A FEW DAYS AGO, I got a call from the hospital saying that my mother was apparently on a hunger strike and has been sending back unopened food. And so I was forced to drop everything and walk down to the hospital to talk to her. When I got there, she didn’t say much, but after some persuasion, I watched her eat, making sure she took everything down before leaving for my late shift at the garage.
Now, a day later, I get another call from the hospital. A nurse tries to keep her voice as calm as possible as she explains that my mother has been refusing to eat since the day I left and how it’s obviously taking a toll on her and causing complications in her recovery. Because in order for her to take the meds, she needs to eat.
“I’ll be there,” I say before pocketing my phone with a deep sigh. This can’t become a pattern. If I lose time on shifts then I lose money, and it’s all a vicious cycle from there.
As I start to clean up and put the tools away, the boys look over at me overtly. Logan is the first to speak. He walks over to my station. “Jem. What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, shrugging on a jacket. “I need to leave. Cover for me?”
Logan nods, but I don’t miss the worried gaze he exchanges with Eli, who looks up from what he’s working on. But I don’t have time to de-code whether it’s concern or something else before I walk out of the garage.
It’s a cold ten minutes as I walk to the subway, bits of snow descending from the sky. When I reach the hospital, Celia, one of the head nurses in the unit, must see that I’m not in the mood to fill in forms, because after I sign in, she says, “I’ll fill in the rest. You can go through.”
With a brief nod, I’m already heading to Ma’s room, clamping down on my jaw so hard I’m surprised I don’t chip a molar. And when I enter the room, my hands tucked in my pockets, my mother meets me with a guilty expression, like she knows exactly why I’m here.
She’s quiet for only a brief moment before she speaks.
“I want to go home.”
Ma was never one for miscommunication. That’s it. The reason she's been refusing to eat is because she wants to go home. But one look at her pale face, and I’m shaking my head no. She’s plugged up by countless machines, an IV and God knows what else.
“You can’t,” I say, clipped. “Your treatment isn’t over yet.”
“Jem,” she says, her voice strong, almost desperate. “I want to go home.”
I stand my ground. “No.”
Her silver eyes turn glossy. “Call your father.”
My jaw clicks. “He doesn’t have a say.”
Confusion laces her features as she furrows her brows. “What?”
Fuck. I’m the worst liar in the fucking world. I avert my glance. The line on the heart monitor at her side jumps up and down erratically. “I mean, I make all the decisions from New York. He's informed about the important ones. It’s easier.”
There’s a moment of silence. I can’t stand to look at her — because we both know it’ll take very little to convince me.
I sigh. “We can’t afford someone to take care of you at home, Ma.”
Her cold hand encloses mine as she gently tugs me closer. “I know, baby. I don’t want someone to take care of me.”
Sitting at her side, I settle elbows on the bed as I bury my head in my hands. “You can’t do this alone. You need someone to help you. And I—”
YOU ARE READING
Fragile Little Things ✓
RomansIndigo Gallagher was born with osteochondroma, a condition that leaves her physically fragile. Between shifts at her granʼs flower shop and her tumultuous relationship, all she wants is to get through her second year of pre-med unscathed. Although...
