Page 151 of Tiny Fractures

I threw up what little food I had forced down in the morning. It took everything out of me. My whole body ached when the nurse stepped into the room, alarmed, to check my vitals. She ended up giving me a sedative along with my pain medication and I passed out for the rest of the afternoon. By the time I woke up, it was dark and Cat had been sitting next to my bed for the past couple of hours, reading a book in silence.

***

I can’t say that the next two weeks helped me get into a better mental place.

Tuesday morning two detectives showed up to ask me all kinds of questions about what happened. They wanted to know about other times my mother became violent, and they took pictures of my injuries. I provided them only the bare minimum information, unable—or unwilling—to talk about the excruciating details of the stuff my mom had done to hurt me over the years. The detectives left after about three hours, but not because they got all the information; I was just too exhausted to keep talking about it.

I was overcome by another panic attack, which ended in more sedatives followed by more sleep, waking up only to find Cat by my side again. Honestly, it was the best and only worthwhile part of my day—when Cat showed up after school. On the weekends she would spend all day sitting with me while I healed. During the week she’d do her homework or study, read to me or just talk to me about her day and what everyone was up to. I missed it all so much.

Shane and Steve visited me every day, too. Steve told me he postponed attending Boston University in-person for one semester and requested to take his classes virtually. His request was apparently granted, given the exceptional circumstances. So he was taking classes online in an effort not to fall behind too much, but he lost his dorm room and obviously doesn’t get the full college experience. I added that to my list of shit to feel guilty about.

***

The Saturday after I was moved out of the ICU, my dad seemed off when he got to the hospital in the late morning. It was only after Steve’s continued hinting and prodding that my dad finally confessed to me what I had suspected for a while now—that he had been having an affair. It explains so much: the fact that he’d been gone for longer periods of time and seemed more eager to leave when he was home with us. He explained that he met her about three years ago. She lives in Virginia, and at first, he told me, it was just sex, but it quickly evolved and he realized he wanted to be with her. Finally, things came to a head and he made the call to end it with my mother.

“Ran, I think I set Rica off that morning. I had called her and told her I was coming home and that I was moving out, that I wanted a divorce,” he said, his voice heavy with guilt. “I pulled up to the house and saw the ambulance and the cop cars outside. And when I walked in, you were on the floor. It looked like a battlefield, and they were working on you, trying to restart your heart…” he choked before he trailed off.

“She’s in New York right now. Dad’s girlfriend. She’s here,” Steve told me matter-of-factly.

I creased my eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Steve chuckled dryly, skillfully ignoring the stern look my dad was giving him. “I met her last night. And so did Morai and Athair.” He had a grin on his face that made me think my grandmother—usually one of the kindest, most welcoming people in this world—probably gave my dad the hardest time about this whole thing.

I’m not totally sure how I feel about all of this. I mean, I’m not really surprised about my dad’s affair, but it still feels strange to finally have confirmation of something I subconsciously knew for a long time.

“You should meet her, too,” Steve told me earnestly.

My dad shifted in his spot. “No, bud. There’s no rush to any of this.” His gaze moved from Steve to me. “What’s most important is your recovery right now,” he said, his voice serious but warm.

I exhaled deeply. “It doesn’t matter, Dad. Whether you bring her around now, next week, or in two months, it doesn’t change anything. You’re not planning on dumping her, right?” I checked unemotionally.

My dad studied me for a moment, his eyes full of regret, before he finally shook his head no.

I shrugged. “Yeah, well, might as well just get it over with, then,” I said, feeling numb. God, was all so fucking surreal. My mother was charged with trying to kill me, and my dad was talking about me meeting his girlfriend.

What we hadn’t talked about was what was going to happen once I was out of the hospital. I didn’t know if he’d continue being gone so much. I had no idea what was going to happen with my mother. I didn’t know anything—how long I’d be in the hospital or how long it would take me to recover from this shit. I had a hard time thinking clearly. My head felt foggy most of the time, probably from the medications, and when I had moments of clarity, everything around me seemed to crash in on me. Panic would constrict my chest, which lead to more medication, more fog. It was a vicious cycle.

***

I met my dad’s girlfriend, Penny, when she joined my dad at the hospital on Sunday. The respiratory therapist had just left and I was exhausted and in pain when they showed up. Penny seemed nice, though, and it was clear as day how much my dad likes her, his face positively alight with happiness. He acts so differently with her than he did with my mother—always making small physical contact with her, his hand on her low back as he introduces her to me. It reminds me so much of how I am with Cat—my inability to keep my hands off her, and how I have to quell the need to touch her all the damn time.

I wanted to be happy for my dad, but I couldn’t help but feel that if only he had made more of an effort at home, maybe I wouldn’t have been in the place where I was at that moment, feeling like my lungs were on fire, lying in a fucking hospital bed while my shattered bones healed.

Mercifully, Penny didn’t overstay her welcome. Picking up on my exhaustion and rising pain level, my dad informed me that Penny was heading back to Virginia. She said her goodbyes a few minutes later and left just before sleep pulled me under again.

***

That following Monday I woke up from one of my medication-induced naps only to find my dad sitting with some woman dressed in black trousers and a lilac cardigan. Her light-brown hair was pulled into a bun and she took notes on a clipboard as she chatted quietly with my dad. Her name turned out to be Doctor Liz Seivert and she was a therapist. My therapist, to be exact, as she informed me in a way that made me feel like I was a feral animal to be approached with caution.

She spent some time asking me questions—nothing invasive, nothing about my mother or anything that would trigger a panic attack. She wanted to know about school, work, hockey, my friends, and Cat. She had a comforting way of communicating, urging me to continue talking without pushing when I declined to go into detail about certain things. We talked for a while, my dad listening carefully without uttering so much as a word the whole time.

“With your permission, Ronan, I’d like to come see you twice a week for a while.” She stood up, sliding her pen and clipboard into a black purse that she slung over her shoulder.

“That seems like a lot,” I said, looking at my dad. “Is this really necessary?”

“It is,” he said matter-of-factly, and it kind of rubbed me the wrong way. Who the hell was he to make decisions for me when he hadn’t done anything for me for the last seventeen years of my life?

“Fine, whatever,” I muttered. I was too fucking drained to argue.

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