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My mom’s love is in that phone.
It cannot be gone.
Last year when I lost her, I expected sadness and grief. I didn’t expect the blackness that swallowed me whole.
I didn’t expect, nor am I proud of, the alcohol and other ways I coped.
But if I lose her again…
If I lose her words and all the ways her love was so tangibly poured out…
Especially now, after losing the only thing that’s ever mattered, I don’t just fear falling and not being able to get up.
I fear letting the darkness swallow me.
For good.
EIGHTEEN
FLAMING HOOPS TO JUMP THROUGH
LAYTON
It takes another week of faking my fucked-up life to convince the medical staff that I’m well enough to go home with the commitment I’ll do outpatient therapy five days a week.
Convincing Pop is a whole different ball game.
Shitty pun, but I manage it nonetheless.
“Layton…” He lets it hang in the air, but never finishes the thought. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
An SUV is parked behind the hospital in a loading dock area. It’s not protocol, but the relentless number of strangers who have come to the hospital looking for me indicates groupies or media.
I don’t want either. Staying under the radar and out of the papers are my only thoughts as we move with the staff to the area where they release bodies to the coroner or funeral homes.
The irony is not lost on me.
Correction, the reality in this is not lost on me.
The strong man with big dreams and a perfect life is now leaving weak, hopeless, and desolate.
I bite the insides of my cheeks as I climb into the vehicle.
The force of pulling myself into the passenger seat might as well have been surgical blades slicing through un-numbed flesh. I cover the whimper that spills from my lips with a cough and regret it immediately.
One of the staff, a man in blue scrubs I haven’t seen before, hands me a fabric bag. “Your things, Mr. Ranger,” he says before stepping back into the handful of staff there to legally release me from their care.
Only one face is familiar to me—the older woman who walked me every morning and every afternoon, telling me I could go one more round or reminding me I was strong enough to do it. I turn away from her and the others, hoping I never see their faces again.
“The home health folks set up some things at your place. Your apartment doesn’t look like a spread in a magazine anymore. But it’s just until you don’t need it.”
“I don’t remember you leaving.” I stare out the window, avoiding the idea of hospital beds and Pop dealing with that yet again.
His head whips to mine. “I didn’t.”
“Then how?”
“George handled whatever you needed. He coordinated all of it.” Pop hits a pothole, and I clench my teeth, biting back the sounds that indicate my displeasure. “He was there every day the first week.”
