psych ➳ muke

14

At six o' clock, visiting hours start and I am sure to steer clear of Room 7, just in case Michael's parents decide to return. I had surely caused enough problems the day before and I have no plans on making matters worse. In the group room, I sit across from Sawyer, who says he is anxiously awaiting the arrival of his father - they are meant to discuss when he will be discharged. He claims he is ready to go home, that he has changed, but no one will reason with him. I offer a few reassuring words - something along the lines of you'vebeendoingreallywell, they'llseethat. you'llgohome. But guilt fills my core, willhegohome? I have heard that some patients can spend months in the hospital, depending on how well they do. I have already been here six days and I am more than ready to leave.

"Luke, you have a visitor," Andrew appears in the doorway, motioning for me to follow.

Avisitor? I excuse myself from Sawyer and I's conversation and exit the room, following closely behind Andrew. This time, I am taken to the conference room, the one in which I met with Doctor Bender in hours ago. Inside sits my mother, blond hair a messy atop her head, deep bags under her swollen eyes. She hasn't been sleeping or she's been crying, maybe even both. I carefully sit in a chair across the table, my eyes studying her poorly put together look.

"Luke, dear," she says, eyes welling with tears, "I have come to apologize. Please, my son, listen to me."

I nod in her direction, signaling for her to carry on. I have no words for her.

"I have thought about what you said before, when I came last time. I am so sorry, Luke. This is my fault, it is. You are unwell and I was not there to take care of you like a mother should. After... when your father died, my whole world fell apart. I was only thinking of myself and that was wrong, so wrong. I should have been there for you because you were hurting, too."

Her eyes meet mine and I bite my lip, holding back what I truly feel, "I came home every day with bruises and cuts, everyday! And you never, not once, asked what happened. Cared if I was okay."

Her voice cracks, "Who did that to you?"

Nowshedecidestoask. Nowshedecidestocare.

"I'm gay, Mom. There, you've heard it from me. Secrets out!" I expect her to react, but she remains just barely composed, "The kids at school thought they could beat it out of me, but they couldn't, because you just can't."

My heart flutters  in my chest, my hands shaking, "They blamed me for Dad dying, you know? Do you know how that feels?"

She briefly closes her eyes, "Your father was killed because he was driving drunk, how could you have caused that? He was reckless, he chose to drink and drive."

"They say I drove him to drink."

Her faces falls then. The dams break, the tears cascading down her cheeks, dripping on to the table below. Drowning it. I sit with her for a moment, unsure of how to react. I have never seen her cry, she was always so put together before. Emotionless. But I realize that was her way of coping - hiding behind a mask.

"I forgive you," I say suddenly, "I forgive you because I am a better person than you will ever be."

And I stand, walking out of the room. I make my way to Room 7, knocking on the door this time rather than entering. I hear Michael's voice call out comein! and I enter. He is alone, no parents to cause panic attacks. I close the door behind me and sulk over to my bed, flopping down heavily. Michael is reading, something he has been doing much more, but he closes the book abruptly.