Page 83 of Bad for You

I give the nurse my shoes and backpack. My pockets are empty.

I walk through some fancy metal detector, which seems a little excessive, but I guess this sets a precedent of things to come. I’m given a pair of flimsy slippers once I clear security.

“You can’t wear laces,” the guard says blankly like he’s said it a hundred times before.

It takes me a second to realize why.

I always thought my mother was better off. That she was off living some lavish life while I was a prisoner in every sense of the word. But as I’m escorted down the sterile white hallway, my slippers sliding across the polished floors, it seems we were both held against our will.

This is Aldo’s fault. That’s all I can think. Every story needs a villain, and once upon a time, I thought it was my mother. But I now see that she too is a victim like me. Although I don’t agree with her abandoning me, I can understand why she did it.

In her warped way, she thought she was protecting me. She thought she was leaving me in the care of the men and women she considered family.

This is so fucked up.

The orderly stops in front of a white door. There is a sliver of glass for one to peer in or out. What a sad sight for one to view the world through. He unlocks the door and opens it, stepping aside. He reads my apprehension and shakes his head.

“It’s okay. She can’t get out.”

Instantly, I have visions of repeatedly slamming the door against his face as I pin him in the doorjamb. But I simply nod.

I enter cautiously.

My heart is in my throat. I don’t ever remember being this nervous. The room is larger than I thought it would be. It’s furnished with the bare minimum and no personal effects. It’s a sterile white box. Pushed against the wall is a single bed and strapped to it is a woman.

There is no blanket. No pillow. She lies on plastic. A blue hospital gown drapes her small frame. Her feet are bare.

Thisis my mother? This is the woman I dreamed about since I was a little girl.

The door shuts behind me, startling me. The orderly waits outside, however, as I can see his head through the tiny pane of glass.

I wipe my sweaty hands against the front of my jean shorts. My mouth is dry. This all feels like a dream.

The woman doesn’t seem to know I’m here. She simply stares up at the ceiling, not moving. The leather restraints around her wrists and ankles prohibit her from moving. I want to remove them because she deserves more than being locked up like some rabid animal.

A sadness suddenly swarms me, and tears fill my eyes. I quickly wipe them away with the back of my hand.

Taking a deep breath, I walk toward the bed. I smell disinfectant. My mother still doesn’t move a muscle. She’s in some sort of comatose state. What medication is she on for her to be so…zombielike? How is this helping her?

My legs feel like they’re caught in quicksand the closer I get. But I persevere until I’m standing by her bedside. This is what I’ve been waiting for my entire life. To meet the woman who gave me life only to take it away when she abandoned me.

It’s hard not to be angry, regardless of the circumstances.

Her head is shaved unevenly. The unhealthy shade of her pale skin has me guessing she hasn’t seen the sun in a very long time. She looks emaciated. Suddenly, my anger is replaced with pity. It’s hard to be mad at someone who looks so helpless.

I’m so conflicted.

She barely blinks, but when she does, it’s a delayed reaction. It seems as though her world plays in slow motion.

I wonder what she sees.

I clear my throat. “Hi.”

As far as the first words spoken to your long-lost mother, this is lamer than lame.

She doesn’t move. She’s barely breathing.

I didn’t come here to quit, so regardless of the fact I don’t know if she can hear me or not, I speak the words I’ve wanted to say for so many years.

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