.02
"Chandler," A quiet, calm voice shakes me from sleep. I open my eyes. Mom is sitting at the edge of my bed. Her face is pale. She wears a look of stone and deep, unwavering sadness. Immediately I'm drawn out of my sleeping state, alarmed at the look on her face.
Mom and I were never close. We barely got along, actually. She preferred to go to the bar - drink her life away. I preferred parties, sleeping with strangers, being high. While she was out, she wanted me home, studying. I argued back that maybe if I had a good role model, I would.
It never ended well.
But this is the first time I've ever woken up to see my mom like this. Or I've ever woken up and she was awake, before me. Something was wrong.
"What's wrong?" I ask, my thoughts drifting to dad. He lived two hours away, in Chicago, a businessman. He sent postcards once a month. Postcards. He left when I was nine, after he found my mom cheating on him with a random at the bar. The next day, I woke up to seeing his car gone, to never return. The end.
Suddenly I wished I had replied to his postcards, or even called him. What if he's dead?
"Something happened last night," She starts. Her bottom lip shakes, and tears form in her eyes.
"Is dad okay?" I ask. A fear so raw and painful starts in my gut and pushes its way through the rest of my body, giving me goosebumps.
"Yes, honey, dad's fine." She pauses, the tears still pools in her eyes. Immediate relief falls over my body. "Its about Annie."
Her words are a punch in the face. The relief I felt a moment earlier disintegrates and my stomach is in my throat. I can't swallow. I feel like I'm choking. "What happened? Is she alright?"
I know the answer. Of course she's not alright. Otherwise my mom wouldn't have woken up, or even came into my room, and I'd still be sleeping.
"She's in the hospital. Last night, Belinda got home from work and found her barely breathing with an empty bottle of pills next to her bed." My mom pauses. A tear crawls down her cheek. "She's brain dead, in the ICU."
I'm staring at my quilt. Its old and worn out, loose strands of fabric hanging limp. I feel limp. I wrap my pointer finger around a grey strand, pull on it. I wrap it around until the tip of my finger is purple.
"Chandler?" My mom asks.
I look at her. Don't say anything.
"Do you want to see her? Belinda hasn't taken her off life support, says she wants to give you a chance."
"Okay." My voice is scratchy, small. My mom nods.
"I'll give you five minutes, and then we'll go."
It surprises me that she's coming. Belinda, Annie's mom, and my mom never got along. They hated each other, but were almost the same person. Going out to the bar every night, neglecting their children.
I change into dark jeans and a black cardigan. While I do so I think of Annie. The girl with the curly red hair.
My mind is foggy from the Oxy I took the night before. I'm glad it is, that I don't take this information in with a clear head. Annie. Dead.
Not dead yet. But soon.
I contemplate on opening my new bottle of Oxy I bought last night. I would just need one. I'm seeing my ex best friend halfway dead, I deserved it. But before I could even crack the lid, my mom pokes her head in and said it was time to leave, that we didn't have much time. I shove the bottle in my top drawer and leave.
.......
The hospital is loud. It smells like disinfectant and stale air covers my body in a sort of cloud. My mom seems to know what she's doing as she trudges straight to the elevators. Clicks the button.
I'm not there. I'm wandering away, up in the corner. I don't need to be sober to be like this. The weight of Annie dying, dead, makes me uneasy. Restless. Delirious.
When we get to the fifth floor the elevator doors open and we shuffle out. More beeping, louder. Crying.
"This is her room." My mom says quietly. I look up from the tiled floor. The walls of her room are glass. Belinda sits at a chair next to her bed, Annie's hand clutched in her hands. When Belinda sees us she stands, walks over.
Her hands are shaking. She's unruly pale, her brown hair wispy strands framing her face. Dark circles droop under her eyes.
"Chandler," My name comes out as a sob, and before I know it she's grabbing me in a hug, her face buried in my shoulder. Her body shakes against mine with her cries.
I close my eyes tight. Wait for her to pull away. Try everything in my body to resist the sob trying to escape my throat. It works, and soon my gut is stone, my heart made out of rubber and my mind an ocean. Calm. Going through the motions.
"Can I... Can I see her?" Its a lame thing to ask, and my voice shows signs of sleep. I feel pathetic, immediately regretting every asking that. I don't want to see her. I wanted to leave.
Belinda manages a nod, pulling away from me. "I'm so sorry," She sobs again, this time collapsing on my mom. I take that as my cue to scurry in her room.
Annie is laying on a small hospital bed, hooked up to numerous beeping machines. They're is a tube that descends into her throat, an IV stuck in her arm, and little sticky circles all over the place attached to white wires.
I stare at the tube. Its the only thing keeping her alive. How delicate and ugly her life has resorted to. I'm cruel; I can feel it.
Even on her death bed, Annie looks good. Her curly red hair is spread all over her pillow, giving her a lion mane. Her face is pale, papery. I see every vein in her arm, the purples and blues a great contrast to the hospital's white bedding.
Like a slideshow, memories pour into my mind, slide after slide. Countless, sleepless nights where Annie and I sat there, having hour long conversations; biking around town, our bikes almost the opposite, matching our personalities; Annie, reading, her eyebrows drawn together in a concentrated state, me, my ear buds in, chewing on licorice, letting the music drift me away; Annie yelling, telling me she could never rely on me, calling me all the names in the book; me, ignoring her, jamming my headphones in and blaring the music.
The last memory gives me a sour feeling. I return to the present, my eyes still staring at Annie, a beautiful ghost. Tomorrow, her body will already be on its way to rotting. Its only a body now. Its not her. She's gone. Annie's gone.
I touch her hand, see if I can somehow feel her. I feel her pulse, know its not actually her, just a machine making her breathe. Her hand is still soft, reminding me of her baby lotion addiction. "Annie," I whisper, my voice pathetic, the word more of a whimper.
What was she thinking? Why did she take so many-
Bile rises in my throat as I remember receiving texts last night. Did she send me anything? I remember being disoriented and confused, not knowing what they meant, and not caring.
I fumble with my fingers as I retrieve my phone from my pocket.
ANNIE:
i need u
all of my change has been spent on you
please come over, i can't be alone
My stomach flips, and my mind reels. Sweat beads cover my forehead and I feel like I'm going to pass out. I can't look at her. My eyes find the machine she's hooked up to. I watch her heart beat, knowing its not her breathing, its the machine. She did this to herself. No, I did this to her.
The realization makes my body sway. I back away from her slowly, as if suddenly I've turned into a monster, being here, watching her die. I am. A monster.
This is my fault.
I run away from the room. Out of the ICU. Away from my mom's concerned yells after me. Away from a crying Belinda. Away from the beep beep beep of an ICU. Away from the toxic smell. Away from Annie.
