your hand in mine ii

ix

Her father spends a week in a coma. She's not saying it's the worst week of her life, but it's definitely in the top five. There are always silver linings, though. In the universe's warped version of irony, last time she had such a terrible week, her silver lining was her father. This time, he's the culprit; and last time's cause is the one who's making it somehow better.

Lisa doesn't come over anymore, but she's always at the hospital when Roseanne is there. First couple of days, they run into each other by accident - not that it's all that surprising. The hospital only has one cafeteria, and they come there at lunch. It's stiff and it's awkward.

Then, Roseanne breaks down and cries into Lisa's shoulder in the clean hospital bathroom, and after that, there's nothing but tentative understanding. I'm afraid Roseanne's unsure looks tell Lisa.

Don't be, Lisa's fleeting touch on the back of her hand replies.

She gets a text from her that night.

Lisa: You must have enough people around you to help you through this.

She knows Lisa. This isn't a reproachful statement. This is her trying to tell her she wants to be there for her.

Roseanne: None of them are who I want.

Lisa: Who do you want?

Roseanne: You.

Lisa doesn't answer, but the next day, she comes to the hospital, and there's faint purpose in her eyes when she sees her.

It's limbo all over again, but it's much more pleasant than the last one they've found themselves in. Lisa tells her she's there to discuss investments with Bob. Roseanne pretends she believes her.

Lisa takes her coffee with two sugars. Roseanne indirectly scolds her for not sleeping well.

With the uncertainty of Mason's future looming over them and without Jessica's presence surrounding them with guilt, they are at an impasse, and neither is sure how to get out of it. (Roseanne's not entirely sure she wants to.)

She starts telling Lisa stories about her dad. From her childhood, from her teen years, from several months ago. Lisa listens and listens and listens, and each time they separate, the look in her eyes grows warmer and softer.

She's seeing why I did this, Roseanne's hope pounds wildly in her chest. Maybe she's -- she sees why. It's not enough, but it's something. It might be foolish, but it's one of the things that keep her sane. Her school isn't helping anymore; and her mom needs her to be one thing that holds her together.

It's seven long, draining days. As if knowing exactly what Roseanne feels, the sky remains cold and gray, and at night, it rains in time with her tears sliding down her cheeks.

(Lisa's not there to hold her, but she doesn't expect her to. She doesn't expect anything from her, and yet, Lisa gives her so much more.)

But Jessica's words never go away; they stick with her, and they haunt her every second of every day, growing louder whenever they meet.

She's nowhere near stable enough . Roseanne looks at the bags under Lisa's eyes that makeup couldn't conceal, and her grip on her hand grows stronger even though it's supposed to become weaker. She's being selfish. She knows that. But she's growing weaker, too, when she needs to be strong.

Mason wakes up at night, and Lisa isn't there with them; but it would've been silly to expect her to come.

(Roseanne still did.)

"Don't scare us like that again," she sobs into her father's chest. "We can't -- just don't."

"I'm sorry." There's genuine guilt and worry in his voice, and she presses tighter to him, careful not to yank on any of the tubes attached to his body. He's still weak. He needs to recover. She's heard it all before. This time, it'll take faster, doctors hope.