Tessa
Two weeks since Hawk left.
He hasn’t been back.
Maybe he won’t ever come back, and I’m trying to make peace with that. He told me to contact him if his mom turned coherent and she is, five days now she’s been up, the nurses wheeling her into the common room with the other patients and yet, I haven’t made an attempt to reach out. I’m not sure I can do it. If he’s here, then he’s going to want answers. He’s the doorway to my past, and that’s something I want to keep closed.
Martha’s words from this morning resonate with me. She tells me that I’m strong-willed. I’m a fighter, I’m someone who comes out on top, but I’m not sure she’s right. I’m tired. I’m so tired from fighting to keep my life happy, to keep my boy safe, but there’s nothing I can do to change any of it. I have to keep going. There’s no way around it. For me, for Sam, I have to continue to find my strength.
I peek my head into Rose’s room. She sits in her wheelchair with her back towards the door, facing the window. Her brown hair, with strands of gray, is placed in a loose bun, fastened with bobby pins. She’s wearing a pink terry cloth robe that hung in her closet while she slept. Now that she’s up, she’s no longer on the catheter or I.V.’s.
“Mrs. Calhoon,” I call her quietly. I shouldn’t be in here. I should be cleaning and making my rounds, but I haven’t had a chance to talk with her, and I can’t wait any longer.
I take more tentative steps into her room until I’m standing next to her and place my hand on her shoulder. She looks up at me but doesn’t smile before she turns her gaze back to the window. Her view isn’t spectacular by any means, it’s the parking lot. Not much to look at but the dirt of the cars.
“How are you doing today?” I ask. I’d like to know her story, the reason why she’s here. How she ended up an alcoholic, on the brink of poisoning herself. Why her daughters are nearly nonexistent. How I haven’t seen her husband. But by the look on her face, she’s not ready to divulge the information that I’m seeking.
“Mom.”
I turn my head and see Rhea standing there. The door closes behind her and a soft click making her jump. She has a slight sway to her, and her footing stumbles a bit. She physically straightens her shirt and smoothes out her hair before approaching us.
When she gets close enough, she looks at me. She’s glassy-eyed, her pupils constricted even with the lack of light filtering in from the morning haze. Another step in our direction I catch a whiff. There’s no mistaking that smell. I work in a bar, and I can smell stale alcohol from a mile away. Rhea is drunk.
“Hey.” I stop her from getting any closer to her mother. “Can we step outside and talk for a minute?”
Her eyes fall to her mother who hasn’t acknowledged her presence and back to me. She takes a deep breath before giving me a slight jerk of her head. Once we're outside the room, I take the lead and hope that she follows me into a little alcove. I turn around, and I address her.
“Where have you been?” I snap.
Her eyes widen. “I’ve been busy.”
“It’s been over two weeks since you’ve been here.”
She puts out her hands and shakes her head. “Wait, are you scolding me right now? Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t know me.” Her voice is getting louder, and I don’t need to drawing attention to us.
“I’m not scolding you, but your mother has been awake for five days–”
“Five days?”
“Yes.”
“I told someone to call me when she woke up. Why didn’t anyone call me when she woke up?”
I shrug. “I can’t tell you why. That’s not my job.”
She sways again, and her body starts to lean towards mine. I grab her by the arms, keeping her in place. Her eyes brim with tears before she blinks, making them cascade down her face.
“I didn’t know.” She hiccups. I know the alcohol is making her more emotional. I know this isn’t a natural reaction.
“You can’t be here when you’re drunk, Rhea.”
Confusion flashes on her face as she continues to wipe away the tears. “I–I'm not drunk.” She says, dragging out the word, drunk a little too long.
“Don’t,” I tell her holding up my hand. “I know you are. I can smell it on you, see it in your eyes, and by the way you look like you’re standing on a boat swaying rather than here on land, I can tell.” She doesn’t say anything. “Your mom has been without alcohol for what? A month or so?” Martha told me about Rose’s history in more detail once Hawk left. “Do you think it’s all right for you to be around her like this? Don’t you think it’s a little tempting?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Here comes the defense drunk people usually start up with. “How do you have the right to tell me what to do? You don’t know me. You don’t know what I have to deal with. Don’t you dare judge me.”
“I’m not judging you. I’m only trying to get you to see reason. You being here under the influence isn’t the best thing for your mother while she’s recovering.”
She shoulders past me, not giving me another moment of her time. I know I have no right. I’m a custodian, nothing more. But Rose isn’t just any patient, she’s Hawks mother. He’s her son. And it’s time he takes hold of that position.
Pulling out my phone with shaky hands, I bring up his name.
Me: Your mom is awake.
Hawk: I’m on my way.
I pocket my phone. I know I did the right thing.
At least I hope.