Page 83 of Jagged Line Paradise

My flip-flops?

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Mom.”

“The one you liked. Next door. He found your flip-flops.”

The one I liked.

“Are you talking about Andrés?”

“Andrés, yeah. He found your flip-flops and knew you were gone.”

I sigh. It’s the morphine making her so difficult to understand.

“I always liked him for you. You know that day you went missing?” Her hand floats from the bed, reaching aimlessly.

I swallow hard as anxiety over talking about that day rises a lump in my throat. Being in this hospital with my mom has been hard enough, but the shock of it had at least faded over time. Yet, I know if we start talking about that day, I might slip right back into fear, remembering the pain I had suffered while I was recovering from my injuries, the skin grafts worst of all.

I’ll remember how my mom wasn’t there for me, and I can’t think about that right now.

I put my palm in hers and hold onto it. “Yeah. I remember.”

“They wouldn’t have been looking for you if it weren’t for that boy.”

“Yeah, I know that, Mom.”

“Didn’t let anything stand in his way. Not even me. Those silly pink flip-flops.”

“What about the flip-flops, Mom?”

“He found them outside. Knew you wore them everywhere. I didn’t know you wore them everywhere.”

“Oh.” Andrés never told me that, or if he did, I don’t remember it. I guess I never thought to ask how he knew I was missing. I just knew that it was him who went to the police because my mom was too drunk to care.

“I didn’t do a good job with you, baby.” My mom’s face crinkles and her eyes well with tears.

“Mama, stop. It’s okay.”

“I can’t even blame the drinking. I was just bad. Bad mom. Bad choices.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay.”

“I am. I will be. Don’t worry about me. You just…you need to get some rest.”

She attempts to squeeze my hand, but its faint, weak. “You can’t stay here anymore. You’ve gotta leave, okay?” Silence falls between us for a few heavy beats. “I’m not dumb. I’m drugged up, but I’m not dumb. I know I’m dying. And it’s okay. It’s okay, baby. You gotta let me go, let go of all that bad. Okay? And just…just find happy. It’s not here.”

Findhappy.

It’s not here.

The phrasing isn’t exactly eloquent, but I feel her words in my bones. They hurt. That simple truth hurts. Happy isn’t here. It hurts because acknowledging that requires me to do something about it, and I’m terrified to change, to move, to live. Finding happy means moving on and moving forward. And that requires confronting my tortured past—the mere thought of which makes me sick to my stomach.

“You should call that boy.” She blinks heavily, her head rolling sideways as sleep tugs her away. “He was rough around the edges, but he would’ve done anything for you. That’s what you need. Someone to take care of you since I never did do that myself.”

“Mom, don’t—”

Her eyes snap open and she looks at me pointedly, lucidly. “Don’t make excuses for me. I didn’t take care of you. Let me go. Leave me in peace. Find happy.”

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