Page 66 of Broken Chorus

His hands were shaking, and every time it felt like he could breathe he choked on them again. The blare of a horn made him jump and look up in time to see an old pickup rattling past. The guy made eye contact, shot him the bird, and continued on his way, leaving a trail of grey exhaust in its wake.

The middle of the road wasn’t the best place to have a mental breakdown. That might need to wait until he got back to the privacy of his rented room. As much as he wanted to drown in emotions right now, he was still too close to his Gram’s house. If one of them got it in their heads to go to the grocery store, or even Edna Green’s produce stand at the end of the street, they’d see him and they’d know their words and deeds got to him…again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The weight on his chest didn’t ease any, but the flow of tears did. Enough so he could see with only the barest of blur around the edges.

Hospital first, then something decadently sweet to help curb the sudden urge for booze. Taunting. Tantalizing. He passed three liquor stores before the highway, and several more before he pulled into the hospital parking lot twenty-two miles away. By then, he was squeezing the steering wheel so tightly that his fingers felt stiff and achy when he tried to open up his hands.

He knew he wouldn’t recognize her, but would she know who he was when she saw him? Would his long hair and tattoos disgust her the way they did the rest of the family. She’d asked for him, but did she mean who he was now, or had she been exhausted, delirious and looking for the child she’ d left behind?

Stone cold sober was not the way he wanted to face this. A block back had been a convenience store, surely they sold whiskey. He just wouldn’t drink too much and when he’d gottenthrough this, he’d throw the bottle away and no one would ever have to know.

Even as he thought it, his fingers sought out the ninety-day medallion in the pocket of his jeans, the round disk pressing against his upper thigh, a reminder that he’d be going backwards, and moving himself further from Hawk and the kids in the process. His sponsor had told him several times over the past three months that staying sober would be filled with challenges big and small. Being able to play at a bar now seemed like a tiny thing compared to what he was about to do.

He got a matcha green tea latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate shavings at the little café just to the left of the reception area, along with a Boston Cream donut that he ate before he reached the elevator. He sucked down the latte like a man dying of thirst, disposing his trash in the bathroom trash can before he took a piss. He knew what he was really doing though, he was stalling, and maybe even intentionally attempting to make himself sick just to prolong the inevitable. Cold water splashed on his face didn’t help him feel any better, and when he locked eyes with his reflection in the mirror, all he saw was a tired, scruffy face and a sliver of the tattoo that ran the length of his collarbone.

One foot in front of the other, he sought out the room number he’d been given, not that the patrician cubicles resembled actual rooms, more like cells with sliding glass doors. Blips, beeps, conversations, and the squeak of gurney wheels created a jumble of sound that was almost overwhelming.

“Can I help you?”

A tall woman in blue scrubs adorned with cartoon ducks, stepped into his path, forcing him to stop. Most of her attention was on the clipboard in her hands, and the rhythm she tapped out on it with the chewed cap of her pen.

“Yes, ma’am, I-I’m looking for 412.”

“Back there,” she said, pointing towards the far end of the hall.

“Thanks.”

The closer he got to the room, the more he ached to do something with his hands. He’d left his stress ball in the car, and something about playing with his sobriety chip where his mother might see it, just didn’t sit right with him.

He really shouldn’t have worried.

The woman in the bed didn’t seem able to focus on anything. There were tubes in her arms, another running under the blankets, and oxygen lines in her nose to help her breathe. She rolled her head from side to side on the pillow, eyes open to half slits as she muttered and moaned unintelligibly.

“Hi, Mom,” he said as he stepped up beside the bed.

What hair she had left was as silver as his grams, and her skin was a sickly yellow. Her muttering stopped as she turned her head slowly, eyes opening a little more to gaze up at him. It was only then that he was sure that she really was his mother. While nothing else about her was familiar, her eyes were the same as the ones he saw every time he looked in the mirror. She gasped, and they brightened just a little, lips stretching to reveal a gap-toothed grin.

“Erik, you’re back.” she rasped in a tiny voice almost too low to hear. “Why did you stay away so long?”

“I-I’m not Erik, I don’t know who Erik is. I’m Aaron. Your son.”

She shook her head, eyes squeezing shut again. “You’re not my Aaron. Aaron is just a little boy, and I lost him.”

“Mom…I’m right here, I swear. I’m Aaron.”

“You look like my Erik,” she rasped in a voice barely strong enough to be heard. “I lost him too and then I lost the precious little boy he gave me.”

“I’m not lost,” Aaron whispered and carefully placed his hand over hers.

He could tell she hadn’t heard him. She stared at the wall with unfocused eyes, a tear slipping from the corner of one to slither down her cheek to land on her pillow. Words weren’t going to make a difference. His Gram and Aunt hadn’t exaggerated her condition, and it was impossible to miss thedo not resuscitateorder at the top of her chart. An memory flashed through his mind, faded in places, but the one thing he was certain of was someone rocking him in their arms, singing as he fought against the pull of sleep.

It was the only thing he had to give her, so he scooted the chair closer and started singingFree Bird.

She smiled then and turned her face away from the wall to look at him, her free hand coming up to touch his cheek before it dropped back to the bed again.

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