It’s not my father.
He has blue eyes and an eastern European accent. His hair isn’t really graying at all. “What the fuck, man?”
Back to square one. I open my mouth to reply as horns sound from the waiting traffic, but I have nothing to say. He yanks himself away from me, disappearing into the busy street and leaving me and my thundering heart in the middle of the road.
I’M STILL SHAKENwhen I reach the hospital, but I force my panic into a box for my mother’s sake. She’s sitting up in bed and looks brighter than she did a few days ago, and the relief must be visible on my face because she rolls her eyes at me. “You saw melast night, Alex.”
“I know, it’s just good to see you.”
I take the seat beside the bed, letting her hand rest in mine while both the doctors talk to me about how she’s doing, and about the new antipsychotics they’re trialing. And though my mother and I promised ourselves we’d stop getting our hopes up a long time ago, it does all sound positive.
A dangerous little seed of hope plants itself in one of the holes in my heart.
I watch my mother complete some simple exercises, sorting blocks into color groups and some memory tests. She swallows her pills and rests back on the pillows, squeezing my hand. “How is Ophelia?”
The doctors leave us to it, happy that my mother can continue her recovery from home after dinnertime. “She’s … good, I think. I don’t know. She’s gone silent on me. I guess I haven’t exactly given her the impression of a reliable boyfriend these past few months.”
I’m trying to convince Ophelia not to give up on love, to give us a chance. I FaceTime her in the evenings, read too far into every little word she says, get my hopes up every time she laughs.
My heart builds castles out of the little crumbs she leaves me, spins whole futures out of the smallest of smiles. I bend and shape the things she says into what I want to hear, because a future without her feels unmanageable.
Mom shakily picks up one of the raspberries I brought for her. “Oh no. Silence means she’s overthinking.”
“Ophelia is always overthinking.”
“Better than underthinking. Your father is an underthinker.”
I grin down at her. “That man hasn’t had a solid thought in years.”
Then we’re both laughing at a situation we really shouldn’t be laughing at, exchanging increasingly creative insults for my father.
My phone lights up with a FaceTime call from Vincenzo.
“Pick up. I don’t mind.”
His face fills the screen, complete with a shit-eating grin. He’s up to something. He’s in his Sorrowsong rugby jersey, a heavy black sky hanging low over his head.
I miss rugby. I only started it because Vincenzo asked me to, but now I find myself wanting to get back to it. He peers in closer. “Where are you?”
I pan the camera around the room, and my mom gives Vincenzo a little wave.
“Woah,” he says, when I turn the camera back around so he can see us. “Is that … surely it can’t be … is that the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“That’s my mother, you dick,” I say, butMamanis laughing. Her cheeks are pink, like Vincenzo might have just made her whole month.
His chest shakes with laughter, enjoying riling me up. “How’s it going, Elise?”
“Apparently, I’m doing good. You look suspicious.”
“It’s because I have some information Alex isreallygoing to want.”
I tilt the phone back to me, mind racing. “What?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“What is it about?”
“A certain ginger girl.”
