Six Years Earlier
SIX YEARS EARLIER
BONNIE
The world is a blur as I exit the plane.
God, it’s fucking bright out. Why is it so bright out?
I pull my hood up and cross my arms over my chest, walking quickly to the cab platform down a few flights of stairs. I make a pitstop in the restroom to pour a few airplane bottles of vodka into my reusable bottle and chug one. I know I’m going to need it where I’m going. All I have is a carry-on bag and my crossbody backpack.
Because I don’t plan on staying long.
The hospital is a twenty minute drive from the airport. I put in my headphones as we travel, second-guessing myself every second that I’m in this cab. I don’t know what to say, or how I’m supposed to act.
What do you say to someone when they’re dying?
DAD
Let me know when you’re close.
I’ll meet you out front.
I haven’t seen him since he came to the parking lot that day.
And the only reason I’m here is because she called.
I sip my drink as I think about the phone call, and how weak she sounded on the phone. I think I hung up on her thirty seconds after I answered because I couldn’t handle hearing her like that.
I text my dad when we’re five minutes from the place, and when the cab pulls up front, he’s waiting on me.
“Hey, kid,” he says when I get out.
He holds his arms out again, and I set my bag on the curb to hug him this time.
“Hey, Dad.”
I’ve missed his hugs.
Emotion creeps behind my nose the longer he hugs me, threatening to give way before I’ve even made it upstairs. I suck in a breath and pull back, giving him a small smile when I do.
Though, I don’t miss the quick, narrowed-brow look he peers at me with.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “Your hair is green.”
I scoff. “Yeah. Did it last week. Do you hate it?”
“No,” he replies as he takes the handle of my carry-on. “No. It looks nice.”
“Liar,” I say because I know he doesn’t like fantasy-colored hair.
He chuckles. “Well, let’s just say I’m not dying my hair green anytime soon.”
I almost smile. “Maybe you should. Green might be your color.”
He leads me into the front doors, and as we get onto the elevator, my stomach begins to twist.
I hate the smell of hospitals. I hate the ghastly white walls and the fake comfort they try to encourage with all the happy pictures on the elevators, the beach scene paintings, and the murals in the halls.
The last time I was in one—this one, actually—I had a concussion and Kelsey… She never even made it to the hospital.
Maybe if she’d made it here, all of this might be different.
I lose track of the turns up to my mom’s room. My dad is speaking, updating me on the logistics of everything going on with her, yet I hear none of it. One hand is in my pocket, the other clutching the water bottle, as I try like hell to keep the visions out, to hold the monster who already wants to run at bay.
And as we turn the final corner and I glimpse the flowers lining her room at the end of the hall, I bring the straw to my lips and let the cheap vodka burn my throat.
It’s just a visit.
Say hi.
Get in. Get out.
It’ll all be over soon.
Except the moment I see her, my feet feel like they’ve been swept out from under me.
The person in that bed isn’t my mother. She isn’t the lively blonde woman dancing around the kitchen with flour all over her t-shirt, and no care for an apron. She isn’t the woman who sat on my bed and hugged me after I came out. It isn’t the same person who once texted me every morning to tell me to have a good day and that she loved me, the woman who smiled and kissed away my fears when I swore there were monsters in my closet.
This person…
Even still, her eyes light up when she sees me.
“There’s my girl,” she says, her voice weak. “My Bonnie girl.”
My jaw is already trembling. “Hey, Mom.”
There’s a monitor on the other side of her that keeps beeping. I set my bag down in the shitty blue chair by her bed, my drink beside it, then lean over to give her a hug.
She’s so frail that hugging her feels like I’m going to break her bones.
I only mean to hug her for a second, yet the moment I’m in her arms, my will begins to shatter. At some point, I end up sitting on the edge of the bed. She cradles me tighter, hand stroking my hair, and I keep telling myself not to cry. Don’t let go. Not here.
Cry later when you’re at the hotel or alone in bed.
Hold it together during the day.
The night is for secrets and tears.
If I can just make it till sunset, I can let go.
No one has to see me then.
“I need you to tell me all about LA,” she says as if she isn’t on her fucking deathbed. “About this band that you’re going all over the country with.”
I pull back and give her a small smile, my brain halfway detached from this moment just to keep me from showing how hard this is.
“They’re keeping me busy,” I say.
“Very busy,” my dad says as he sits on the couch by the window.
“Phil…” My mom eyes him, and I tense more than I already was.
“Yeah. We play a couple of shows a week, sometimes more. They’re really great guys,” I say.
Mom pushes my hair back. “And… they’re taking care of you? You’re okay?”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” I say as I reach for my water bottle.
“Oh yes. Miss Independent,” she teases me. Her thumb brushes my cheek, the other swiping under my eye. “Sweetie, you look so tired. Are they working you too hard?”
“No,” I say, pushing her bony hands away. “I’m fine. They take care of us.”
“I might have to have a word with that manager of yours. You have one of those, right?” she asks.
“Oh yeah. Avie. He’s fun,” I reply, beginning to tense.
“Avie. Well, now I have a name to call—”
The words have barely left her when she begins to cough. She smiles like it’s over after a couple of seconds. Still, my dad is on his feet, bucket in his hand. He launches it under her just as she starts coughing again, and this time, blood splatters from her lips.
Beep.
Beep.
I jump off the mattress. My dad hits the nurse button.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
I back into the wall when a nurse enters the room. Everything begins to run together. I don’t know where to look—
And the spell is over just as quickly as it began.
“Whew, that was a bad one, Mrs. Miller,” the nurse says, and I don’t understand how she’s making light of what just happened.
“A bad one?” I repeat, balking. “That’s what you call—”
“Bonnie.”
My dad’s voice is stern. It’s enough to punch me in the gut, and I stop talking before I clearly embarrass myself.
The nurse peers my way. “Oh, this must be your daughter,” she says. “Livi, she looks just like you,” she adds to my mom.
Mom wipes her mouth, relaxing back as the nurse checks her vitals for the hour, and the loving smile she gives me makes me want to run out of this room and never look back.
“My pride and joy,” my mom says. “She’s been touring with a band over the last year. Her dream. That’s where she’s been.”
“Uh huh.” The nurse looks at her watch and writes down the numbers on her hand before pulling out the computer behind the bed. “You told me. Drummer, right? What kind of band is it?” she asks me.
I hug my arms around my chest, hating this small talk. “Ah… metal—well, metalcore. A rock band,” I manage.
The nurse’s brows raise as her eyes drag over me again. “You’re a drummer in a rock band?”
“Yeah,” I say, beginning to sway.
She nods, smile on her lips. “That’s impressive,” she says. “You couldn’t ask them to give you a night off before now to come see your mom? You’re all she talks about.”
Beep.
Beep.
I clench my teeth. “It’s been a busy year,” I manage.
Calm down.
This isn’t personal.
Keep it together for your mom.
“Uh huh,” she says, and the doubtful look she gives me then makes me stiffen. She pushes the computer away and turns her attention on my mom once again, though the only thing I hear her saying is something about turning her pain meds up.
A feeling of dread and defensiveness swells within me that I’m struggling to control. Who the hell does she think she is judging me? She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know the pressure I’ve been under or what I’ve gone through.
I bite my tongue to keep from going off. And when the nurse eventually exits, all the numbness I’d been clinging to seems to have evaporated.
“She’s been really nice,” my mom says.
“What did you tell her?” I ask.
Beep.
Beep.
I’m no longer swaying, no longer tolerant of being here. It feels like every person in the building is suddenly looking at me, judging me for things I don’t know I’ve done.
What did you tell her? What did you tell them? Why are they looking at me? They don’t know me.
Mom’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
My dad stands. “Bonnie, she was just asking about the tour,” he says like he’s trying to keep me calm.
“She said that like she thinks I should have been able to drop everything,” I say, patience suddenly going awry. “Did you tell them I was working?”
“Of course, we did. Bonnie, no one is saying you should have been here,” Mom says, wincing as she sits up. “We told them our girl was busy.”
“Busy doing what? Do they all think I’m some groupie?” I ask.
“Bonnie, let’s have a seat—”
I shove my dad’s hands off of me. “Why are they all looking at me like that?” I step up to the window, swearing the nurses are all staring my way.
I know they’re looking at me.
“What did you tell them?” I ask.
I’m panicked. Paranoid.
Why am I so fucking paranoid right now?
“Maybe they’re looking at you like that because your mother has been in and out of this hospital for months, and every time she tells them that you’re coming,” Dad says.
“Phil, leave it,” Mom manages.
“Oh, so, what? You tell them I’m a deadbeat? A no-good daughter?”
I’m ignoring everything my dad is trying to say beside me. My entire focus is on my mom.
Because I’m so fucking angry with her right now.
“Did you tell them that you started dying the month after my dreams came true? Did you tell them that the day I called to tell you we’d signed a record deal, you told me the results from your biopsy came back as positive? That you didn’t care to hear how excited I was?”
“Bonnie, I’m sorry,” my mom manages, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be there—”
“But you weren’t,” I argue as my emotions begin to spill over. “You weren’t there. You were supposed to be there.”
“Bonnie, you can’t be selfish—”
I swat my dad away again. “No, you want to talk about selfish— this was fucking selfish,” I say, pointing to the heart monitor.
Stop yelling at her.
She’s sick.
“Bonnie, you do not get to talk to your mother that way,” Dad interjects, voice rising.
“It’s fine, Phil. Let her say what she needs to,” Mom says.
“I can talk to her however I want to,” I snap, unable to control myself. “She’s an adult. She can handle it. You all want to know why I haven’t come here, here’s your fucking answer.”
“Bonnie, stop,” my dad practically begs.
“Why? What does it matter what I say? She’ll be dead soon anyway, right?”
“Bonnie Miller!”
Beep.
Beep.
The words leave me before I can stop them, and one look at my mother’s face has regret ripping my insides open.
“Philip, leave it.”
“No, she doesn’t get to do this. Not when the one time she shows up, she comes here drunk and high—”
“How could I fucking not be?” I yell, tears pricking my eyes. “You think anyone can come in and see their mother sober like this? Give me a fucking break.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and pivot in a circle.
“It isn’t just today,” Dad says. “When I went to see you the other week, you had chunks of food in your hair.”
The room is spinning.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, avoiding his gaze.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
“Bonnie, look at you—”
“What about me?”
“Sweetie, your father is just concerned about you,” Mom says.
“He shouldn’t be. Neither of you should be. I’m the best I’ve ever been!” I hold my arms up in the air, a fake smile plastered to my lips, manic seeping into every inch of me.
I want to laugh and cry all at once.
Run and fall.
Kill myself and live forever.
“I’m great . I’m killing it, but you wouldn’t know because you can’t be there .” I slam my hands on the end of the hospital bed, meeting my mother’s dull, tear-filled eyes. “Do you think I don’t want you there? Every time they talk about bringing family to a concert, I have to walk away. I can’t tell them that you’ll come. I can’t tell them that you’re sick because what is anyone going to say when they find out I have a dying fucking mother? ”
I hardly know where any of it is coming from.
But I can’t stop.
I can’t stop this pain. I can’t stop myself from hurting them. I need them to hate me so that I don’t have to feel this guilt anymore. They can have it back.
I don’t need them. I don’t need them.
“That is enough ,” Dad says.
Beep.
Beep-beep.
“You will not talk to your mother that way. This is not her fault!”
“Bonnie, I’m sorry—”
Beep-beep.
I pull at my hair as I pace in a circle. I can’t breathe. My dad’s booming voice echoes in the small room. Even so, nothing is as loud as that damn monitor. It beeps and beeps and—
“Bonnie, please.”
Beep-beep.
It’s all closing in. The parties. The fire. Flashes of images I fabricated to fill the void swell within me—greeting them after a show, introducing her to the band, holidays with everyone together. Lies . All of it. I’ll never have any of that. They were never there. She’ll never be there—
Beep .
“You need to apologize—”
“ I needed her! ” I finally shout.
Beep.
Beep.
I’m on the verge of collapsing, and I can’t shut it off.
I meet her eyes. She claps her hand over her mouth and tears slip down her cheeks.
“I needed you,” I go on, now sobbing. “You were supposed to be there. You were supposed to be at the concerts. I was supposed to be able to call you when I got off the stage at night, so I could tell you how they sang our songs.”
“Excuse me.” The nurse comes back through the door. “Do you need me to call someone?”
I sniff back my tears and straighten. One look at the nurse has my emotions hardening.
How fucking dare she—
“I need you to get the fuck out,” I snap, rounding on her.
“Bonnie.”
The nurse speaks. Words leave my lips. Everything blurs as rage jolts through me. My dad throws his arms around mine. I lunge at the nurse.
“Bonnie.”
Mom’s voice is a faint whisper, yet I hear it. I hear it in the back of my mind amongst the chaos. Still, I can’t get a grip on my own reality to answer.
Beep.
Beep-beep.
Beep-beep-beep.
The room is upside-down. I can’t tell right from left. Every word leaving my lips is one I don’t know that I’m saying.
“Bonnie…”
I’m kicking. I’m shouting. I can’t see straight.
Why does she have to leave me?
Why now?
It isn’t fair.
I needed her.
I need her.
“Bonnie, I’m sorry.”
The machine lets out a high-pitched noise that freezes my entire world.
I jerk my head toward my mother, only to watch her slump against the pillows, arm limp at her side, mouth agape.
“Livi—”
My dad’s arms drop from around me. He bolts to the bed.
“Someone get a crash cart!”
Bodies enter the room. Nurses shove me back. I hit the wall.
Someone is screaming.
My throat feels raw. Everything blurs.
I can’t see the faces. I can hardly hear their words.
Her lips are so pink.
Her eyes are closed.
That screaming…
“—get her out of here—charge to two-hundred—”
“Bonnie, step out—”
My dad’s arms are wrapped around mine. He’s hugging me tight, pulling me away from the bed—
There’s the scream again.
The scream… It burns my ears. I can’t feel my throat.
Is that… is that me?
Someone help her.
Help my mom. She’s dying .
“Bonnie, get out of the room!”
“—charging to three! Clear!”
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m so—