Page 3 of Don't You Pucking Dare

I glance down at her feet, noticing that last week’s issue did not get solved. She’s wearing shoes with no socks again.

"Did Jennifer ever return your socks?" I ask, desperate for some sign of the sharp-witted woman who used to make me laugh until I cried.

"Nah, apparently they're hers now." She wiggles her bare toes inside her shoes. "Trust me, you don't want a whiff of these bad boys."

I watch her feet move, remembering how she used to dance barefoot in our kitchen, spinning me around while dinner burned. Back when her energy came from joy instead of chemicals. Back when she was still Mom instead of Patient 247.

A nurse passes by with a med cart, the quiet rattle of pills in plastic cups a reminder of where we are. My mom's hands rest too still in her lap—the same hands that used to shake so badly she couldn't hold a cigarette. The same hands that braided my hair every morning before school, even when she was coming down.

My throat tightens. "I can't believe you're in here, Mom."

She scratches at her arm where the track marks have finally faded, replaced by the neat punctures of approved medication. The fluorescent lights wash out her skin, making her look like one of those bodies in the morgue shows she used to love watching.

"Certified crazy, baby." She grins, but her eyes stay flat, chemical-calm. "Better get used to it."

I count the ceiling tiles, trying to swallow past the guilt. Seventeen across, twenty-eight down. Four hundred and seventy-six blank squares watching over my mother's medicated prison. The words I've been dreading stick in my throat, taste like betrayal, but I have to say them.

I mutter, "So, this is my last week visiting. Before college."

"I know." Something flickers behind the medication fog. "You're gonna kick ass at that fancy school. Get your degree, get me the fuck out of here."

"Just need to get certified in handling the certified crazy, right?"

"That's my girl."

I don't tell her what Dr. Matthews said last week—that her combination of bipolar disorder, manic episodes, and drug-induced psychosis means she might never leave. That this place, with its blank walls and zombie-making meds, might be what's best for her.

Rick Kemper’s money keeps her in the state's best facility. It's the only thing that man is good for… these premium prison walls. He’s not someone I’d call a father, more like a sperm donor. I keep zero contact with him. From what I recall, I never even met him. My mom likes to argue that I have and I’m just a dramatic brat who loves the sob story. I realized soon after it was the drugs speaking. If she were in her right mind, she would know that a baby doesn’t keep their memories. How could I possibly remember him stopping by the house when I was one day old?

I inhale, watching my mom drift in and out of lucidity, I wonder if even the best care can bring back the mom I once knew. She wasn’t afraid of anything and when life hit the fan, she still smiled. Now, she’s a worn-down version of herself that I don’t recognize. But they warn that’s what happens with drug users. They abuse their choice of drug until there are only fractions of themselves left. And we can only mourn who they once were.

"I'll call every week," I promise. "And I'll come home for breaks."

"You better." She focuses on me suddenly, clarity breaking through the haze. "I'm so proud of you, Lola. You're getting out of here. That's all I ever wanted."

The guilt hits like a punch to the gut. I'm leaving her here, choosing my future over her present. I’m happy to hear that she’s proud of me. I stare at her, looking for any sign of insincerity. At first, it was a string of nasty words on a vine that wrapped around my heart. Even now, I can still feel the tug of them. You self-centered bitch. I knew you never loved me. I knew you’d leave me one day and use your dad’s money to leave me in the dumps. Good for you, Lola. I pray some rich boy doesn’t get you pregnant and leave you to raise his baby because life isn’t as easy as I made it look. Don’t come running back to me when it doesn’t work out.

I used to cry uncontrollably because she was the one person I loved more than myself, and her words cut deep. They still do. Her voice is stuck in my head, making me extra guilty for all the hard work I put into my future. I earned this new life that’s about to unfold, but I could never convince her of that. So, the fact that she’s high and claiming she’s proud of me is a miracle.

I squeeze her hand. "I love you, Mom." I grin. Thank you.

"Love you too, crazy girl." Her gaze drifts back to the TV. "Now shut up, they're about to announce who gets the rose."

I laugh through the tears I refuse to let fall. Even medicated into near-oblivion, she still knows how to make me smile. Even on her worst days, she could say something hilarious while being mean.

I love her so much, but if I’m being honest, I’m relieved I won’t need to come here every week.

I kiss her hair and say, "I’ll call next week."

My phone displays a screenshot of my class schedule, so I swipe to find the screenshot of my dorm room information. Hollister Hall. Room 25. My roommate’s name is Kiah Foskett. I tried looking her up on social media but could only find an old account she probably made in middle school. There were three pictures: a tree, an extremely up-close photo of a boy's face, and a tiny dog curled in a blanket.

I readjust my arm holding the cello. I cannot believe I spent so much money on this brand new case, but I refuse to put it on the ground until I reach my dorm. Three months of extra shifts at the diner, serving entitled customers who thought leaving two dollars was generous. But watching my cello being lifted out of that battered old case into this new one was worth every second of fake smiling through "honey" and "sweetie."

A group of girls pass by designer bags swinging, voices loud with practiced confidence. They barely glance at me, but their dismissal feels familiar. I've spent my whole life being invisible to people like them.

I knock before entering. "Hello?" The door creaks open, revealing an empty room. Kiah hasn't made it yet, which is ten times more exciting because I have alone time to unpack and unwind.

My side of the room looks smaller than the photos online promised. But it's mine. The first space that's ever been completely mine, without my mother's chaos spilling over. I place my cello in the corner like crowning a shrine, then sink onto the bare mattress. The springs squeak under my weight, and I add 'mattress pad' to my mental list of things I probably can't afford.

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