Page 8

Her grip loosens, and she slips back into the fog. My chest aches, and I blink back the burn behind my eyes. I sit beside her for the next two hours, brushing quivering fingers through tangled strands of graying hair.

I squeeze her hand. “You’re safe, Mama. I’m here. I won’t abandon you.”

After five years of small improvements and big relapses, I’m starting to wonder if sitting by her bed whispering promises is enough anymore.

On her nightstand, tucked beneath her water cup, is a dog-eared travel magazine with Rome on the cover. She’s had it for years, used to press her finger to the Colosseum and say, “One day, Sophia. When things are better, we’ll go.” Things never got better. The magazine stayed.

The moment breaks when voices rise from outside.

A crash. Screams. Scrambling feet.

Rushing out, my eyes land on a boy of about seven with wide eyes and an even wider mouth, who’s wailing like a banshee after a sugar binge. While nurses flail like confused penguins, his tiny fists slam into anything and anyone near him.

“Get the restraints!”

“No…he’ll hurt himself!”

He thrashes and screeches, as if whatever lives inside him is breaking through skin and bone. And no one knows what to do. My feet move before my thoughts can catch up. Suddenly, I’m crouched low, my palms up like I’m approaching a wounded animal.

“Hey, hey…it’s okay. Shhh. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

My voice is soft and singsongy with the confidence of having done this about a million times. I’ve spent the past three years of my life placating tantrum-throwing kids.

The boy’s eyes lock on mine. I can see his panicked confusion as I drop to my knees beside him and leave a little space just for him to know I’m here. His sobs gradually dial down to hitching breaths and then hiccups.

In the next moment, he’s in my lap. His small body trembles against mine, and I feel each shuddering breath as if it’s my own. Instinctively, I hold on to him. This I understand. This I can fix.

Nurses stare, whispering as I hold him tighter.

Once his mother appears, I hand him over and slip toward the exit. On the way out, the hallway feels longer. When I step outside, the cool air bites at my skin and my keys jingle in my pocket, matching the rhythm of my gait.

Then I hear footsteps close behind me. I pause to glance over my shoulder, but no one’s there.

My hair prickles and my spine locks as I pick up the pace.

It’s probably just paranoia prompted by Jacob’s visit, but my pulse won’t stop racing, and my ears buzz like a live wire.

I climb into my old Honda Civic and drive to my apartment.

It’s small but clean, peppered with pastel accents that scream, “I’m just a normal twenty-five-year-old woman,” a little too loudly. The living room barely fits a sagging cream couch and a coffee table I bought at a yard sale. Throw pillows in lavender and mint green are arranged just so. A half-dead potted succulent sits on the windowsill. The walls are an eggshell white and blank except for one framed print of a beach I’ve never been to.

I twist the lock twice. Then I lean my full weight against the door and jiggle the handle for good measure. A near-death encounter with a deadly mafia enforcer does a lot for shifting one’s perspective on “basic home security.”

Satisfied that no one gets through without me noticing—whatever good that does me—I head to the kitchen to cook myself some pasta for dinner.

I eat slowly, my gaze lingering on the empty chair across from me. I’d bought that piece of furniture for Mama. Over the years, her condition has swung like a pendulum. Two years ago, she seemed perfectly okay. We’d even gotten a discharge date.

Excited by the prospect of finally having someone at home with me, I’d prepped the apartment for her return, cleaning up the spare room and putting the extra chair at the dining table.

News of her severe relapse seventy-two hours to D-day suddenly put Mama’s discharge on hold. Even after that, I couldn’t remove the chair. I like to pretend my mother’s sitting across from me in spirit.

Once I toss my dirty dishes in the dishwasher, I change and head to bed, pulling the blankets up to my chin. Above me, the ceiling fan spins in lazy rotations. One. Two. Three. I count them like sheep.

My mind drifts to tomorrow, to Circle Time, finger paints, and snack duty. The same loop, day after day.

Is this it? Is this all there is?

The thought sits heavy on my ribs. Part of me craves this safety, this predictable rhythm. Another part—buried deep and barely breathing—screams that I’m wasting away. That I’m just starting my life but living like I’m already dead.