Page 14 of This Life and All the Rest
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The doorto the bathroom opens, letting in a small sliver of light from the other room, and Sam slips in.
I tried to be quiet. I didn’t want to wake her.
She’s been here a week, and I don’t think she’s gotten any sleep because of me.
She yawns and crosses the dark room, taking a seat next to me on the floor and moving the blanket draped over her shoulders, so it’s covering me, too.
“Hey,” she whispers, resting her head on my shoulder.
“Hey,” I force out, my voice cracking from the sobs I was trying and failing to suppress.
“We’re going to get through this, okay?”
Her words are so sure. I try to pull strength from them, but all I get is dead air. She wraps her arm around my torso and pulls me closer, embracing me tightly on the floor of my aunt’s bathroom.
“I promise you. It’s going to be alright.”
Instead of responding, I fold my lips between my teeth and a new wave of tears start.
“I’m here for you,” she soothes. “Me and Becca, we support you, okay? We love you. Whatever you decide, whenever you decide it, we’re here for you one hundred percent.”
I nod, and she hugs me tighter.
“Say you believe it, Len.”
“I believe it.”
“Good.” She stands slowly, then reaches her hand out to me. “Now let’s go to your bed and spoon. Your aunt’s couch is like sleeping on a fucking rock.”
I snort out a laugh and put my hand in hers, letting her pull me to my feet.
“Thank you,” I say, wiping my nose on the wad of tissue I’ve been clutching. She shakes her head and gives me a sad smile.
“You don’t have to thank me for showing up, Lennon. I had a friend pull me up off the bathroom floor when I needed it. I’m glad to be that friend for you.”
FIVE
Present Day
“We’re here,”Sam says, rousing me from my passenger seat nap.
I lift my head from the head rest and glance out the window. She’s idling in front of the hospital entrance.
“Okay,” I say quietly. She reaches over and grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze, and I send her a small smile. “Thanks for everything, Sam. Seriously.”
“Psh.” She waves me off with a grin. “I’ll pick you up later? Just text, okay?”
I nod and give her a hug, then let myself out of the car, waving goodbye once more before stepping through the revolving doors and into the hospital lobby.
Just like last night, I make my way silently to the ICU. Every step is another rubber band around my chest, causing shallow breathing and a dull ache. I hum a Fleetwood Mac song to myself to try and keep from losing control.
I’m well-versed in anxiety. I know all the signs, know what to do to try and keep it from swallowing me whole. I’m not always successful. Sometimes I fall victim to my worries and fears. I hope this isn’t one of those times.
I check in with the ICU desk. Show my ID, sign the sheet, and wash my hands. When the nurse buzzes me through the doors, I’m on my third loop through of “I Don’t Want to Know,”and I make myself stand just outside my dad’s room until I can finish the song.
I don’t want to know the reasons why.
