Page 93 of The Breaking Point

“Not just sick. Dying.” I shook my head. “Is it weird that I can’t believe that? She’s been dying for years, it feels like. One drink away from her organs failing. One drink from getting cancer, or whatever. I’ve heard it a billion times.”

“You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel. There’s no rule book for grief.”

I glanced at her. How could I have forgotten? She knew what it was like to lose someone she loved. I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

“The craziest thing is that I still believe I should’ve done more,” I admitted. “I had the money. I could’ve sent her to the best rehabs in the country. I could’ve paid somebody to make her stay in one. It would’ve been unethical, but I could’ve done it. I could’ve made her get sober.”

“You and I both know you can’t make somebody sober if they don’t want to be,” Grace said.

“Maybe I should’ve had her live with me. I could’ve looked out for her. Made sure she didn’t drink all the time. I’ve looked after her before when she was in withdrawal. I could’ve hired nurses, even.”

I knew I was sounding like a crazy person. But guilt weighed on me, heavy and oppressive.

Guilt that I hadn’t tried harder. Guilt that I hadn’t thrown every last penny into getting my mom better. Guilt that I’d failed her in the end.

“It’s my fault she’s a drunk,” I said, sighing.

“Brady, of course that’s not true. Your mom has always made her own choices.”

I shook my head. “She got pregnant with me when she was sixteen. Her parents kicked her out of the house. She was homeless for a while, and it was bad. Real bad. My dad was a piece of shit and too busy selling drugs to care about me or Mom. She told me once that she’d started drinking because it was the only way to stay warm at night in the desert.”

“That was not your fault,” Grace said, her tone firm. “You were a baby. And even now, as an adult, you’re not to blame.”

Although I appreciated Grace’s words, I couldn’t believe them. Because if I did, it meant that I had to admit that I couldn’t control everything that’d happened in my life. That I couldn’t have willed Mom to get better.

We arrived at the hospital later that afternoon. The place was a mess, with nobody at the front desk who seemed able to figure out which room Mom was even in.

“You’re sure she’s checked in to this hospital?” one attendant asked me for a second time.

I gave the name of the nurse I’d spoken to. That nurse’s shift had ended, so she was no help.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we were given Mom’s room and pointed vaguely in the direction of where we should go.

“I should’ve transferred her to a better facility,” I muttered to Grace as we went upstairs to the fifth floor. “Not this fucking hellhole.”

When we got to Mom’s room, though, I knew in an instant that it was too late to transfer her.

She was a shell of herself, so thin that I could see the bones sticking through her chest. Her eyes were sunken in; her skin was a horrific yellow color. She was on a ventilator, so she was completely sedated.

“Mom? It’s Brady,” I said, sitting down next to her. I took her hand, which was so bony and thin that my heart ached. “I’m here.”

Grace sat down next to me and put a hand on my arm.

Nurses came and went, taking Mom’s vitals and answering my questions. One assured me to keep talking to my mom, even if it felt like she couldn’t hear me.

I felt ridiculous talking to somebody who was sedated, but I did it anyway. It helped that Grace talked, too. We told Mom allabout my latest game, and how much fun we’d had going out on dates together.

The afternoon waned into the evening. We ate some terrible hospital food and returned to Mom’s room. When I told Grace she could check in to a hotel for the night, she declined.

“I’m not leaving you,” she promised.

I just sighed and helped her make a bed on the hard couch near the window. For me, I stayed sitting in a chair next to Mom’s bedside.

I must’ve dozed off because the next moment, I woke to the sound of alarms and nurses rushing into the room. I stood to get out of their way.

“She’s in cardiac arrest,” a nurse said.

“Aren’t you going to fucking do something?” I yelled, horrified at her inaction.

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