HARPER

Sadie has slept most of the day. The few times she did wake up, she was agitated and groggy, like she was in a daze. The nurse assured me they were side effects from the prescription medication Sadie overdosed on, but I wanted to argue that she’s like this all the time.

After my run-in with Luke, I was kind of in a daze myself. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should’ve expected him to show up here. Then again, he’s no longer Sadie’s therapist, but how was I supposed to know that? The entire five-minute conversation has left my mind reeling. I’ve spent half the day sitting in this seat by the window, thinking about every word he said and wondering what he meant by them.

The apology really caught me off guard. I never expected it. I’ve spent the last few months convincing myself that I deserved what happened that night. I brought it on myself. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t cruel and calculated. He meant for me to see that. He wanted me to hate him. But why?

Luke started saying he wanted to explain something, but I couldn’t handle any more at that moment. Seeing him was enough. Hearing him say he was sorry was too much. I needed some distance. I needed to keep my resolve. I’ve wanted to see him and know that he was okay, but then when I had him standing in front of me, I didn’t know what to do with him. Kiss him again? That didn’t go over well the last time. Punch him? I’m not sure causing him bodily harm would make me feel any better. Actually, seeing the guilt and pain on his face made me hurt.

I don’t know if he’ll come back.

I don’t know if I’ll be here if he does.

The sun has begun to set, and the hospital room has grown dim. The only light in the room is the stark white light from the hallway. Resting my head on my knees, I listen to the faint ring of a telephone and the shuffling footsteps of someone walking. Occasionally, I can hear someone calling for help or an incessant beeping from another room. A hospital is not a place of rest.

Looking over at Sadie, I get pissed at her all over again for lying there, oblivious to the quiet chaos. It’s not fair that she gets to be blissfully unaware. She’s why I’m sitting in this hard, uncomfortable chair and why I have a pain that runs from my neck down my shoulder. Her eyelids flutter, and I wonder if she knows I’m thinking bad thoughts about her.

“Harper?”

I glance up to see Dr. Marcus standing in the doorway. He reaches over and flips on a light by the door.

“I have good news,” he says, clasping his hands in front of him. “The results show that the liver and kidney function are picking up. As soon as she shows signs of normal activity, we’ll be moving her to a regular room and then back to Fremont. I’ve already contacted the doctors there to let them know.”

I nod, chewing on the inside of my lip. “So, do you need me to do anything?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.” He flips through her chart and then looks back at me. “You should go home and get some rest. We can call you if anything comes up.”

“And the transport to Fremont?”

“The hospital will facilitate that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He walks back toward the door. “Take care of yourself, Harper.”

I sit for a few more minutes, staring at my mother...wondering if she knows she almost died...wondering if she’s grateful to be alive. Where did her life go so wrong? Did she have a horrible childhood? What makes someone become a junkie? How bad does life have to get to make you want to escape it through altering your reality? I mean, I’m familiar with escaping reality. I’ve lived in books my entire life, wishing I could have a different life, living vicariously through princesses and heroines.

My whole life I’ve worried about becoming like her, but looking at her now, I know that’s never going to happen. Layla is right. I could never be like her.

I can’t sit here any longer. When I move to stand, the legs of the chair screech against the smooth tile, and I pause, hoping I don’t wake Sadie. I’d like to leave without having to talk to her.

“Harper?” she asks. Her voice is thick and slow.

“Yeah.” I pick my bag up off the floor and take a step toward the door.

“What are you doing?”

“I, uh…” I hesitate. The few times she’s been coherent since we’ve been here, a nurse or doctor has been in the room. I’m not sure what to say to her.

“Where am I?” she asks as she struggles to open her eyes.

“You’re at Mercy. You had a drug overdose.” I decide short and to the point is the best way to go.

“Oh,” she says, clearing her throat and shaking her head. “Yeah...I, uh...I forgot.”

“You’ve been sleeping a lot.”

“How did you know to come here?”

“The hospital called me.”

She doesn’t say anything, just lies there staring at the ceiling, and I decide that I’ve done my duty. I’ve been here. And now that I know she’s going to be okay, I’m leaving.

“Harper?”

I was almost out the door, but I stop and turn, leaning against the jamb.

“Thank you.”

I stare at her blankly. I haven’t heard those words from her many times in my life.

“I know you didn’t have to come here, and I know I’ve been a shitty mother. So, thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I need to leave. I have some homework I still have to finish before Monday.”

“Homework?”

“I’m going to college now.”

“Oh, Harper,” she says, her voice changing from being raspy due to her sleeping so much to being full of emotion. I’m sure that’s the drugs too. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, sniffling.

“Well, I just started, so…”

“That’s really great. Your dad would be so proud,” she whispers, and I look up to see tears streaming down her face. She doesn’t make any move to stop them or wipe them away. “He would hate me right now.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. She never brings up my dad. I kinda thought she forgot about him or was trying to.

“It’s not your fault, you know?” Her words crack and break. “This,” she says, motioning to herself and the room. “None of this is your fault.” I don’t know if I want to hear what she has to say, but I stand there and listen anyway. “Your father...oh, God. He was such a good man. And he somehow saw good in me.” She pauses to wipe her nose on the sheet, but the tears continue to fall, and she continues to talk. “He helped me get clean. It worked for a while, but I just couldn’t do it, because I’m weak.” She points to herself and sits up in bed as much as she can. “He was the strong one, but not me. I needed him. And when I got pregnant with you, he thought that was the answer. He thought having you would keep me clean.” She manically laughs through the sobs, and I stand there trying to grasp what she’s saying. “So, see? It was never your fault. It’s always been mine. I did this.”

 

“I…” I swallow hard and feel my own tears sting my eyes. My chest heaves with pent up emotion, and I can’t stay here any longer. I need fresh air—air that isn’t polluted by hospital stench, so I turn and leave, walking quickly toward the elevator. I can hear her crying when the doors close. As soon as they open back up, I walk as fast as I can down the long corridor and then finally outside.

With my hands on my knees, I take about a dozen deep breaths, letting the cool night air soothe me so I don’t pass out.

“Harper?”

Oh, God. I can’t. I seriously can’t take any more today.

Instead of standing up, I keep my head down until I see his feet standing next to me.

“Are you okay?” he asks tentatively.

“I honestly don’t know,” I admit, feeling a bit out of control of my emotions...of my life.

Luke squats down, and I can see his knees and his hands, but thankfully, his face is still hidden from my sight. I need that reprieve because I don’t know if my resolve is strong enough for his face.

“Is Sadie okay?” he asks, and I can tell he’s not sure if he wants the answer to that question. He probably thinks she’s dead by my behavior.

“She’s gonna live.”

I hear him take a deep breath and exhale.

“Can I do anything for you?”

Before I can answer him, my phone rings from my bag, but I ignore it. It’s probably Layla, and I’ll call her when I get on the bus.

“I just needed some fresh air,” I tell him, finally standing up when I feel strong enough. But the blood rushing from my head back to my feet makes me feel dizzy, and I stumble. Luke’s hand reaches out, steadying me, and I simultaneously want to flinch and melt into his touch.

“Thanks, but I’m okay now,” I tell him, pulling my arm away. “It’s getting late, and I have a bus to catch.”

“We could share a taxi,” he suggests. “That would give us a chance to talk…” He drifts off as my cell phone rings again.

I dig into my bag, but by the time I find the phone, it stops ringing. “Listen, I really have to go—”

“Harper, wait—”

When my phone rings for the third time, I answer it. Sometimes, Layla is relentless.

“I’m on my way home, Layla,” I say, feeling annoyed with the overly persistent phone calls.

“It’s Anton,” the voice on the other end says apologetically.

“Oh. Hey, Anton.” I add as much sweetness to the greeting as I can muster.

“I thought we were going to hang out tonight. You gave me a rain check, remember?”

Shit.

“I, uh...I’m really sorry. My mom has been in the hospital.” I look up to see Luke’s eyes boring into me. One of his hands is gripping the back of his neck, and the other is stuffed down into the pocket of his jeans, but it’s the furrowed eyebrows at which I can’t stop staring.

“Your mom lives in the city?” Anton asks, and I realize I’ve never told him anything about my mom...or my dad.

“Uh, yeah. Can I call you back in a little bit?”

“Sure. Do you need anything? A ride? Food?”

“No. I’m, uh...I’m fine. I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay. Be careful going home... And I’m sorry about your mom.”

“I will. Thank you.”

I hang up the phone and put it back in my bag.

Luke shifts his feet and folds his arms over his chest. The intense look on his face is still there—eyebrows pinched together, jaw tight. “Can I stop by your apartment sometime?” he asks. “Just for a few minutes. I have some things I need to say.”

“I don’t live there anymore,” I blurt out. I want to tell him actions speak louder than words, and I got the message, loud and clear. I want to tell him pieces of my heart are still broken and shattered on that apartment floor, but that would make me sound weak, so I don’t say anything.

He nods and licks his bottom lip. His hand runs back through his hair, causing it to stick up in every direction, and I watch his face morph from intense to pained as sadness sets in. “Please.”

Something about that word and that look makes me give a little. Maybe listening to what he has to say wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. “I go to Mr. Chan’s every Wednesday night. You could meet me there.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth, but the grateful smile he gives me makes it worth it.

“Wednesday,” he says with a nod. “I’ll be there.”

“Okay.”

“Take care,” he calls after me, and I wave without looking back because resolve can be a tricky son of a bitch. It slips when you least expect it.

Walking quickly, I make my way to the bus stop.

§

Twenty minutes later, I finally walk through the door of the apartment and let out a sigh of relief. I want to sink to the floor, but somehow, I make it to my bedroom. Flipping on the lamp beside my bed, I see that Layla left a note sitting on top of a stack of clean clothes.

We went out for a late dinner, but call me if you need to talk. There’s leftover pizza in the refrigerator.

Love you, Layla.

I’d like to talk to Layla and kiss her for the pizza and clean clothes, but it can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I just need a shower and my bed.

When I get out of the bathroom, my mind is on Luke and the whirlwind that has been my life the last two days. I’m drying my hair with a towel when I hear my phone buzz.

Anton: Making sure you made it home safely. Call me if you need to talk.

And then there’s Anton.

Falling back on my bed, I crawl up to the pillow.

Me: I’m home. Thanks for checking on me.

Anton: Get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Sleep is easier said than done. Even though I’m exhausted, both physically and mentally, my mind is running crazy with questions and worries.

I lie in the dark, allowing scenarios and what-ifs to run rampant through my mind. Picking up my phone, I send another text.

Me: Can’t sleep.

Anton: Wanna meet for coffee?

I check the time, and it’s almost ten thirty. But it’s Saturday night, and I have all day tomorrow to catch up on sleep. Maybe coffee and a conversation with Anton is just what I need.

Me: I’ll meet you at the corner by the library.

Anton: I’ll meet you in front of your apartment in fifteen minutes.

I smile and roll my eyes.

Me: It takes you twenty to get here.

Anton: I’m already on my way.

Sighing, I toss the phone on my bed and throw some clothes on.

When I get on the elevator, I shoot Layla a quick text thanking her for the clean laundry and letting her know I’m meeting Anton. She replies within seconds, telling me to be careful and that we need to talk. I knew that was coming.

Anton is waiting just outside the front door and turns with a smile that immediately makes me forget I’m cold. “I was hoping you’d reconsider.” He smiles and wraps his arms around me without hesitation. I want to sink into his warmth—absorb it and breathe it in. “Rough couple of days?” he asks with his lips pressed to the top of my head.

“If by rough you mean riding in a speeding car and hitting every pothole along the way, then yeah, it’s been rough. I think I might have whiplash.”

Anton rubs my back, and I think just standing here in front of my building would be enough. We can skip the coffee. I already feel more relaxed, and we've only exchanged three sentences.

“How about that coffee?” He pulls back and looks at me. I see the care and concern in his eyes, but something about them being brown seems all wrong. I want to go back to hugging, so I bury myself in his side as we begin to walk.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Is she really sick?” he asks. “Is it something serious?”

His questions highlight the fact that although Anton knows a lot about me, there’s still so much he doesn’t know. And those parts are hard to tell someone like him. I feel like telling him about all the junk from my life would tarnish him.

His life is perfect.

He’s perfect.

“She's going to be okay.” It’s the truth, at least that’s what the doctor said.

Whether or not I'm going to be okay remains to be seen.