“How is she?” Jenna asks me. Mom hasn’t been able to communicate for a week now. There’s not much we can do at this point, except wait it out. Today isn’t a good day, but she’s made it her prerogative to come in at least once a day.

I take a deep breath and give her the same line I always give. “She’s hanging in there. Time will tell.”

“Maybe it’ll be possible to move her into a better room, if she starts to get better,” she says. That slight tinge of optimism always gets me. There is no getting better, Jenna. This is just how life goes, sometimes.

“Yeah, maybe,” I mutter. “I love you sis. It’s good that you come in so much. I think she can sense it.”

She smiles warmly and closes her eyes. No tears, just understanding. She knows what’s coming, even if she avoids it. “She’s our mom, you know?”

“I know,” I whisper.

She kisses my cheek and quickly hugs me. “Time to go,” she says. I nod. “See you tomorrow.”

The door hangs open as she slips through. I’m left to the silence of the inner corridors of the hospital. I can’t sit still and work on my research essays, however. Instead, I walk out into the hall and move in the opposite direction.

As I get closer to my mom’s room, my chest begins to tighten. My blood turns cold. Fear. It creeps inside my body and begs to stay. I stop myself, putting a solid hand on the wall. I have to close my eyes. Fuck. A panic attack has taken me into its arms, promising to release me right when I feel the collapse.

A nurse walks by me and stops. “James, are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m… fine,” I manage to say.

“Doctor, you don’t look—”

“I’m fine,” I tell her once more.

She understands the cue. She gives her best smile and says, “Very well then.” She walks away.

I regain my sense of self and continue walking toward my mom’s room. This is the hallway of death. That’s not its official name. It’s the name I gave it when I first started working here. When you’re sent here, you’re going to die. There are no miracles in this hallway. There’s just the reality that all things must pass.

At least my mother has family. At least she has people to rely on. Some of the people that are delivered here don’t have anyone. All they can do is sit in that solitary, white room and think about the choices they made. They sit and stare at the wall, or television screen, and every so often they make a strained noise.

Will that be me? If I stay a bachelor forever, will I go out without any witnesses?

I knock on the door three times, even though it’s pointless to. Still, there’s a part of me that knows she is present. Even if her eyes are closed and the morphine is flowing, I know she can hear me. I’m a part of her. I’m her son, dammit.

“Hey Mom.” I smile and enter the room. It’s cold inside. Too damn cold. I told the nurses the other day to keep it at seventy-five degrees. Hastily, I turn the air down and grab a chair. “Sorry it’s so dang cold in here. It’s been a busy week, but I’ll try to come in more often to check up on you.”

Silence. After every second, I wait for her response, but there is nothing. I like to imagine that she’s answering in her head. I take her hand in mine and kiss the top of her skin. Her eyes move, even though they’re closed. That’s how I know that she’s still with us, roaming the halls of memory.

Her mouth twitches and for a second, I think she’s about to say something. She doesn’t. “You want some music in here, Mom?” I ask her. I grab the MP3 player and scroll to her favorite song. Bob Dylan, “Blowing in the Wind.”

When we were much younger, we used to play outside, in the backyard. We’d jump in the leaves, or climb the trees, and mom would turn on that record. It would drive us fucking crazy. I never understood the man’s voice, yet I grew to love it. It became a part of who my mom was.

For the next hour or so, I just sit in the room with her. I continue the hope that it brings some comfort to her. After all, we’re losing someone, but she’s losing everything. She’s the one who has to go through all of this madness. We just have to hold on and endure some mild pain.

So I hold on and hope for the best, though I expect the worst. This year hasn’t been kind to us. Nor has the year before. No, there isn’t any light at the end of the tunnel for me. Not yet, at least. All I can do is stay present.