Page 66 of Notes About Vodka

Skipper chuckles, leaning against the counter again. "You’re always doing something. Alright, but make sure you actually eat something before you hit the road. I’ll text Rhea and let her know what’s up. She’ll probably want to check in with you later."

I nod, grateful for his thoughtfulness. "Thanks, Skip. And when Val wakes up, can you let him know I’ll call him later? I don’t want him worrying if he doesn’t see me around."

Skipper gives me a mock salute, his grin returning. "Consider it done. Anything else you need? A travel playlist? Snacks for the drive? Another pep talk?"

I can’t help but smile at his attempt to lighten the mood. "Just keep being you, Skipperooni. That’s all I need. I’ll text when I get there."

Chapter Twenty

LAURA

"Vodka is often a lifeline, especially on the coldest nights—its warmth is a reminder that even in the deepest chill, something can still burn bright."

I give in to my stomach and make a quick and simple breakfast, my hands shaking slightly as I butter a piece of toast and scramble two eggs.

The smell of coffee fills the air, and I force myself to take a sip, trying to settle the nerves churning in my stomach.

I glance down the hallway toward my room where Val is still sleeping peacefully, his face relaxed, a hint of a smile on his lips even in his sleep. For a moment, I feel a pang of guilt.

I know it’s wrong to just leave without telling him. He deserves to know what’s going on, deserves to understand why I’m running off like this. But I can’t bear to wake him, to pull him into the mess that is my life right now.

How could I even begin to explain my mother to him? How do I tell him about her paranoia, her spiraling thoughts, and theway she checked herself into the hospital this time because she swore the neighbors were plotting against her?

It’s too much—too raw, too crazy. I don't want him to see that side of me yet, the part that’s still tied to my mom’s endless chaos. It’s not fair to him. Val deserves better than to be dragged into my family's madness.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and shove the toast into my mouth. The taste is bland, but it’s enough to keep my hands busy and give me a moment to gather my thoughts.

I grab Skipper's car keys from the kitchen counter, my fingers gripping them tightly. I know I should leave a note or something, but I can’t think of what to say.Gone to deal with my crazy ass motherdoesn’t seem like the right thing to write on a scrap of paper.

Instead, I turn back to the hallway one last time, looking at the closed door of my bedroom. Part of me wants to crawl back into bed with Val, to curl up beside him and forget the world outside exists. To feel the warmth of his arms around me, blocking out all the noise, all the worries. But I can’t. Not today.

I swallow hard, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill over. I know Val would want to help. He’d probably jump up, throw on some clothes, and insist on coming with me if I woke him. But I don’t want him to see me like this—frazzled, anxious, scared of what I’ll find when I get to the hospital.

I don’t want him to see the mess my mom has become, the mess I’m terrified I’ll become one day. The thought that one day he might look at me and see the same desperation, the same brokenness—that terrifies me more than anything.

No, it’s better this way. Better to let him sleep, to leave him in the peaceful oblivion of dreams, at least for a little while longer. I take another deep breath, forcing myself to turn away, and head for the door. My heart aches with every step, but Iknow I have to go. I slip out quietly, closing the door behind me as softly as I can, and head out to Skipper's car.

The drive to the hospital feels like a slow descent into a dark abyss, each mile pulling me deeper into the reality of my mom’s situation. The roads blur past me, a gray haze of early morning traffic and half-awake commuters, but my mind is elsewhere, lost in a tangle of memories and fears. I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white, trying to steady myself for what’s to come. When I finally pull into the parking lot of New Haven Medical, my stomach churns with nerves. I take a deep breath and force myself to get out of the car, my legs feeling heavy as I walk toward the entrance.

The hospital looms before me, all glass and concrete, cold and imposing. The air smells like antiseptic, and I try not to let the sterile, impersonal atmosphere get to me. At the front desk, I check in with a weary nurse who gives me a sympathetic look as she types in my mom’s information.

“You said you are here to see…”

“Faye… , well Annie Faye Williams.”

“Okay, and you are?”

“Her daughter, Laura Mae Solyn.” The nurse looks at me skeptically, and I add, “She’s remarried. Solyn is my dad’s name.”

Technically, my last name is still Sam’s, Creel, but she doesn’t need to know that since it will change back to my maiden name soon anyway. I just need to see my mom.

The nurse nods, her face softening slightly. She gestures for me to follow, leading me down a sterile hallway to my mom's room. As we walk, my mind races with a million thoughts, butthey all lead back to the same questions: how did we get here? How did everything spiral so far out of control?

I can still remember my mom as she was before—all bright laughter and warmth, her voice filling our tiny kitchen as she sang along to old country songs. Now, that version of her feels like a distant memory, someone I can barely recognize.

When I enter the room, my heart sinks. My mom looks so frail, almost a shell of her former self. Her once-vibrant eyes, the ones that always sparkled with mischief and life, now look tired and vacant. She’s lost so much weight, her skin hanging loosely on her bones. My heart aches seeing her like this, hooked up to monitors and IVs, the beeping of the machines filling the silence.

I sit down next to her bed, trying to find the right words, but they don’t come. The sight of her like this leaves me speechless, a lump lodged in my throat that I can’t seem to swallow. I take her hand gently, her skin cold and papery beneath my touch. Her fingers twitch slightly, and she turns her head to look at me. For a moment, recognition flickers in her eyes, and she tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her lips.

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