Chapter 53
Fifty-Three
Eighteen days. The clinic hums with the same zen of the rehab centre, but where the latter felt sacred in its structure, this place feels lived-in. More personal, with patient-made art on the walls, and couches sagging from too many late talks that probably saved someone’s life.
Still, not even low-lit hallways or herbal diffusers can dull how heavy these eighteen days have been—or the almost week before them, when we were relearning each other, and trying to be a family again.
One, two. One, two, three.
Dad’s knee bounces next to mine, a percussion that syncs with the buzz under my skin. We’ve already been here six times—group therapy, family circles, what-not—so it isn’t uncharted anymore.
Picking her up though? This feels different.
Like now it all has to stick. The clean days. The therapy. And us. Three people living under the same roof without drifting around each other like ghosts again.
The glass doors sigh open, and there she is.
I rise automatically and Dad follows, brushing his hand against my back in a gesture so small I barely register it.
Her hair’s pulled back. There’s not a lick of makeup on her face, and gone is the blow-dried armour, and the blouse that pretended at control. What’s left are her eyes. Clear, green, and wide awake.
“Hi,” she says, and that one-syllable holds so much weight.
“Hey.”
This time I’m the one who goes in first. My arms circle her, and it’s nothing like the fragile embraces I’ve been returning.
It’s firm. The clinic clings to her, but underneath it all, traces of her perfume lingers.
It’s familiar, reminiscent of days I used to hold onto her, and I breathe it in like reassurance.
I’m proud of you hovers on the tip of my tongue. Dad’s, too. I can tell from the way he holds her longer. We don’t speak it though. Not because we don’t mean it, but because we don’t want to place a full stop where there’s only a comma.
He says something better instead anyways, “You did the first part. Now we figure out the rest.”
Her lip trembles, but she nods. The day’s heat folds around us as we step outside.
“I missed you both,” she says.
I bump her shoulder with mine. “You saw us two days ago.”
“And now you’re back with us,” Dad adds, finality woven through it. “Discharge go smooth? I called earlier. They said there were a few things to finalise.”
“Yes. I wrapped everything up this morning. Got my outpatient referral. First session’s already booked.”
I want to ask more—how she’s feeling, if she’s scared, if it all feels as heavy as it looks. Maybe even offer something affirming. But the only thing that slips out is, “You hungry?”
She exhales like it’s the best thing I could’ve said. “Starving.”
“There’s a new place that just opened. The food is good, and the vibe is great.”
Neither of them offer alternatives. Just easy nods, trusting me to take it from here.
Sea-salted air curls in through cracked windows as we drive the familiar route.
Mom’s beside me in the back seat instead of up front, her shoulder brushing mine. Each speed-bump jolts her knee into mine, but she never moves. Neither do I.
Something older crackles tinny through the stereo, and she hums along under her breath. Up front, Dad tries to follow, fingers tapping the wheel. He’s off beat, but determined.
My heart feels fuller. Not in the overwhelming, grief-heavy, anguish-thick way, but the hopeful way.
I reach into my tote, sifting through clutter until I find the worn edge I know by touch. I pull the photo out and place it in her hands, wordless.
It’s all four of us. In the frame everyone’s looking a different way. Bryce at me, mid-joke. Me at Mom, mid-giggle. Mom at Dad, whispering something. Dad’s the only one actually looking forward, smiling cluelessly.
Her thumb drags a path over Bryce’s face, and I feel every emotion behind it. Then, just as careful, it slides to mine.
That’s when I nudge her to turn it over.
Bryce’s handwriting, too big for the space, sprawls across the back.
We don’t always get it right, but we try. That’s what counts.
Her breath hitches. For a moment, I think she won’t let it in. Then she exhales, and her eyes glint.
Yeah. We try.
On this stretch of road, engine humming, breeze whispering around us, we keep moving. Together.