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I burst through my front door, slamming it behind me like I was shutting out everything ugly and vile in the world with it. I leaned my back against it, panting for breath as my heart raced. My anger beat in tandem with my sadness, and a lingering loss made my chest ache. I laughed bitterly.
It wasn’t even like Dad and I had a great relationship. Where was the warmth? Where was the tenderness? Those things didn’t exist between us, and although that fact was more obvious now that he was in prison, the truth was, they never had.
So why did I care so much?
After a few moments passed and Bishop didn’t come knock on the door—or break it down—my heartbeat slowly began to calm. Blowing out a breath, I looked up.
“Mom?”
Pushing away from the door, I stepped forward. She and I never spoke a lot, but I needed her right now, in a way I’d never needed a mother before. I felt the sting of tears in my eyes and the childish desire to curl up tight in her arms and bawl my eyes out, to sob and tell her everything that was wrong with the world. Ava used to be that person, but Ava was long gone, and I had no way to contact her. Even if I did, I couldn’t find it in myself to force her to deal with my family’s ugly baggage.
“Mom?” I repeated, louder this time.
She didn’t answer, and I called to her again as I went to her door. The car was outside, so she had to be home.
I knocked on her door at the same time I pushed it open a little, poking my head inside.
“Hey, mom. Are you—”
The words died in my throat.
And then a scream poured from my lips instead.
Twenty-Three
Mom lay on her back, arms splayed, body limp. I might’ve thought that she was sleeping if it weren’t for the bile built up at the corners of her mouth. My scream cut off with a guttural, choked noise as I noticed the bottle of pills beside her bed.
The ones she always took to go to sleep.
What am I supposed to do? Who do I call? Is she alive? Oh God. God. Is she alive?
It felt like bees were buzzing through my skull, the droning hum making it impossible to think. My fingertips tingled and my skin felt numb. I moved like a robot, crossing to her bedside and putting my hand to her neck to feel the faintest of pulses thudding through her veins. Tears slipped down my cheeks, but there was only the smallest moment of relief because she still wasn’t moving, and her heart wasn’t beating hard enough, and then she started to convulse—
?
??Cora?”
A voice called my name from the other side of the house, but I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I kept trying to feel her heartbeat again, but I couldn’t find it this time. Her body was jerking on the mattress, and I couldn’t find her pulse, dammit, dammit! Panic consumed me like an untamed fire, eating me alive and leaving nothing but ash.
“Cora?”
The voice came again, closer, and then someone was at my side, moving me away from my mother. My vision was unfocused, blurred with tears, but I recognized the mop of shaggy brown hair.
Bishop.
It was Bishop. He stood over my mother, his hands on her chest, pushing up and down, up and down. The movement was hypnotic, and I wrapped my arms around my stomach like I was trying to keep myself from flying apart and watched, unblinking, numb.
I’d known she was despondent, known she missed our old life, known she had spent too many hours curled up in bed. But she’d been better lately. She’d been getting up, at least. Going out.
Was this my fault?
Had I missed important signs?
Please, Mom. Please.
Don’t die.
There are realizations that hit you at inopportune times. They’re almost funny, even though they really aren’t.
