Page 89 of Bad at Love

She picks up the phone, presses a few buttons, then brings it to her ear.

I tap the counter as I look around, glancing down the hall that leads to my mother’s room. I want to run down there just to make sure she’s okay. They said she was, but what could be so important? Maybe she said that so I wouldn’t panic and something actually did happen? Her status has changed or something.

“She’ll be right down, sir.”

I snap out of my thoughts, turning to the receptionist.

“I’m going to check in on my mother.”

I’m already moving down the hall when she calls out, “I need you to sign in, and I’ll need your ID.”

“It’ll be two seconds,” I argue, turning to face her. Hardly anyone asks for my ID anymore. They just fill in the information for me. I’ve been coming here every day for months.

“It’s policy.”

I blink at her, and can see she isn’t going to change her mind. Arguing with her could get me into trouble, and I can’t risk getting kicked out of here—or worse, getting my mother kicked out of here. It would take too long to find her somewhere else to go, and there may not be another place to go. It was hard enough finding this one.

I slap my ID on the table and scribble my name on the sheet, waiting not-so-patiently for her to check my ID and make sure I’m on the list to visit. The second she hands me my ID back, I’m off.

“Sir, you need a name tag!” she calls after me, but I don’t stop this time.

My heart is pounding, my stomach is in knots, and I’m certain I’m going to walk into an empty room. My feet feel like they’re moving through mud, and I can’t get to her fast enough.

Finally, I reach her room. The door is open and I head right in, grateful to see her in the same spot she was last time—in bed, eyes closed. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Storm?” I glance over my shoulder to see Heather. She’s one of the head nurses, and someone I speak to often enough. “Is everything okay? Felicity said you ran down here in a panic.”

I’m assuming Felicity is the girl at the front desk. “Maybe you should tell me.”

Understanding flashes in her eyes, and she waves me over. “Let’s go talk in my office.”

I follow her down the hallway where she unlocks a door, and we head downstairs. All the offices are down in the basement. This keeps the staff separate from the patients. At first, I felt like it was so the staff weren’t bothered by the patients, but I quickly learned it was the other way around. They don’t want to impose on the patients by doing work so close to them. It helps them be more comfortable here.

“Have a seat.” Heather gestures to the oversized chair in front of her desk and I sit, leaning forward with my hands clasped together. Heather takes the rolling chair behind her desk.

She’s in her late forties, light brown hair that’s always pulled back in a bun. Her eyes are a dark blue, hidden behind big wire-framed glasses.

“So what’s going on?” I ask.

“The police were here earlier today to do a wellness check.”

What the hell?

“A wellness check? What for?”

“It seems the mailman reported a build-up of mail at your mother’s home.”

“But I’ve changed all her bills to this address. This way I get them.”

“Did you submit a change of address with the post office?” she questions.

“No?”

She nods, scooting forward. “Whatever she was getting that you missed, it built up, and the mailman reported it, asking for a wellness check. When the police entered the house, they were concerned about the state of it.”

“Yeah, she wasn’t good at cleaning up after herself.” I laugh, relieved that this isn’t a big deal. But Heather doesn’t laugh in response. She doesn’t even smile.

“They spoke to a few neighbors and found their way here,” she adds.

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