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“She doesn’t know how to get out.”
“Sometimes the best way to get someone to see what’s possible is to save yourself.” He pulls a card out of his pocket and passes it to me. “If there’s anything else you think I should know, or if there’s anything you need, just give me a call, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I slide the card into my backpack. “Thanks.”
“Of course. You going in?” He tips his chin toward the hospital.
“Yeah. Thanks for the talk.”
“No problem. You know how to get in touch if you need anything.”
He stands, and so do I, and we turn in separate directions.
I take the elevator back to my mom’s room. Her eyes pop open as I slide into the chair beside her bed, and she gives me a small smile. “You’re back.”
“You need anything? Something to drink? Eat?”
She flinches when she tries to shake her head. “I’m okay.”
“How are you feeling?” There’s a heaviness in the air, as if it’s weighted down with questions that don’t have answers.
“Tired and sore.”
I nod. “Makes sense. It was a bad fall.”
“That handsome police officer stopped by.”
“Logan Butterson. I ran into him in the parking lot.”
“He asked a lot of questions about what happened.” She smooths her blanket.
“That’s his job. What’d you tell him?” I know the answer, but I ask anyway.
“I told him the truth. That I can’t remember.” She glances at the nightstand. “Can I have some water? I’m thirsty.”
“Sure, Mom.” I bring the straw to her mouth, and she sips.
“Officer Butterson said you’re a great hockey player, that you have real promise. That must be true because you have that scholarship.” She frowns again. “I’m sorry Clay ripped up the letter.”
The scholarship has nothing to do with hockey, but that’s not important right now. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s not your fault.”
Her chin trembles. “He just gets so mad sometimes, and I don’t know what to do.”
I push her hair back off her forehead. “I know, Mom. It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about that.”
She takes my hand in her uncasted one and whispers, “Sometimes I think about leaving.”
Occasionally she’ll make an off-hand comment about telling him to move out, but never when he’s around, and usually when she’s annoyed with him. But this seems different, like a guilty admission.
“Are you starting to remember?”
She looks away. “I don’t know. It’s all so confusing. I remember the fighting, but it’s foggy.”
“The doctor said it might take a while for it to come back to you. You should just rest.”
“I am tired. Maybe it’ll be clearer next time I wake up.”
I smile. “Maybe.”
