Page 109 of Becoming Us
I stood. The sharp scrape of the chair against the floor echoed like a warning. Her hand dropped away.
“Noah,” she said again, rising partway from her seat.
“How much time does he have?”
The doctor didn’t look away. “A week,” he said. “Maybe less.”
The foundation shifted again, violently this time—but I stayed upright.
Not yet. Soon, but not yet.
“Thank you, Doctor. I need to step out.”
“Noah, please,” my mom said, her voice cracking.
“No.” I couldn’t even look at her. “Not right now. Not with you. I’ll be back.”
I turned before she could say anything else.
I walked fast, one foot in front of the other, each step louder than it should’ve been. The hall stretched endlessly ahead of me, white and humming. The smell followed. Bleach. Burnt coffee. That faint chemical sting I could never name but always knew. It clung to me—my skin, my clothes, the back of my throat—like it had taken root.
I didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not in the same air she was still breathing.
And then—finally—I found a door and shoved it open.
Cold air slammed into me. I kept walking. Past the parking lot. Past the gardens. I didn’t know where I was going. Just that I couldn’t stop moving until the last trace of that hospital was behind me.
My legs gave out when I reached the edge of a building. I crouched, back against the cool brick wall, chest heaving like I’d run miles. My hands shook. The world out here didn’t smell like antiseptic or death. It smelled like damp pavement and city wind.
I wanted to scream. Or break something. Or call someone and ask them what the fuck I was supposed to do now.
But I didn’t. I just sat there, spine to the wall like it was the only thing holding me up.
My dad was dying.
They’d both lied.
And I couldn’t stop any of it.
Don’t fall apart.
Not yet.
There were Halloween decorations up.
A deflated ghost clung to the break room window, one eye peeled halfway off. A paper bat dangled from the ceiling by a single thread, spinning aimlessly in the air.
I hadn’t even noticed the date. I wasn’t sure what day it was anymore.
Not because I’d been drinking or using—just because I hadn’t left the hospital for the past three days. Except for the occasional lap around the building, chasing air that didn’t smell like grief.
Ilana got called into the room too.
She’d been there the whole time—either with my mom or camped out at my dad’s side, barely sleeping. I paced outside his door, back and forth, wearing down the floor. But I couldn’t walk in.
Nurse after nurse told me I needed to say goodbye.
Then the doctors.
