Page 67 of Play Fake
For a long time, I used to come every other month. It was hard, but it was manageable because I wasn’t alone. Angela used to come with me.
My chest twinges at the thought of her, and not in a good way.
Back then, before everything fell apart, she knew me better than anyone. She understood what it felt like to grow up in a house full of chaos you couldn’t control. She didn’t flinch when I told her the truth about my mom, and she was the one who sat next to me in these waiting rooms, squeezing my hand when I couldn’t breathe.
But that was before she started pulling away our senior year of high school. Before I started recognizing pieces of her I didn’t know. Before she turned into a stranger—and then, eventually, someone who cheated.
I grip the steering wheel again, knuckles whitening.
I don’t even know why I came today. I told myself it was because of the project. That if I’m going to present on schizophrenia, I need to face this part of my life instead of continuing to bury it.
But sitting here now, the truth settles in like an elephant on my chest.
I came because I miss her. Not the woman she is now, though I love her just the same, but the woman she was before the illness took everything from both of us.Allof us.
And maybe, somewhere deep down, I’m hoping this time will be different, even though I know the chances of that are slim.
I force myself to open the door before I can talk myself out of it. The air outside is warm, but my hands are cold as I shove them into the front pocket of my hoodie and head toward the entrance.
The automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss, and I’m hit with the familiar mix of disinfectant and something faintly floral—like the building is trying too hard to mask what it really is.
The reception area looks exactly the same. Pale blue walls. Neutral artwork that probably hasn’t changed in over a decade. A woman at the front desk gives me a polite, practiced smile.
“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m here to see Lynn Harrison.”
“Name?” she asks, fingers poised over the keyboard.
“Beck Harrison. I’m her son.”
She nods, typing quickly. “She’s in the rec room right now. You remember the sign-in process?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
I fill out the visitor form automatically, the motions burned into my memory even after all this time. She clips a visitor badge to my hoodie and gives me the same gentle, well-meaning smile I used to hate as a kid.
“She’ll be glad to see you,” the receptionist says softly.
I don’t know if that’s true anymore.
As I make my way down the hall toward the double doors that separate the visiting area from the residential wing, my chest tightens.
Lynn Harrison. My mom.
Before the illness, she was the brightest part of any room. She used to sing while she cooked, spin me around the kitchen until we were both laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe. She’d tape my drawings on the fridge like they were masterpieces. She was patient when I fumbled over homework, comforting when I got scared of thunderstorms, and the first one in the stands at every little league game—rain or shine.
Always smiling.
Until she wasn’t.
I can still pinpoint the shift like a crack in glass. First, little things—her forgetting appointments, misplacing objects, staying up all night convinced someone was outside the house. Then bigger things—paranoia, delusions, nights where her voice didn’t sound like hers anymore.
By the time the diagnosis came, I was old enough to understand that something irreversible had happened. And even now, twelve years later, walking down this hallway makes me feel like that scared kid again, hoping today will be one of her good days.
I pause at the end of the corridor, staring at the heavy doors leading into the common area.
One deep breath. Then another.
And I push them open.
