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I notice her slight wince at the R-word, but when it passes, she touches my chest, and runs her finger down my stomach, tracing the outline of each abdominal muscle. “Yeah, a relationship.”
I didn’t realize until now how much I wanted to have this conversation. Being her secret sex friend is certainly fun but having the freedom to touch her in front of others, to kiss her whenever I wish, that would be true luxury.
“I want to take it slow, in terms of telling people,” she clarifies. “And there might be days or weeks that I can’t get away, depending on how Mom’s doing, but if you’re willing, I’d like to give this a try.”
“Yes. Yes, I want to give this a try.”
She squeals happily as she rolls on top of me, peppering my face and chest with kisses. I wrap my arms around her and roll again until she’s on her back. The light from the lamp in the corner shines across her face, and it’s then that I notice the dark circles beneath her eyes. Despite how full of joy she is, there is crippling exhaustion just beneath the surface.
I pull her into my arms and return her head to my chest. “Do you want to sleep?” I ask, eager to continue lying here chatting with her, but content to listen to the sound of her breathing as she sleeps too.
“Not yet,” she says, resting her hand on my stomach.
Moments pass as I play with her curls, coiling them around my fingers and inhaling the rich, warm scent of her perfume.
“I hope Mom goes peacefully,” she says suddenly.
This is new. In the past, when I’ve inquired about her mother, she is quick to change the subject. I accepted that and assumed that being with me was an escape from the tragedy unfolding in front of her at home. Though, I suppose, now that I am her boyfriend, she feels more comfortable sharing the pain that fills her heart.
“I know that’s not how Alzheimer’s works. I’ve read all the books, well, audiobooks,” she clarifies, “and I know that the end of this road is an onslaught of misery, but I can’t imagine her spending her last days unable to get out of bed,” a tear hits my skin, followed by another, and another, “or unable to speak, or swallow her food on her own. No one deserves to die like that.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, holding her tighter. I am aware that there’s nothing okay about this situation, but there are no words to provide the comfort she seeks. So I promise her that all will be well as I massage her scalp, hoping that the warmth and security of my embrace will ease even a fraction of her suffering.
“She’s…” Samantha’s body trembles as her sobs quicken her breaths, making it harder for her to speak. “S-she’s withering away. Right in front of me.” She sniffles as she swipes the back of her hand across her face. “There’s n-nothing I can do to stop it.”
“I am here,” I offer, hating that I cannot fix this problem for her. “It’s okay.”
Eventually, her sniffles cease, and the tears on my stomach dry. She falls asleep with her head on my chest, and her adorably loud snores tell me this might be the most restful slumber she’s had in far too long.
As her official boyfriend, I decide it is my duty to make sure she gets enough rest from this day forward, even if that means coming to her house to read to Elena while she naps. At some point, I nod off, too, and awaken when the sun is high in the sky to the loud, erratic thumps of a fist against the door.
Passing the full-length mirror, I’m reminded to mask myself, and I do so before opening the door to find Marty, his eyes bloodshot and his hair mussed as he holds his phone in his hand.
“Marty?” Samantha asks, sitting up in bed and wrapping the sheets around her chest. “What is it?”
“Mom,” he croaks. His eyes fill with tears. “She’s in the hospital.”
CHAPTER 11
SAM
Isit in the front with Marty as he races down I-93 South, going well over the speed limit. He’s shaky, and I need him focused so that we make it to Mom’s bedside in one piece. Once he burst into our room, he broke down as he relayed the information Jackie gave him, but I couldn’t understand half of what he told us beyond “fell” and “stairs.” I tried calling Jackie, but she didn’t answer. I assume she’s dealing with the doctors in charge of Mom’s care.
“Tell me again,” I say to Marty. “What, exactly, did Jackie say happened?”
Marty takes a few deep breaths, wiping away the tears that continue to fall down his cheeks. “Um, she called me from the ambulance and said that she was asleep on the couch and woke up to Mom wandering around the upstairs hallway in the dark, and that Mom fell down the stairs before she could get a word out to warn her.”
I try calling Jackie again, and this time, she picks up. “Sam, oh my god, it’s bad,” she says through muffled cries.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
“I don’t know,” she cries. “There’s swelling in the brain. Sam, there was s-so much blood.”
Her breathing turns shallow, and the sound of hiccups meets my ears, making it even harder to understand her. I try to keep my frustration in check, but I have no idea what’s going on, and it seems like she can’t form a full sentence. “But she’s alive? Jackie, is she alive?”
“Yeah,” she says, then hands the phone to her husband, Dan.
“Hey, Sam,” he says in a somber tone. He doesn’t wait for me to ask, he just starts talking, which I’m grateful for. “She’s in an induced coma. Apparently, she hit her head pretty hard, and there’s swelling in the brain. She also has a fractured hip, and a few cracked ribs,” he pulls the phone away to ask Jackie, “Was it two or three cracked ribs?”
