The Death Date

chapter twenty-three

The letter had rested on the kitchen table for three days. Each time I walked past it, I paused, picked it up, ran a finger along its spine, and laid it flat again. It seemed knowingly empty, much like I imagined a university rejection letter would feel, as one would expect acceptance warranted a large manilla folder containing packets and paperwork. No, the letter on the table was going to tell me what I already knew: I didn't get into the vet tech program, and it would be better served collecting dust, unopened.

My mom had been transferred to psychiatrics yesterday. I had stopped by after my shift at The Morning Grind eager to see if Doctor Montoya had been telling the truth. So far, it seemed she had. While my mom was fragile, she was not a shell of herself, and instead was the version I knew lived in her core, the one that was meant to see daylight. Her eyes, the most important telltale, were a mixture of the sand and the sea, textured and intricate.

I left without having said much, but that was okay; my mom and I knew each other's minds, we were connected, and my quick visit was enough for both of us. She was getting well and would be on her way home soon.

My eyes again focused on the envelope.. With a quick swipe, I grabbed it from off the table, pressed against its edges, and ripped along the mouth. I walked to my room as I unfurled the creased paper, perched on my bed, and began to read. And then I read it again. And again, and again.

I had been accepted into the vet tech program, and my start date was January third.

Falling backwards, the letter flitted to the side and came to a rest on my pillow. There was no way I could go. I had too much going on. Joining the program wasn't in my cards, and it was a pipedream to ever think it could have worked out. I was going to die in less than two months, and even though my death date didn't seem as pertinent as it once had, that didn't change anything; my time was running out.

There was a knock on the door. Cursing, I slid off my bed and traipsed into the hallway. My father had come by twice since I had abandoned him in the lobby – I hoped that gave him a small taste of how I felt when he left seven years ago– and he had called over double that. I didn't answer the door and or his calls.

Peeking out of the peephole, the person on the other side wasn't my father. I staggered backwards.

"Warner," I said, opening the door. "What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in?" he asked, scanning me quickly. His eyes lingered – just for a second – over my bare legs.

I moved to the side, suddenly aware I was wearing a pair of running shorts and a baggy crewneck sweater, my copper hair tumbling in a tangled mess down my back.

"Um, want something to drink?" I asked, utilizing the only means of hospitality I knew.

"No," Warner said. "Thanks."

Okay. Where to go from here? He wasn't giving me much to work with.

"Do you want to sit down?"

Warner nodded and followed me into the living room. I flipped a light switch and we were suddenly immersed in color. His gaze then flicked to mine again, and I thought I noticed the smallest bit of unease rise to his features, but he quickly settled beside me on the couch.

"I saw you with your mom the other day."

Ah. I had forgotten Warner witnessed my father and I piling my mom into his truck on our way to the hospital, not that Warner knew the last detail, but something in my gut told me he was about to find out.

"Uh, yeah." I scratched my head. "That."

"What happened?"

Part of me was inspired by his blunt nature, the other part annoyed. He wasn't entitled to any of the information regarding my family, yet I couldn't shake the desire to tell him. Maybe if it wasn't for all the practice I had had from years of friendship with Vi, I would have tossed him out, but still that tiny, unknown part of me longed to tell him, and so, I spilled everything.