Thank you
All I ever wanted was nothing like you
“Well,if it isn’t Adam Lazzara hard at work.” Glancing up, I saw Leilani taking a seat across from me.
“Fuck, I hope we’ll be compared to TBS someday. What’re you doing up?” My throat went dry as I stared into her gorgeous face while she took a bite of a green apple from the centerpiece.
“Couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to thank you for defending me like that.” She stared down at her hands.
“Don’t mention it. No one will ever disrespect you like that if I am around,” I said quietly, sincerely. My heart was going a mile a minute as I started to finally open up to Leilani.
“Can I read it?” she asked while still chewing.
Fuck no.
I bit my lip. “It’s not done.”
“Come on, Mav. You know how much I love your lyrics. It’d be nice to read them for once instead of having to wait to sneak into your practice to get a glimpse.”
Reluctantly, I put the notebook in her hand, open to the page I had just been scribbling on. “Don’t mind the chicken scratch.”
“It’s way better than the cryptic crap I deal with when editing Dane’s papers for him.”
I sat watching her eyes scan over the words. My heart was pounding in my ears, my hands shaking.
“Why is it always so sad?” Leilani’s eyes were glued to the page.
I pursed my lips; I didn’t really have an answer. “It’s just what comes out, I guess.”
“Well, you’re talented as hell.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you help me with my story for my creative writing class? I could really use a fresh set of eyes on it, and I don’t want Dane to read it.” She jumped up from the table to rummage through her backpack where it sat on the floor in the foyer.
“Why not?”
“It hits close to home,” she admitted.
“I’d be honored to read it.”
Taking out a typed page, Leilani bit her lip. “I feel like it’s complete crap. Just don’t be too hard on me. You’re the writer, not me.”
I gripped the page in my hand, scanning over the words as I tried not to tear up. Even though I knew for a fact it was complete fiction, I knew the emotions in the piece were extremely real for Leilani.
My grandmother strides backinto the hotel room, strong and unwavering in her expression, a complete contradiction to her seemingly frail body. Standing with my arms crossed, fighting the tears and anger back down into my throat, I gape at her. Her small hand rests on my cheek as she promises everything is going to be all right. My trembling hand goes to rest on hers as I ask if she called an ambulance. With a tear-filled nod, she confirms that they are on the way.
My gaze breaks from hers as knocking cracks into my ears. I twist my body around and see a sliver of light shining from the outside. Beautiful and glowing, the sun feels hot compared to the dark, damp room of terror I’m confined to. My soon-to-be aunt tries to smile, asking if there is anything she or her fiancé can do. I fake a confident grin as comforting words roll off my dry tongue, looking past her brown eyes at the paramedics climbing out of their vehicle.
I move aside as four broad-shouldered men nod and enter the room, two carrying a handheld stretcher. Suddenly the moment freezes while I gasp to breathe. I look down at the bed where my mom lies half naked, her eyes like slits as she drools a little onto a soaked pillow. That is right where I found her this morning, and it was utterly terrifying. The brown blanket I used to cover her barely responsive body has twisted and bunched from her moaning, rolling, puking, thrashing.
My mind snaps everything back into motion as my thoughts scream at me to answer the man’s question. My eyes try to focus through salt water, locking on a kind face asking me if she took anything. I start on the description of my mother’s situation, how she has had two terrible surgeries in less than two years, how she is under the care of a pain management doctor back home, how she might have had something to drink last night, how I don’t remember her taking too much medication. I slowly move toward the bed, trembling as I start to gather all of the pill bottles into one bag from the nightstand.
A terrible groan fills the air as they start to move my mom, completely ignoring the fact that I just told them to be careful with her neck. I scream and run to the other side, my grandmother grasping her mouth with one hand in horror. I yell that they are idiots and need to understand that she cannot bend or move the way a normal person can, that the first doctor was a butcher who could have killed her. Tears rushing down my face, I start to put her collar around her neck to help stabilize her a little, and then I roll her onto her side where I know she will be comfortable. I beg them to understand that lying flat is excruciating for her and once she is in their care, I am trusting them to love her.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and my grandmother nods, indicating that I should answer. It’s my father again. His voice is so strong and comforting on the other end, and I wish he was here holding me. He explains what is going to happen, saying I am to still come home as planned the next morning with my uncle, that my grandmother will accompany my mother to the hospital and I am to sign all of the paperwork. Shaking through my words, I try not to let him know of my feebleness, my grief, my panic. With kind, comforting words of love and sorrow, the phone call ends.
I hold in all the emotion fighting to surface as I lean over, kissing my mother on the cheek. One of the paramedics brushes my arm, indicating his need to get more information from me. I sign the pages stating I am releasing my mother into their care, telling him the names of all the medications—at least the ones I can remember—and confirming that they are all in the bag I hand him. He nods and tries to reassure me that everything is going to get better. I thank him for his kind words and grab my grandmother’s hand as we step into the cool afternoon air.