One Last Miracle [complete]

XII

XII

two months, twenty-six days...

"Fun fact of the day," I say conversationally, though there's no one in the lounge room with me. "My hair's growing back."

Unsurprisingly, the silence doesn't answer back.

With a sigh, I go back to scrolling through my text messages with James. I've been doing it for the past hour, between occasionally watching an episode of Extreme Cheapskates. I haven't really been paying attention to either though.

I'd be lying to myself I tried to say I'm not using the TV as a distraction. Otherwise, I might breakdown on the spot.

Thinking back on everything with James, I can't help but feel stupid. The signs are all there; I'd been so blind not to see them. I went out to lunch with him. He invited me to the movies twice. He's flirted, and I've been stupid enough to actually flirt back.

For him, it's all there. On his side, I looked as though I was happy to be his girlfriend. That I'd undoubtedly say yes.

I was stupid. Irrational.

Now I'm stuck between a hard rock and an even harder place.

"Alyson? What's wrong?" Mum walks into the mouth of the lounge room, wringing her hands on a dish towel.

"Nothing," I say, locking my phone and setting it on the coffee table. "I was talking to myself."

She looks at me. I stare back.

I watch the visible transition as worry takes hold: her eyebrows pinching, the beginning of nervous shifting from foot-to-foot, the frown on her face. Finally, she loses the battle with indecision, coming over to sit by me on the couch.

With a sigh, I turn to face her, crossing my legs underneath me. "I'm okay. Really. I was just talking to myself?"

"About what?" Her hands move around, like she doesn't know where to put the dish towel, before she tosses it over the back of the couch.

"My hair," I say. "I'm like a naked puppy. My head's starts to prickle."

Her eyes go wide. Then she shoves her hand over her mouth, before she starts to laugh. It takes her a few minutes, but she finally draws in enough breath to murmur, "I'm sorry. That was bad for me to laugh."

I can't help but roll my eyes. "Mum."

"Okay," she says, though she's grinning quietly. "So, you're okay? Honestly? No pain?"

"I take fifty thousand pills every morning to stop any pain." I wave to the general direction of the kitchen. "You better hope they're working."

She sobers completely, eyes no longer dancing with laughter in the early morning light. Gone is the smile, replaced by a broken frown. I can't help but deflate a little—seeing her so carefree a rare occurrence now.

"Mum," I repeat, my voice softer this time. "That was a yes. I'm not in any pain."

Physical anyway. Emotionally I'm not nearly as stable.

"Okay. That's good." The sigh is an audible breath of relief. "As long as you're sure."

"I am."