Page 70 of None Of Your Business

“I’m fine.”

She gives me the look a mother gives when she knows her son is full of shit.

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

A few seconds pass before she speaks again. “He used to say that.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve spent years wondering what I should have heard differently.”

Before I can say anything, she shakes her head.

I can tell her every rational thing there is—I have, more than once—and she can tell me the same ones right back. Grief doesn’t care how well educated the speaker is.

“He knew we loved him,” she says. “I believe that.”

“So do I.”

“But you don’t believe it was enough.”

I go still. “That’s not what I said.”

“You don’t have to.” She watches me for a long moment. “I can see how you still carry the guilt.”

My grip tightens around her hand.

“I hate it for you.”

“I’m alright.”

“No. You’ve gotten very good at functioning with it. That’s not the same thing.”

I swallow around the lump threatening to choke me.

“You were his brother,” she says. “You were not responsible for keeping him alive.”

Some sentences can be entirely true yet still fail to reach the part of you that needs them. This is one of them.

“I knew something was wrong. I saw it.”

“You saw that he wasn’t himself.”

“I should’ve pushed harder. I accepted the answer he gave me and let it go.”

The hallway flashes behind my eyes—his face, my own voice.

You sure you’re okay?

Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks, brother.

I shut it down before it goes any further. “I knew what the warning signs looked like, Mom. I was a doctor.”

“You were his brother first.” Her mouth trembles. “I was his mother. If love made us omniscient, Hudson, he’d still be here. We loved him. He knew. And he still couldn’t stay.”

Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing useful to say after that.

She brushes away another tear, then takes a deep breath. “You know what worries me?”