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“He went to school?”
My head bobs up and down. “He did. Hawkeye is at school.”
Mary’s body relaxes a bit against the pillows, but her hands never let go of me. In fact, her fingernails are like talons as they dig into my skin.
“Hawkeye is a good boy. He got me flowers.”
I jump back a little but with nowhere to go when her lips spread into a smile. It looks unnatural against her otherwise frozen face.
“He is smart,” she continues. “Just like his daddy.”
“He is,” I assure her with a chocked voice.
Her hands clutch at both of mine still, and I am in an uncomfortable position. I almost forget about the man who came here to inform me of my impending demise until I hear him moving behind me. Mary hears it, too.
“Hawkeye!” she yells. Her voice is changed now, like she is talking to a little kid. “Come to momma. Right this second.”
“Mary,” I try to grab her attention. “Hawkeye is at school, remember?”
Her eyes move frantically around the room. I know the exact moment when she spots the man. Her mouth opens and she lets out the loudest scream. I scoot closer to her, trying to pull my hands away from her. The harder I pull at them, the stronger she gets in her hold.
“Mary, it’s okay. Hawkeye…”
“That’s not Hawkeye!” She starts screaming again.
I glance at the man who is still sitting on the couch, presumably Hawk’s president at the club. He looks surprised.
“Hawkeye is at school, Mary,” I repeat over and over as I watch blood running down my arms from where she is digging her fingernails in.
She turns her head and looks me straight in the eyes.
“Will you watch him for me after school?”
It is the same question she asked me on that first day when I got here. The worry in her voice gets to me every single time.
“I’d love to, Mary,” I whisper to her, telling her what she needs to hear.
She doesn’t release my arms like I was hoping she would. The pressure remains the same, and I’m not sure how much longer I can handle the pain. I almost sob in relief when I hear rushed steps entering the room.
“She needs her medication right away,” a voice calls out.
“No,” Mary screams. “Where is Hawkeye?”
I try to move my arms, but she won’t let go. I am at a loss of what else I can do.
“I got Hawkeye, Mary,” I yell into her face.
She stops moving.
“I have Hawkeye,” I repeat. “I’ll take good care of him, okay?”
She nods, but her eyes look cloudy. Whatever she sees in her head is not the reality of where she is currently.
“You will take good care of my boy,” she begs.
“I will, Mary. I promise you that I will.”
In the corner of my eye, I see a nurse approaching with a syringe. It is the medication they have to give her every day. Some days are harder than others.
