For a moment, I wonder why all hospital rooms have a curtain inside the door. Why not just a door or just a curtain?
“Paloma?” she calls, softly. “Your husband and children are here.”
“Come in,” responds my mother’s voice. It’s hoarse and froggy, but it’s her.
My heart thumps. I have to remind myself to breathe, and before I pull the curtain back I hesitate for a second because I’m afraid of what I’m going to see.
Then I do it anyway, and there she is. She’s propped up on pillows, and she looks terrible, but when I come into her room she smiles at me through cracked, swollen lips.
“Ollie, Bossy,” she says, as Bastien and I come in, one on each side of her bed. “Hi. Did you get my voicemail?”
Bastien and I glance at each other, over her bed.
“The anesthesia is still wearing off,” the nurse says, checking something off on a clipboard. “She might be a little loopy for a while yet.”
“Of course, that’s why we came,” Bastien tells her, shrugging at me.
“Good,” my mom says, and she sounds relieved. “You shouldn’t get the tiramisu from D’Agostino’s, they’ve started — “
She breaks off, looking past us, and we turn.
“Javi?” she whispers.
My father, standing at the foot of the bed, clears his throat, his face practically set in stone.
“It’s me, Paloma,” he says.
She blinks, like she’s trying to see through a haze.
“Of course, Raul,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
He steps forward, next to me, and takes her hand in his.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, and my mom closes her eyes, settles back on the pillow.
“Like shit,” she murmurs.* * *“You’re getting the big one?” Bastien asks, looking over at the paper cup in my hand.
“Yup,” I say, already pouring coffee into it.
“That’s a lot of caffeine.”
“Good. I’m also going to pour a shitload of cream and sugar into it, and I’m getting a donut. And Froot Loops. And chocolate milk. And a package of M&Ms! And you can’t have any!”
I stop pouring coffee into my very large cup and grab a handful of creamers.
“I’ll just steal some when you’re not looking,” Bastien says.
“I know,” I grumble.
I grab all my sugar items, and then we head to the register, where I pay with the twenty dollar bill that my dad handed me for breakfast before he went back to the house to get some things for Mom.
Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I’m grown, I guess. I didn’t argue with him.
Bastien and I take our trays full of caffeine, sugar, and one banana to a booth by the wall and sink into it, exhausted. My eyes are so dry that they feel like they’re made of sandpaper, and if I weren’t still a mess of nerves and anxiety, I think I could fall asleep right here at this table.
After we’d been with my mom for a few minutes, a doctor came in and proceeded to practically drown us in medical information: what had happened, what could happen, what else could happen, what decisions would need to be made. The moment she left, another doctor came in and did the exact same thing, only with completely different information, somehow.
Then, finally, the nurse kicked us out so she could rest and Bastien and I came downstairs, to the hospital cafeteria, because we didn’t feel like going anywhere else.
But she’s awake. She’s not out of the woods yet — bleeding could restart, something could rupture, there could be an infection — but the worst is over and I can eat junk food with my brother.
“So,” he says, peeling the banana.
“So,” I agree, biting into the donut. It’s not a good donut. It’s stale, probably from yesterday, but it’s sugary and it’s food and I’m not really particular right now.
“Mom’s not gonna forgive him, is she?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I say, wiping frosting from my bottom lip.
“Yeah,” he sighs, then bites into his banana, looking off at the far wall of the cafeteria. There are only a few other people in here, and they look like they’re having the same kind of day that we are.
“You haven’t heard from him, have you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Bastien snaps his fingers and gasps.
“Oh, that’s right,” he says, in mock-surprise. “I found Javier and he moved into my dorm room with me and my roommate and I signed him up for crew team, he’s doing really great. Totally forgot to tell you, sorry!”
“All right, then I won’t make conversation,” I say, grumpily.
“You don’t think the second I knew something I’d tell you?” he huffs.
“You need a nap.”
“You need to not ask dumb questions.”
“You need to…” I trail off, because my brain is refusing to come up with an end to that sentence. “Shut your dumb face,” I finally say, shoving the rest of the donut in my mouth.