Page 51 of Relapse

“Did you get them a joint stone?”

“Chelsea is going to help me tonight. She’s going to stay with me and we will select everything.”

“He didn’t like flowers, so don’t go crazy on those,” she murmured, studying the tiles on the floor.

“I was thinking of a cross,” I suggested, trying my best to make the conversation work like it wasn’t the worst thing I’d ever had to speak about.

My aunt’s lip quivered. “He’d like that.”

The reality of this loss was heavier than just the death. I didn’t have the money to bring my parents home. My only family would be buried in the ground, and then I’d have to go home without them. Thousands of miles away. Without being able to visit regularly.

I’d be ending a chapter of my life that I had never planned to write.

These thoughts rang through my head daily, hourly even, to the point where I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. All I could do was lay down next to my mom and listen to the sounds of her wet breath harmonizing with the chirping of her machines, rhythmic alarms and pressure cuffs sounding with the heart rate monitor that never ceased to cause me to jolt up and off the couch when they sirened.

Constantly I’d fear: was this it? Were these my mom’s final moments here? Did I miss it? Did she need me?

Could I do more?

The nurses said she might still hear me. That hearing is the last thing to go. To talk to her. To tell her the things I needed to say. To get it all off of my chest.

I’d sit at her side some nights. Doing just that. Trying to talk to an immobile body. Hoping that she could hear me. Praying that my words could be enough to bring her back.

That night I finally told her:

“I met a boy named Noah. He saved me from a really bad situation.”

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“He’s strong and kind. He is kind of complicated.”

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“I like him a lot. We kissed the night I found out about your accident.”

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“I think he likes me too.”

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“I wish he could be here with me. His family is also hurting.”

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“I wanted him to be able to meet you, so, if that helps you wake up at all…I wish you would.”

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“I need you mom.”

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“I just want to feel your hug again.”

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“I miss hearing your voice.”