The Death Date

chapter twenty-four

A/N: Hey! So I am posting two chapters today (24 & 25) so make sure you read both! They bleed into each other, so I figured I might as well post them at the same time! Happy reading :)

xxx

My mom was due to be discharged from psychiatrics tomorrow. I had stopped by the hospital twice during her week-long stay and, with each visit, her complexion and demeanor had brightened:. the bags under her eyes were gone, her cheeks rosy, and her marbled eyes clear and focused. Instead of a confused, vacant shell, I saw my mom, the woman I had missed for so long, staring back at me.

While her first few days there had been rough, she didn't have any complaints about how she was being treated, stating that the staff was professional and courteous, a vast difference from her previous stay years ago. She had been treated with respect and her concerns were taken into consideration; she didn't feel like an object that needed to be fixed, but rather a person who needed support.

Her medication had been adjusted as Doctor Montoya had said, and she was taking a dosage that worked for her. She felt stable, she felt calm, but, most importantly, she felt like herself.

But I didn't need to be told that. I knew it all just by looking at her eyes.

Even though she had spent most of her time in her room before, the apartment felt empty without her; I ate meals on the couch and felt guilty for watching TV shows I knew she would be upset she missed. The house was quiet, sometimes deafeningly so, and when the silence became too loud, I slipped from the apartment and found company – Vi and Meghan primarily – although I had ventured to Nick's once since my mom's hospitalization.

He had been concerned and asked all the right questions. He offered up his place to stay while she was checked in. He told me he would get me whatever I needed and wrapped me in his arms. And it made me happy, but only for a time. As soon as his comforting words had ended, so did the feeling, and rocky uneasiness thrust in my gut once again. I thought of Warner sitting next to me on the couch a few nights previous, how I felt at ease then, safe, and it was strange to have that moment of clarity while just having left the arms of the person who appeared less clear each day. I felt guilty, but I knew I needed to end things with Nick.

And if I was a stronger, braver person, I would have. It was just too easy to fall into old rhythms; I knew the steps and was never led astray.

A pounding on the front door revved me from my stupor. A hidden part of me hoped it was Warner; I hadn't seen him since our last encounter and often thought about him in Melanie's apartment below mine. She had called me since to check in, but, even with the kindness in her voice, I hadn't stopped by, as though doing so was crossing into some unknown territory knowing Warner was inside.

I leapt off the couch as another series of knocks echoed throughout the apartment.

"Delia, Delia, please just talk to me."

I halted a yard before the door.

"Delia, please. Please just talk to me. Ten minutes. That's all I'm asking."

An invisible force wrapped around me, holding me in place.

"Delia," my father croaked. "Please, Delia. I just need to see you."

One step and a time, I gradually made for the door, still undecided if I would open it. But as his last "Delia" – the sound splintered – I squeezed my eyes shut and opened the door. Blinding light filled the doorway, and, as I blinked to adjust, my father's frame slowly came into focus.

"Delia," he pleaded.

"What do you want?"

"I just want to talk." Eyes sunken and shoulders slouched, he carefully inched forward.

"You're not coming in," I insisted.

My father bit his cheek. "Okay, I understand – Delia, listen, I know things didn't go as well as I planned when I first stopped by –"

"–And whose plan are you talking about here? Yours? I didn't plan on seeing you ever again."

Dragging a hand through his hair he said, "I didn't mean for it to go this way, okay? I didn't mean for seven years to go by."

Pinching my lips, I shot my gaze to something indistinct in the parking lot. "Well, it did. Seven years went by and not a word. What do you want?"

"Another chance," he barely whispered.

"No."

"Delia, please. I just want to get to know you again. All this stuff with your mom – I had no idea you were living with that. No idea. When I left, I made sure she was staying on top of things. She was fine when I left."

"You don't get it!" I yelled. "You don't get it. This has nothing to do with mom." I leaned forward. "This is about you! How could you leave your thirteen-year-old daughter and never look back?"

"I did look back – I looked back so, so many times –"

"The random birthday cards? Is that what you mean? I didn't even open them – I knew your handwriting. They went right in the trash."

"I wanted to get in touch with you for so long, I just didn't know how –"

"Bullshit!" I cried. "Bullshit! And you know it!"

"Delia, I didn't come to fight with you –"

"Too bad! You don't get to choose how things go. Not anymore." I was panting – short quick breaths to keep up with my pounding heart.

My father was motionless, eyes searching, perhaps for a tiny chance of finding something to latch on to, but I gave him nothing.

"Delia, I came by to ask you something." He shifted. "I wanted... I wanted to ask you to come live with me in Florida for a little while."

I wanted to scoff but instead stood open mouthed, completely dumbfounded.

"Think about it, okay? Really think about it. I know you've spent all your time here – grown up here – but maybe a move would be good. I'm not talking about forever, but maybe, I don't know, just for a little while. After your mom comes home, of course, and settles. You could start by visiting if you want, a couple days here and there."

"Are you serious?" I asked, and when he didn't respond, I continued, "You come back after all this time, no word, no nothing, and suddenly want me to come live with you in Florida like no time has passed?"

"Well, that's why I want you to come, Delia, because time has passed and I –"

"And who's fault is that?"

"Delia, just think about it –"

"Fuck you," I hissed. "You left mom and you left me, and there is nothing that could ever make me want to live with you." My anger was a turbulent storm. "I'm done. You need to leave."

"Delia, I –"

I slammed the door, cutting his sentence in half. The hallway was wavering, but I stayed put as though urging it to dissolve and leave me with nothing. I wasn't afraid of nothing,it was everything else that scared me. And strangely, it was my head telling me to cry, to weep on my knees until the carpet was sodden, and my heart telling me to hold onto the anger.

And, limbs blazing, I wondered what I was going to do with it.