by Lily Jenkins
I rest my head in my hands, and then lean down between my legs, trying to breathe. I am only interrupted when I feel something in my pocket, and I remember his phone. Family? Should I call his family? I don’t know.
I take out the phone and stare at it for a moment before flipping it open. I toggle down in the menu to the address book. My stomach drops when I see that there are only three names. The list doesn’t even fill the whole screen.
ERICA
LEVI
MOM
I stare at the list, taken aback by the lack of contacts, and the significance of the three he’s chosen to keep. I feel like I’m reading his diary or spying on his web history. This feels so personal, to know this about him. And at the same time, it feels so sad. Adam doesn’t have anybody.
I choose to try Levi first. He’s in town, and—as embarrassing as it is—he may actually know more about Adam’s history than I do. He might know what is going on. I press the button to dial him, and put the phone to my ear.
It rings. It rings again. After the third ring, I hear Levi’s voice.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Levi!” I say quickly. “Adam is in the hos—”
“Levi isn’t here right now, so leave a message after the beep and I’ll call you back.”
There’s a beep.
I’m silent a moment, unsure of what to say. I can’t say the words now, knowing Levi will get the news through a message. I flip the phone shut. Then I reconsider and open it back up. I dial again, wait through the rings and his answering message. At the beep, I say, “Levi. This is Erica. Call me back on this line as soon as you get this.” I think about adding something else, but I can’t, so I just hang up.
Then I sit for a moment with the phone in my lap, my foot tapping nervously.
I wish I had my phone. I could call Nicole. She could come here, help me figure out what’s going on. Or I could use the Internet to try to figure out what was happening to Adam. Sitting here, without my own phone or money or anything—just some keys to a car that’s still parked by the beach—I feel like a lost child. I don’t know where to go. Who to call.
I look back down at the phone. My heart starts beating faster.
MOM
I only resist because I don’t think Adam would like it if I called her. What little he’s said about his family made it sound like they didn’t get along.
But what if she could help? She’s his mother. She must know what’s happening. His life may depend on it.
I flip open the phone, find her number, and then stare at the phone, my finger lingering over the call button.
“I’d rather have him alive and upset with me,” I tell myself, “than…”
I can’t finish. I shake my head and press the call button.
It rings twice and I start to think that it’ll go to voicemail when the third ring is cut off and a woman’s voice answers: “This is Rachel.” She must be in public. I hear voices in the background, the bustle of a coffee shop or a restaurant.
I don’t know how to begin. My mouth feels dry.
“Hello?” she asks. When I try to speak and can’t, I hear her give an annoyed sigh and I can tell she’s about to hang up.
“Hello,” I say, my voice unsure of itself. “Is this—are you Adam’s mother?”
There’s a moment of silence on the other end, nothing but the background noise. Then, “Hold on.” I hear a shuffling, and then the sounds change. She is no longer in the restaurant. I hear light traffic in the background. She must have walked outside.
When she speaks again, I can hear fear in her voice. “This is Rachel Lawson. I’m—” her voice cracks, and I hear a sob “—I’m Adam Lawson’s mother. Is he, is my son…?”
Her silence is filled with dread. I can practically picture her holding her breath.
“He’s in a hospital,” I tell her. “I’m his… girlfriend. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
“He has a girlfriend?” Then, “Where? Where are you?”
I give her the name of the hospital.
“Where is that?”
“Astoria,” I say.
“Astoria?” She says the word as if I’ve just told her Adam is in Timbuktu. “Where on earth is Astoria?”
“Oregon,” I say, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ve made a mistake. “Mrs. Lawson, Adam started coughing up blood. He was fine, and then—”
“Is there a doctor?” she interrupts. “Put me on the phone with his doctor.”
I don’t like it, but I do as she asks. I go up to the nurses’ station holding the phone at my side.
“Um,” I tell the nurse there. It’s not Mona, my mom’s friend. “I’m on the phone with Adam’s mother. Adam Lawson. She wants to speak to his doctor.”
I hear Adam’s mother say something, her voice small and tinny. I put the phone to my ear. “Let me talk to them.”
I hand over the phone, and the nurse’s back straightens a little as I hear Adam’s mom talk a mile a minute. I can’t make out the words, but the nurse starts nodding and typing onto her computer. Then she stands up to leave.
“Wait,” I say, wanting to follow, but she shakes her head and disappears through a doorway behind the desk.
I’m left standing alone, the fluorescent bulb flickering above me.
His mother. That was Adam’s mother.
She had no idea where he was.
I make my way back to my seat, my mind cloudy, my muscles tired with strain, and I start to replay the last two hours in my head, wondering what I should have done, what I could have done to prevent this. To make it right. It feels like everything I did is wrong. What if I’ve—
My thoughts are interrupted by a tortured scream.
There’s only one reason for a scream like that: it’s because someone has died. And when I look up I can’t believe my eyes.
An older woman runs up to the nurses’ station, looking harried and out of breath. There’s a man next to her, trying to calm her.
“My daughter!” she screams, throwing her hands in the air. “Where is my daughter?”
It’s… my mother?
I stand up, confused. She’s not wearing any shoes.
The nurse says something quietly, and my mother yells back, “Then you’d better find out.”
I stand up. “Uh, Mom?” My voice is hoarse and they don’t hear.
“I got a call,” my mother says desperately. “She was in an accident. Where is she? Where is my daughter?”
I take a step toward them. Just as I think my mom is about to wring the nurse’s neck, I tug on the back of her wrinkled shirt. She whips around to me, her mouth bared in a snarl. Her hair is wild and uncombed, and she’s not wearing any makeup.
Then, in an instant, she recognizes me. “Erica!” She throws her arms around me and starts sobbing. “Erica, Erica, you’re all right. You’re all right.”
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
My mom pulls back. Her eyes are filled with tears. “I got a call that you were at the hospital and—I thought the worst.”
“We both did,” my father says. He hugs me then. “We thought…”
My mom pushes in and puts her arms around me again. “I thought I had lost you. I thought I had lost you, too.”
She pulls back and explains the whole story. Apparently, after seeing me on my own at the hospital, Mona thought she’d be a good friend and give my mother a call. My dad picked up and handed off the phone to my mother. She took the receiver limply in her hand. According to her, she only heard two words: daughter and hospital. This sent an almost literal shock through her. She dropped the phone—it smashed on the patio, the batteries flying out—and grabbed my father by the arm (“I have the bruises to prove it,” he says), demanding to be taken to the hospital immediately, because I was here. Because I was hurt. My dad tried calling my cell, to check, and they discovered that I’d left it behind. Then he remembered how I left the house in a mad rush. “I thought that would be the l
ast time I’d see you,” he says.
“I’m not hurt,” I tell them quickly, not wanting to hear anymore. My mother is so relieved that she is crying, wiping away her tears and looking at me like I’ve returned from a long military service overseas. It’s been so long since she’s looked at me, really looked at me, that she is spending a good deal of time noticing details, putting a hand to my hair, touching my face and noticing the subtle differences between now and last year, when she stopped paying attention.
My dad, though, is more sensible. “So,” he asks, “if you’re okay, why are you here?”
Then it’s my turn to break down. My mother puts her arms around me, and I’m a bit uncomfortable at this sudden change in her. I let her hold me though, because I know it makes her feel better, and because I don’t really want to be alone right now.
“It’s Adam,” I say.
My mother gives me a blank look. She doesn’t recognize the name. My father, however, makes the connection.
“The boy with the motorcycle?”
I nod. My mother is so confused that my father explains that Adam is the boy I was seeing. She nods, but her eyes dart with something like embarrassment. She should have known that.
My father bites his lip, and then asks, “Did he…?” He can’t bring himself to finish the question. Did he crash? Was there an accident? Last year’s events are still too fresh in our minds.
I shake my head, the tears running in heavy streams now. My mother’s warm palm rubbing my shoulder, my father’s rapt attention, it’s all so overwhelming. It’s like I’ve woken up from a long horrible dream to the parents I had known before. Although it just feels strange, like a shoe that used to fit but now pinches the toe. I don’t know if we can just slip back into old routines. Things have changed so much.
But I have to confide in somebody. It’s been driving me crazy sitting here on my own. In between sobs, I manage to get out what happened: that we were in a car—my dad wisely does not interrupt, although I see him perk up at this part of the story—driving to the beach for a picnic. I was driving. (Again, my dad’s eyebrows go up. It seems both my parents are realizing how little they know about me lately.) And just as we were pulling into a parking lot, Adam started coughing. There was blood, and then he passed out.
“The ambulance came, and that’s all I know,” I finish. “I tried calling his mother—I found her number in his phone—but she didn’t tell me anything. I think she might be on her way, but I don’t know from where.”
My parents are silent a moment, taking all this in. We are still standing by the nurses’ counter. Then my dad, ever practical, asks, “Have you eaten?”
“Breakfast,” I say.
“You should eat something.”
I look him square in the eye and say, “I’m not leaving this hospital. Not without Adam.”
He backs down. He wasn’t intending to start a fight. I know that, but I need them to understand. “I am here for Adam,” I say.
My mom is staring at me. There’s something like respect in her eyes. “Yes,” she says. “Of course.” She takes my hand. “We’ll wait here together, then.”
I think my father is more surprised by this sudden change in my mother than anything else that has happened today. He clears his throat. “Uh, yes. Right.” He looks at me, and takes my other hand. “Together.”
We return to the uncomfortable chairs of the waiting room, my parents taking the seats on either side of me.
The three of us wait, as a family, for news.
*
Time seems to stand still. There’s a clock behind the counter, ticking so slowly I wonder if it’s broken. Everything feels wrong. The way the nurses’ shoes tap against the linoleum floor is wrong. The way the hospital phone rings is wrong. I hear voices talking, passing by, and I don’t look up.
My parents take turns sitting with me, bringing me coffee or water, some snacks from the vending machines. My mom tries to press Mona for insider information about Adam’s condition, but since none of us are family, all she feels comfortable telling us is that Adam is alive and stable. He has been given something to help him sleep, and he hasn’t woken up yet.
The night passes. My father makes a trip home and brings some fresh clothes, along with a change of outfit and shoes for my mother. He has brought her purse, and I notice that when she returns from the bathroom later, she has tried to comb her hair down. I don’t bother. I don’t even do more than glance at the clean clothes my dad brought. I just don’t care.
Then, in the early hours of the morning, Adam’s mother arrives. I know it’s her even before I overhear her asking the nurse to be shown to Adam’s room. Rachel Lawson is a thin, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length brown hair. She’s wearing a hunter green short-sleeved shirt, cut low in the front, black pants, and comfortable-looking shoes.
As she’s introducing herself at the counter, I quickly make my way to her side. A nurse is already starting to lead her away. I follow.
“Mrs. Lawson?” I call out, and she turns. “I’m Erica. I’m the one who called.”
She looks at me a moment, like she’s confused why I’m even talking to her. She’s definitely Adam’s mother; they have the same brown eyes. Then her expression softens, and she says, “Hi Erica. Thank you for calling. I owe you.”
The nurse asks if Rachel wants me to come along, and Rachel says I’m allowed. Together we make our way down a hall and up an elevator before getting to Adam’s floor. Rachel has already asked the nurse three times for an update on Adam’s condition, but each time the nurse shrugs, saying her shift just started, and Rachel will have to talk to the doctor.
Then we turn a corner and enter a small room. And there he is.
The first thing I notice is that he has plastic tubes in his nostrils. Then I see an IV drip connected to his arm. The idea of a needle in his flesh makes my stomach flip, but it only lasts a second as I take in the sight of Adam’s body in a hospital gown, motionless in the hospital bed. There are monitors displaying his heart rate and his breathing. His eyes are closed. It takes a moment of staring before I notice his chest rising, ever so slightly, and then descending.
Adam, who just yesterday looked so strong, so unstoppable, now looks so weak that a faint breeze could blow him away forever.
The doctor arrives. She’s a woman in her fifties with harsh lines on either side of her mouth. Her expression is businesslike and her tone is the same as she asks what our relation is to Adam.
“I’m his mother,” Rachel says.
The doctor nods. She has the chart in her hand, glances it over, and then motions outside the door. “Can I speak with you privately?”
Rachel looks back at me, as if not knowing if she can trust me to be alone with her son. Then she walks out the door, following the doctor.
I’m left alone in the hospital room with Adam. It feels wonderful to be near him again, to see him, but at the same time, I’m so anxious and worried about his condition that I want to scream. I don’t even know if I can touch him. Instead, I am forced to go to the small window and look out to the parking lot below. I see the overhang where the ambulance pulled in yesterday. Everything looks so normal. So slow.
Eventually Rachel comes back inside. Her eyes are red and swollen, but her lip is a stubborn line. She pulls a chair from the wall, right up to Adam’s bed. Then she sits in it, her head dropping, as she takes his hand in hers.
It’s like she’s forgotten I’m even here.
Eventually, I lose my patience. “Mrs. Lawson?” I ask.
Very slowly, Rachel lifts her head. She looks at me, her eyes showing her exhaustion. I realize she must have been traveling this whole time, between when I called and this morning. Did she fly? Has she been driving this whole time?
“Miss,” she says. “Not Mrs. But call me Rachel.”
I want to slap her. “Well? What did the doctor say? What’s happening?”
She looks at me a moment, then blinks very slowly. “He had a relap
se,” she says eventually, as if I should already know.
“A relapse of what?”
Then her eyes widen. “Oh,” she says. “He didn’t tell you.” It’s not a question; it’s a realization. She looks from me to Adam, as if trying to figure out our relationship.
“Tell me what?” Seriously, how long is she going to keep me hanging? I’m about ready to jump out of my skin.
She takes a deep sigh, and puts down Adam’s hand. She sits up a little, collecting herself. “Adam has cancer. He was diagnosed last spring with Stage Two in his left lung. I thought… I thought you knew.”
“Cancer?”
My legs go weak, and the world goes dark. I don’t faint, not quite, but Rachel has to help me into a chair.
All the events of the past few months flash in my head, whirling by like the inside of a tornado. I hear him say he has to leave at the end of the summer. That we can’t be together. That he doesn’t need a helmet.
Adam has had cancer this entire time? He didn’t tell me?
The world is spinning, and I try to focus. Cancer. Adam has cancer. I force my eyes to his bed, to his face.
“But he’s young,” I say. “He’ll get better, right? He’s in the hospital now.”
The question hangs in the air a moment. Then Rachel’s shoulders drop, and she lets out a long sigh. She collapses back into her chair and looks at her son.
“No,” she says.
“But—but—but there must be something we can do?”
She shakes her head. “There might be. But it wouldn’t matter.” She turns to me, and even through the tears, her eyes look bitter. “Adam has refused treatment.”
“He what?”
“He ran away because he didn’t want me to force him into it. He wants to end things on his terms. Don’t you get it? Adam came here to—” She looks away, and takes in a shuddering breath. “He came here to die.”
It’s one thing to wake up in a place you don’t recognize. It’s another to not remember how you got there.
And it’s a whole other fucking thing to wake up there with your mother and your girlfriend fighting.