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"Good luck," he murmurs before turning away.
Pushing past the curtain, I step into my mother's room, my resolve hardening with each step. The machines beep their ominous chorus, but it's her labored breathing that cuts through me. This is it—where science meets the soul, where my prayers collide with the cold touch of mortality.
"Mom," I say, reaching for her hand, "I'm here." And somewhere within me, the bargain still whispers, still pleads for a miracle I'm not sure I believe in anymore.
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor flicker, casting a sterile glow on the linoleum as I take my vigil outside Mom's room, so she doesn’t see me cry. My hands are still shaking from the doctor’s rundown—too many medical terms that spelled out one thing: she's slipping away.
"Tony?"
I turn at the sound of Lola's voice, her presence a sudden warmth in the chill of the waiting area.
"Hey," she says softly, and I see the red rims around her eyes. She knows, too, then.
"Hey." It's all I manage before we hug, clinging to each other like we did when we were kids afraid of thunderstorms.
"Any change?" Her voice is muffled against my shoulder.
"None." The word is a stone in my throat.
We part, and Lola takes a seat beside me, both of us staring at the closed door as if we could will it to open to release some good news.
It's about fifteen minutes when I hear a familiar stride, heavy and resolved. Dick.
"Tony, Lola," he nods, his jaw set tight. There's no need for pleasantries; his eyes say enough.
"Hi, Dick," Lola responds, her voice a whisper.
"Have you seen her?" he asks, directing his gaze at me.
"Just before," I reply. "She's . . . it's not easy. We got thrown out because visiting time was over. We decided to just wait here till 4 PM till we can be with her again."
Dick runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I've seen a thousand times. We lapse into silence, the kind that's thick with things unsaid, until the click of hurried heels announces Jenny's arrival, her expression etched with panic.
"Is she—?" Jenny can't finish her sentence, her chest heaving with rushed breaths.
"Still here," I assure her, though the truth of it feels like a betrayal.
"Thank God." Jenny collapses into a chair, her hands finding her face.
"Mom's tough," Dick adds, his attempt at optimism falling flat on my ears.
"Always has been," Lola echoes, but there's a tremble in her voice that belies her words.
"Remember when she caught that burglar?" Jenny asks suddenly, a desperate grasp at nostalgia.
"Chased him out with a frying pan," I chuckle despite the ache in my chest. "Scared him half to death."
"Should've seen his face," Dick grins, the image offering a brief respite from our grim reality.
"Only Mama," Lola says, shaking her head.
We share stories, laughter mingling with tears, the past and present blurring as time ticks by unheeded. It's a strangecomfort, these shared memories that keep us anchored amidst the storm of uncertainty.
4 PM rolls on, and we all go back in to be with Mom. Dick, with his extra-long strides, gets to Mom’s bedside first, his gaze unwavering as he observes her frail form, his face remaining stoic—a façade of strength he knows he must exude now, as the eldest sibling. It's a gruff exterior, but those who know where to look can detect the subtle quiver on his chin and a shakiness in his voice when he speaks.
Jenny, ever the pragmatic one, assesses the situation with a keen eye and knows the writing is on the wall. I know this because Jenny is praying— and Jenny never prays.
Lola, the peacekeeper, hovers near the bedside, offering a soft smile to Mom. She holds back tears, choosing instead to focus on creating an atmosphere of calm. Lola's gentle touch and soothing words attempt to shield Mom from the harsh reality awaiting her, but I don’t think Mom is fooled. Everyone in the room knows . . . including Mom. . . It’s not a matter of if, but when. The time is coming when the bottom will fall out of our world as we know it. Mom’s eyes flutter open and look at us one by one, the previous shimmer in them now fading a bit, but they still convey both love and sorrow to the people she loves dearly, the people she brought into this world. She is saying goodbye, in her own way, with that quivering smile that tells me that she is scared, she is terrified, yet for her kids, even at this eleventh hour, for her kids, she will pull out one last hat trick and convince them that it will be alright . . . that all will be alright, but how can it be?
