Page 136 of Past the Broken Bridges

After five years of battling, of broken hopes, of sickness and weakness and mental and emotional debilitation, I was done.

Mom begged me to reconsider.“One more, baby. Try it one more time.”

But I had tried.

I tried over and over and over.

I tried for her.

I tried for me.

I tried for Dad and Bentley and my grandparents and aunt. I gave everything I had until I had nothing left to give.

Maybe she finally saw that, finally realized I couldn’t keep going on the blind hope that a miracle would happen.

So I stopped. Told the doctors no more.

I told them it was time for me to live my life.

What time I had left, anyway.

“There are tests we can do to figure out a better timeline—”

“No,” I finally say, voice small. “No tests.”

He pauses, clearing his throat. “Miss Hawkins—”

“You’ve seen firsthand what we go through,” I cut him off, looking him straight in the eyes for the first time since he walked in. “I’ve been doing this for five years. Forfive years. I’ve seen people get their hopes up that this treatment will be the last. And then the treatment after that. It never ends. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I don’t want to live…” I stop myself when my voice becomes hoarse, shaking my head and staring down at my hands fidgeting over the blankets.

The doctor nods once, standing and flattening his palm along his shirt before pulling a card from his front and holding it out. “You’ve had to make a lot of tough decisions at such a young age. For that, I’ll never envy you or any of my patients who’ve had to do the same. If you change your mind, call my office.”

I take the business card and stare at it, not saying a word as he leaves the room.

I’m grateful he doesn’t apologize.

I’m sick of people saying they’re sorry.

It doesn’t change anything.

A single tear falls on the rectangular piece of cardstock in my hand.

Then another.

Then another.

* * *

I’m stuck in my head, reliving the final moments of the boy that the police officer who came in two days ago said was dead on arrival.

Partially ejectedwere his exact words.

The questions they asked were hard to digest, knowing what I knew. I didn’t want to tell them anything that would make Dawson out to be a troubled person, even if he was. He was gone. Why make his memory into something it didn’t deserve to be?

Somebody else died,Officer Pedler reminded me when I was stuck in my own grief.If you know anything to help us put her family at ease, now would be the time to tell us.

Dawson was a good person with bad habits.

Addiction.

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