Page 62 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

Chapter Twenty-Four

We don’t learn until after school that Mom’s surgery is going to be the next day. Joel has to work, so we can’t visit her. I call her a couple of times, but she never answers.

Her surgery is at 7:30 in the morning, so Joel and I get to the hospital early enough to sneak into her room before they take her away. When we walk in, Mom’s mouth drops open in surprise, and tears flood her eyes.

“You’re here,” she says, holding her hands out to us.

I walk around the bed and take her one hand, as Joel steps up to the other side of the bed to take her other hand. Joel is stiff, but I’m happy to see him trying. He and I share a look, and I can see he is just as surprised as I am over how emotional Mom is to see us.

“Have they already drugged you up, Mom?” Joel jokes.

She doesn’t seem to understand the jest. “No, they should come in soon, though. Why?”

“You’re so happy to see us,” I say.

She looks between the two of us. “Of course, I am. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if you guys wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

She nods. “Though they tell me the chances of something going wrong and leaving me a vegetable are slim, I’m afraid of it happening.”

“Oh, great!” Joel grumbles. “I hadn’t even thought of that one yet.”

Mom laughs nervously, clearly surprised he had given it any thought. “If anything happens, I’ve signed a DNR, so you shouldn’t have to worry about me.”

“What’s a DNR?” I ask. My heart skips a beat.

“Do not resuscitate. It basically says that if I code or die on the table or something, they should just let me go and not do anything to bring me back.”

Joel and I look at each other across the bed. I swallow audibly. This is so much harder than I expected.

“Listen,” Mom says. “I’m sure I’ll come out of this fine, but in case I don’t, I need to tell you how sorry I am for being such a terrible mother. Obviously, I haven’t had the best example to learn from. But I’ve used that as an excuse my whole life instead of doing the hard work to figure out how to do things better, like the two of you have. I’m really proud of you.”

I’m stunned silent, so I just squeeze her hand. Joel clears his throat but just nods.

“I hope to do better. I don’t expect you to forgive me or love me or even like me, but I want you to know I am going to get help, and I’m going to try.”

The nurse comes in to tell us it’s time for them to take Mom to surgery. As I lean over to give her an awkward hug and kiss on her cheek, my heart is hopeful. Mom has never acknowledged her role in the toxic home life we have. It feels like a huge step. I turn to wave one last time before following Joel to the waiting room.

When we enter, a volunteer sitting behind a desk invites us to take all we want from a selection of packaged snacks, canned juices, and bottled waters arranged on a cart next to her desk. We shake our heads and smile as we head to the far corner of the otherwise empty room.

We sit in silence for a while before I ask, “How long is this supposed to take?”

“Four to six hours,” Joel says.

We both pull out our phones. I text the girls to let them know I won’t be in school. They immediately reply with well wishes and, in Sam’s case, excessive emojis. I’m not in the mood to browse social media, so I tuck my phone away and sit back to watch the morning news show, though I don’t really pay attention. I’m too busy thinking about what Mom said.

“Do you think she can do it?” I ask.

Maybe Joel was thinking about the same thing, or maybe he expected the question, but he responds immediately. “I don’t know. My friend’s dad is an alcoholic. He’s in and out of rehab all the time. I don’t even think he drinks as much as Mom.”

“Could you ever forgive her?” I pick at the hem of my sleeve as I consider my own answer.

“I don’t know that I can. I’m not like you. I have a lot of anger.”

I look at him with my head cocked. “I have anger, too.”

Joel shakes his head. “You have sadness. You’re sad about the childhood we didn’t get. Sad for the pathetic life Mom lives. Sad for all the burning rage that eats away at Grandma. But you aren’t mad at them. I’m angry. Every time they start in on each other, I want to join them and yell even louder. I want to slam doors until the walls shake, throw things that shatter into a million pieces because that’s what I feel like they’ve done to me. Broken me into a million painful shards.”

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