Saugatuck Summer (Saugatuck, #1)(94)

Brendan,

I just wanted to let you know that I admire the courage it took for you to come out to your family. I know that couldn’t have been easy, but being honest about who you are usually isn’t.

I also wanted to make sure you did it for the right reasons. Mo told me you have the paintings of me that were on sale in Robin’s gallery. I hope you didn’t come out with the idea that there could still be something between us, because that won’t ever happen. We can’t change the mistake we made, but it’s over and we both have to move on.

I would honestly be more comfortable if you didn’t have those paintings. Obviously it’s your choice, but I’m sure you could put them on consignment with Robin again, and he could find another buyer. Even if you don’t do it for me, consider how Mo will feel seeing them. Think about it, please.

Thank you for your friendship at the beginning of this summer. I’ll always miss that.

Take care,

Topher

Sending the message made me unexpectedly sad. I thought I had come to terms with what had happened between me and Brendan, but there was still something bittersweet about saying it so plainly and deliberately. The rash, angry way I had broken things off before could have been excused and retracted, not that I ever would. This couldn’t. It was final, which it really needed to be, and yet . . .

And yet I had cared for Brendan. There, I said it. I hadn’t loved him, but for a while this summer, something in me had connected to him emotionally. However it had ended, I couldn’t be impersonal about it.

I drew myself up into a ball in my chair, my knees under my chin and my arms wrapped around them, and listened to my mother struggling to breathe. As the afternoon wore on, her hands, arms, and ankles swelled up with the edema I’d felt in her hand the night before, and then there were special pressure dressings to keep that under control.

Dominick told me they were encountering a little catch-22 with regard to her pain meds. One thing about being in the ICU was that they tried to be conservative with pain medication if possible, because it could alter some of the signs they needed to monitor closely, such as respiration. But as the doctor yesterday had pointed out, in the case of broken ribs, effective pain management was crucial. So they were damned if they did and damned if they didn’t there.

Each bit of news that trickled in seemed a little more unpleasant.

I wished I still had the anger I’d had after I found her lying in a pool of vomit and scattered pills. The last time I’d sat in an ICU room like this one and watched her struggling to live, I had lost my ability to care about the outcome. A part of me really had been relieved at the prospect of her losing the fight. But I couldn’t feel that now. All I could feel was scared.

I still resented her for all the ways she’d ruined my life, yes. I was still furious with her for all the times she’d turned my head around and mind-f*cked me, yes. I was still terrified of getting drawn back into the black hole of her need for pity and validation, yes.

She had neglected me. Abandoned me to the care of people who had abused me. Manipulated and lied to me and left me a gigantic, walking, open wound, emotionally speaking.

But she was my mom.

I was ready to forgive and try to put our relationship on something resembling a functional level, if possible. Which, to be honest, it probably wasn’t, but this was the cycle we had gone through since I was old enough to understand what the word “alcoholic” meant. Whether a healthy relationship was or wasn’t a possibility, though, it was a f*cking lousy time for her to consider dying, just when I’d finally reached the point where I felt strong enough to try again.

Apparently God or Fate or whatever the f*ck was controlling these things, however, decided my opinion on the timing was irrelevant, because when Tonya and Aunt Blythe arrived that evening, Mom was intubated and a machine was breathing for her.





Tell me you might find your faith again

Give me a time, I’ll see you then

I’ll give this another chance

—Casey Stratton, “Highway”

For my money, there’s nothing worse than that nowhere-land you find yourself in when it can truly go either way as you wait to see if a loved one will live or die. I think half of why I’d resigned myself to Mom’s death the last time around wasn’t just because I was over dealing with her, but because I couldn’t handle the uncertainty, and needed to come down on one side or the other. It had left me confused and distraught when she managed to come through it.

As the week wore on, it looked like she might just pull it off again. Wednesday, she regained some lucidity and was breathing well enough to be extubated, which was when I got to deal with another special treat I’d faced before: ICU psychosis. It wasn’t apparent to begin with while talking to her. She seemed perfectly rational until she looked at the doorway in alarm every time the nurse walked by.

“You okay, Mom?”

She grimaced. “She’s the girlfriend of the Bad Guy.”

“She’s just your nurse. It’s okay.”

“No! No! She’s meeting him in the parking lot of the South Flint Plaza tonight.”

“Mom, the South Flint Plaza has been practically derelict since I was a kid.”

“No, she’s meeting him. He’s the Bad Guy.”

I blew out my breath and stopped trying to reason with her. When the nurse came in, I discussed Mom’s physical condition with her and Mom started giving me angry looks.