once to you.”
“Mike?”
She looks surprised that I remember.
“You were aiming a shotgun at me the day you mentioned him,” I say. “So yeah, the name stuck.”
“He broke things off—whatever they were.”
I might be young and stupid at times, but if a relationship causes me to get out the shotgun, something tells me that it’s probably not going to work out.
“Did you call Dad?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry—I was just wondering.”
“No. I haven’t spoken to him and don’t plan to.”
She looks away for a moment. “Turning forty was hard, Chris. Harder than I thought it would be. And Mike—he was a diversion. He allowed me to not think about everything I wanted that suddenly seemed gone. He made me feel …”
Those tears are in her eyes again. Then a weak voice says very softly, “. . . young again.”
That’s all she says about Mike.
I’ve got another name to add to the Push Off a Cliff list.
I sit there for a while, not saying anything. It’s ironic how she so desperately wants to feel young again, while I can’t wait to be old.
“Chris—things are going to get better.”
She’s said this before.
“No—I know—I know what you’re thinking. This time I’m going to get help. I have to. I just—there are some places I can check in to.”
I just nod.
“I mean it, Chris. This—this—is not me. This is not your mother.”
I nod again.
She reaches over and grabs my wrist. “Stop just nodding. Chris—I’m sorry. And I mean it. I haven’t been around for quite some time. I just need help coming back again.”