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“Thank Christ, you’re here.” My father greeted me in the hospital corridor. He was holding a folder overflowing with paperwork in one hand and a plastic bag that I presumed contained my mother’s clothes in the other as he closed the space between us.
“I can’t deal with her, Joey, son. I can’t.” He clamped his hand down on my shoulder in a move that I could only presume was a show of relief at my presence, but that only made me want to peel the skin from my bones. “I know that she’s upset, but all that crying and carrying on isn’t right.”
“Yeah, well, suck it the fuck up,” I snapped, roughly shrugging his hand off. “Because you’re the one that got her pregnant. She’s your responsibility, Dad. She’s in this position because of you, so man the hell up and take care of her.”
“Don’t get lippy with me, boy,” he warned, his tone taking on a menacing lilt. He gave me a look that said You’ll pay for speaking to me like that, but I honestly didn’t care. “It’s easy for you to judge when you don’t know what I’ve been dealing with here.”
“I don’t care what you’ve been dealing with,” I spat out, reluctantly following him down the corridor until he stopped outside a closed door. “Is she in there?”
He nodded. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve a few things that need sorting.”
Meaning there was a barstool waiting for him at his local.
“Fine.” I jutted my chin out, unwilling to beg the bastard not to leave me to clean up his mess. Again. “Do whatever you want.”
And then he was gone, and I was left alone, staring at a closed door.
A million different emotions rose up inside of me as I battled to steel my nerves and keep my head. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to see what I knew I would see the minute I opened the door I was hovering behind and stepped inside her room.
Inside her turmoil.
Get a fucking handle on yourself, asshole.
With my hood up, and my hands shaking, I forced myself to reach out and knock lightly before opening the door and walking inside.
A pale-blue curtain draped around the bed was the first thing my eyes took in, while my ears were immediately assaulted by the sound of low, almost feral keening. It was a sound that I’d never heard before and never wanted to hear again. It was the sound of a woman’s heart breaking.
“Mam?”
The crying stopped for a brief moment, and I heard her drag in several gasps of air before she croaked out, “Joey?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, trembling. “It’s me, Mam.”
“Joey,” she cried out hoarsely. “My Joey?”
“Yeah, Mam,” I replied, clearing my throat. “Can I open the curtain and see ya?”
A few moments later, the curtain was pulled back, and I was greeted by the sight of my mother’s tearstained face as she staggered off the bed and collapsed in my arms. “Joey!”
“Shh, it’s okay,” I coaxed, catching her before she could hit the floor. “I’m here.”
“He died,” she wailed, fingers knotting in the front of my hoodie as she clung to me, body limp and racked with grief. “The baby died, and they took him away. They took him, Joey. They took him away from me.”
“I know, Mam,” I strangled out, helping her back to the bed.
“He was so small,” she cried, refusing to let go of my hoodie as I stood helplessly in front of her, my hands hanging by my sides as she took from me whatever she needed in this moment. “Twenty-one weeks,” she continued to wail. “He was so tiny.”
I couldn’t tell her that I knew how she felt or understood her pain, so I just stood there, feeling useless.
“He’s gone now,” she said through her tears. “Your father let them take him.”
“Take him where?” I forced myself to ask.
“Away,” she wailed, crying into my chest. “They’ll bury him in the hospital’s angel remembrance garden.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know,” she sobbed. “Your father said that’s what’s best.”
