3. Colson
THREE
COLSON
There’s a blanket over Mom’s body. The air in my lungs pushes out, and for the life of me, I can’t pull more back in. I glance away from the stark white cloth and take in my surroundings. Counters with drawers holding various medical supplies line both sides of the room. A quiet monitor, the kind that usually beeps with a patient’s heart rate and blood pressure, stands at the head of the bed, a bright orange hazardous trash bin sitting not far from it.
My hands tingle all over again, and my vision goes hazy. I twist and drop my head on the wall next to the door, my back to my dead mother.
My.
Dead.
Mother.
What’s left of my family sits directly on the other side of the wall, along with the girl I’m hopelessly in love with. So close yet so oblivious to the emotional war happening a wall away.
I lick my lips and bring my fingers up to trace the bottom one. A minute ago, I had them pressed to Violet’s. I’d give anything to take this day back, to restart it, to find a way to solve Mom’s problem and avoid ending up here. The love that consumes me when I curl into Violet’s backside in the early morning hours before we’re both up and at it for the day is ten million times better than what threatens to take me down in this room.
My palm spreads out over the wall. It keeps me anchored in place. The ache in my chest expands toward my extremities. As often as the thought of Mom overdosing came up over the years, I never thought it’d actually happen. For so long, I lived in denial, thinking that all it’d take is for her to get back into rehab for our problems to be solved. Hell, even up until I walked into this hospital, I thought she still had time.
I see now that this was always meant to be the outcome.
But I’m not ready to say goodbye. I’m not ready to bury my fucking Mom.
The realness of death grips me by the throat and forces my head off the wall. I tamp down my feelings because now isn’t the time. When things are sorted, I’ll have all the time in the world to feel empty.
Breathing in the deepest sigh I can muster, I pivot and yank my suit jacket off. I toss it on the counter to my left as I slowly make my way closer to the bed, my knuckles trailing the thin sheet covering her until it bumps into what I know is her hand. Emotion clogs my eyes when the chill in it brushes against my palm.
Using my foot, I drag a nearby chair closer and drop into it, my body too heavy to hold up on my own. I curl my hand around hers, and not for the first time since I was a preteen, I sob over Mom’s choices and wish things were different.
And just like then, I know they never will be.