Demi Lovato Imagines

Miscommunication

"Mom?"

Sam's tongue rubbed against the top of her mouth, searching for moisture. The light from the hallway was too bright and she shut her eyes against it hoping that, somehow, her mom would still come. When she heard nothing, she tried calling again, this time triggering the sound of footsteps pacing up the stairs. The room darkened as her mom's figure appeared at the doorway. 

"What is it? I've got to leave in five."

This was how it always was with Sam's mom. Any question was always answered with a reminder that she was much busier than anyone else and so had much more important things to be doing than answering it. Sam swallowed, a fresh wave of nausea rolling over her. 

"I don't feel very well."

There was a pause where Sam knew her mom was standing at the door, not yet resigned to putting down her phone, analysing to make sure it was worth the effort. She felt a hand on her forehead, the sudden touch making her jump inside her cucoon of blankets. 

"What's wrong? Do you feel sick?"

Sam nodded. Sick was one of the many things she was feeling but she didn't want to bore her mom with the whole rundown of temperature, cough, and running hot and cold. An hour ago, she'd considered braving it, dragging herself out of bed, into her uniform, and up to school. But, now, the thought of simply sitting up was enough to make her retch. Her mom's cool hands slid down her face and down the back of her soaked pyjama top. 

"You do feel very hot," she mumbled. Sam heard the sound of her phone being placed down on her bedside table. "When did this start?"

Sam shrugged. "Last night. I don't know."

Her hand disappeared. 

"You can go."

She opened one eye but saw her mom still standing there, arms crossed, looking at her. 

"I have to." Her mom has this important meeting today. "I have an important meeting." 

"I know. It's fine."

Her hand again. Sam rolled into it, seeking the comfort she had no idea it provided. They had never had the kind of touchy-feely relationship where you felt like you could cuddle up together in bed and drink hot chocolate on Christmas morning, or hold hands when watching a scary movie in the cinema. Because of her mom's job, Sam was never allowed to climb up on her and kiss her face in case of ruining her makeup or creasing her costume. She had never had her mom waiting for her in the audience of her school performance because her mom had always had a performance of her own to attend. Sam had got used to living like housemates and, at sixteen years old, had accepted that leaving home for college in two years time would be as seamless as taking a pair of shears to silk fabric. 

"Do you need me to stay?"

Her mom's said this in the same tone one might use when asking whether one needed a root canal or surgical lobotomy. And, although Sam desperately wanted to say yes - yes I do need you to stay, instead she shook her head, rolled over, and pushed her face into her pillow. 

"No. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"You have your meeting."

She heard nails scraping along the bedside table as her mom picked her phone up again. 

"Yes. I do. You're right."

Please stay, mom.

"I'll see you when I get back."

Footsteps again, walking to the door.