Love, Always (10 page)

She doesn’t eat a lot since Dad and Tommy left us, but I’m trying to take care of her the way Dad would want me to. That’s why I let her sleep when I get home from school. She must be really tired, because she sleeps so much.

“Mommy,” I whisper, knowing how much she loves being called Mommy instead of Mom. “I made you some spaghetti,” I tell her when she opens her eyes.

“My sweet boy.” She sits up and kisses the top of my head before taking the plate of spaghetti. “It’s delicious¸” she tells me after she takes a bite, and I’m so proud to have made her happy.

“There’s toast too.” I smile at her. “You can make a spaghetti sandwich.”

She puts the spaghetti in the middle of the toast and folds the bread into a sandwich. I watch her when she lifts it to her mouth, but my stomach growls and she laughs.

“Here, you have it.” Mom hands me the sandwich and I take a big bite.

The spaghetti is a little bit hard, but I’m too hungry to care. Mom watches me eat, hardly touching her own food anymore.

“Mommy has a headache, sweetie,” she says. I hear the sadness in her voice and I wonder if she’ll ever stop being sad. I’ve tried to make her happy. I’ve tried to take care of her. But what if everything I try isn’t enough? What if I’m not enough?

“Do you mind if I lie down a little longer?” Mom gives me her plate back and lies back down before I can reply.

I was making progress. I could feel it. My weaknesses were becoming strengths and my instabilities a bit more predictable. My despair was dissipating. I was laughing, joking around, making friends. Adam was visiting me three times daily, twice with Josie and the third time it’d be just him for the family therapy sessions. I was getting to know my daughter, learning how to be a mom. I was changing diapers, getting puked and crapped on. You know, all the things that make you feel like you’re part of the secret cult called parenthood. I relished in the private moments I spent with Adam, reliving stories I had long forgotten and listening to him tell me about our daughter.

During the past three weeks, Josie quit being my daughter or Josh’s daughter, but Adam’s and my daughter. She knew him and his voice better than mine, and while at first I resented that fact, Dr. Rios had helped me come to terms with it. I was in here getting better for her and for myself, and I was grateful, am grateful, for everything Adam is doing for us.

At least until he left me. I knew this day was coming. He had tried to prepare me for it, but nothing could have prepared me for the feelings of turmoil and angst I felt at not seeing my daughter or Adam. But he had to go back on tour. The band was already talking about finding a replacement for Adam. He had told me he didn’t mind, but I know he did. This was
his
band. His and Josh’s. I’ll be damned if some nobody asshole takes it away from him while he tends to me.

I woke up this morning panicked, with a sickening feeling that I’d never go home. Now that I’ve been granted access to my laptop, I took those feelings to the internet and shared it with cyberspace. I have a decent amount of readers on my blog, some of which can empathize with what I’m going through, others who can only offer support via the World Wide Web. It’s strange to find comfort in people that live in my computer, but I figure it’s better than relying on the people who live in my head. Those crazy sons of bitches have only brought me unneeded drama.

I swear now, something I’ve rarely ever done. I have Hayley to thank for opening me up to this world filled with all sorts of
fucks
. She’s become a good friend, and we have been requesting to swap roommates so we can room together. So far, our requests have gone unanswered. They’re probably worried we’d burn the place down, which, knowing Hayley, could very well happen.    

I look for her at our usual breakfast spot, but don’t see her. Lazy hooker is probably sleeping in late after last night’s secret meeting via Skype. We binged on chocolate Adam had snuck us in before he had to leave. I rub my aching heart as I sit down at our usual spot. I feel naked without Hayley and realize I’ve grown dependent on yet another person. I doubt I’ll ever stop depending on others, which doesn’t make sense since I’ve never depended on anyone until Josh.

Josh – it’s been two hundred and twenty-three days and the thought of him still breaks me into pieces, but at least I’m no longer experiencing the daily panic attacks that once loomed over me. Nope, now I have days without any signs of an attack, which is worse, because I’m always waiting for them so they don’t blindside me. Although they always do.  

After breakfast and my daily dosage of antipsychotics, I go to Hayley’s room, but I find it empty. I bypass the nurse’s station and go straight to my favorite nurse’s desk by the front window. I walk in without knocking and she smiles at me. I really wish I had asked her name weeks ago, because it’d be pretty awkward to ask now.

“Dee.” She smiles at me. “How you doin’ today?”

“Like the rainbow that brightens up a crappy day,” I tell her, and she laughs like I knew she would. “Where’s Hayley?”

“Your nurse didn’t tell you?” she asks, and I shake my head. “She wasn’t feeling well last night so they took her down to the Emergency Room.”

“Her stomach?”

“How’d you know?”

“We may or may not have a stash of chocolate that we gorged on last night.”

“How much chocolate did you eat?” She shakes her head in mock disapproval. “Poor thing was in a lot of pain.”

“She said she was on the rag and needed chocolate therapy.” I shrug my shoulders. “Her goal was a chocolate induced coma. Not diarrhea.”

“I don’t think she reached her goal.”

“Will you let me know when they let her go?” I ask before leaving and she agrees.

Group therapy is rough without Hayley, and it’s only made worse at the thought that I won’t see Josie or Adam. This separation sucks and is only made tolerable by the random videos Adam sends via text and our daily Skype sessions.

Dr. Rios is leading our group today, so it is only appropriate for her to call on me during the session because she already knows how I feel and thinks the next step to improving my mental health is sharing those feelings. It’s not that I care about sharing, it’s more that I hate speaking in front of an audience. All those eyes looking at me. And what if they’re actually listening to me? I shudder at the thought.

So how do I feel? Dr. Rios expects an answer. “I’m sad,” I tell the group and chuckle at myself. “I miss Adam and Josie and hate that they’re on tour without me.”

“So do you want to go on tour with them when you leave?” Dr. Rios asks.

When I leave. I want to leave so badly, but I am terrified of leaving the confines and safety of the hospital.

“No,” I answer honestly, but expand upon that because I know one word answers aren’t sufficient for Dr. Rios. “I can’t stand the idea of being on tour with them. I don’t wanna meet the new drummer. I don’t want to see them perform or listen to their songs, songs Josh and Adam wrote together.” I wave my hands in the air, but set them still on my lap so I can compose myself. “But I’m scared. Every day I worry something will happen to Adam while he’s on stage. Or to Josie. And I’m so far away I won’t be able to help them.” My body trembles at the thought of them being in an accident, but I force myself still so the others won’t see this momentary lapse of weakness. It’s not like I’m capable of doing much if I were there anyway. Josh is proof of my inability to help anyone.

“Poor little rich girl’s got it so bad,” I hear someone say and stare at my hands on my lap.

“Do you have something you’d like to say, Samantha?” Dr. Rios asks, and I hope Samantha declines her offer. My breath quickens in anticipation for the oncoming battle.

“Yeah,” she says, and I clench my hands into fists as I continue to stare at them. This isn’t happening. I don’t do confrontations. “She gripes on an’ on about her dead boyfriend, while she cries about missin’ her alive boyfriend who’s the daddy to her baby. How much did she miss her dead boyfriend while she was screwin’ her baby daddy? I don’t got time for stupid rich girl problems.”

I feel the tears well up in my eyes, but I refuse to let them loose. I will not be weak. I will not let her know she can hurt me with her words. I will not cry. I ignore Dr. Rios as she addresses Samantha and only focus on my breathing until I am sure that I will not cry.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I hear, and am surprised when I realize the voice came from me. I look over at Samantha who is attempting first degree murder with her eyes. “I’ve listened to you whine about your alcoholic daddy and your absent momma. You’ve been in foster care? Big deal. I don’t care about your life any more than you care about mine.” I lose control of my limbs and can’t force them to stop when I suddenly stand up and walk until I am standing directly in front of Samantha. “I don’t give a damn about your life, but I’ve politely listened and pretended to give a damn about your recovery. So now it’s your turn to give me the same respect.”

“Respect? I don’t respect—”

“I’m not done,” I interrupt her. “So shut up and listen. You wanna hear about poor rich girl problems? About absent parents? I got postcards for my birthdays while my parents traveled the world, because they were afraid they’d miss seeing something important before they died. I was raised by so many nannies, I speak three different languages. I took singing listens, but never had anyone to sing for. I got good grades, but never had anyone to care. My parents' attorney bought me a car for my sixteenth birthday, only I had actually turned fourteen. My parents don’t do drugs or sell themselves on the street, but they were as absent as yours were. But that’s not what I’m griping about. I miss my dead boyfriend. Every damn day, I miss him. It doesn’t get better. I miss his voice, his touch, the look on his face when he found something funny, the smile he reserved only for me. I miss my baby’s real daddy.” My voice begins to rise as my hands shake uncontrollably. “I miss the way he told me he loved me. And yeah, I miss my daughter! Do you know how long it took me to want to see my daughter?” I ask, crouching down so I can be at eye level with Samantha. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to want my daughter? You don’t!” I shout, and spit flies out of my mouth and onto her face.

Samantha stands up quickly, her weight pushing me backwards. I collide with Dr. Rios, who has been standing behind me, but I ignore her hand on my shoulders as I push my way forward and punch Samantha square in the jaw. I recoil at the abrupt pain in my hand, grasping it tightly to my chest. I barely have time to register the full depth of the pain when Samantha crashes into me, sending my body onto the ground. I’ve never fought before and have no idea what I’m doing as I thrash below her large frame, landing lucky punches and kicks. I don’t know how long we roll around on the floor until I feel a sharp stab on my neck and everything goes black.

I wake up in my room to find Hayley lying in bed next to me. I shift beside her, not really caring if I wake her as I stumble into the bathroom. I turn the light on and hiss. I didn’t realize it when I first woke up, but I have a full-fledged migraine. After I finish in the bathroom, I crawl back into bed and shove Hayley not so gently.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her when she opens her eyes.

“I thought I’d let Adam know you were okay when he Skyped you.” She rubs her eyes and yawns. “You know he’d worry if you didn’t answer.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Yeah, I told him you went all Rocky on the butch bitch and he couldn’t believe it. He’s demanding your medical records to see if they’re slipping you steroids.”