When We Collided(68)

I clear my throat. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I jumped off the Vespa thinking that I wouldn’t get hurt. I wasn’t even really thinking about it. I thought . . . I was thinking about flying.”

My mom nods, processing this. Her eyes are lined in tiredness. She looks older and younger at the same time.

“As long as you’re doing okay tomorrow, the doctors need to move you to another hospital in Santa Rosa. It’s partially an insurance thing, you know, because—”

“It’s a psychiatric hospital. Right?”

“It has a psychiatry department, yes. But mostly you’ll be there to recuperate physically. They want you to have access to the psychiatric staff while you do. It’s only for a few days.” Her tears start in earnest again. “Viv, I would do anything for you—you know that, right? You’re my whole world, and I know I am not a . . . conventional mother, but I . . .”

“A conventional mother?” I give a weak laugh. “What does that mean?”

She looks embarrassed, something my mother has never been in her life—at least, not in front of me. “You know. I don’t bake chocolate chip cookies from scratch or care how late you stay up. I don’t keep tabs on you at all times or think you need lectures every day to make good choices.”

We look at each other for a few moments before I know what I want to say.

“Do you remember when I was little, when it was our turn to bring cookies to school? You bought sugar-cookie dough and let me put anything in them that I wanted.” My mind drifts back to pink sprinkles and mini marshmallows and those silver sugar balls that seem too pretty to be edible. I was always so proud that I made the cookies, that they weren’t like anyone else’s.

My mom frowns. “I remember.”

“Mom, I loved that.” More tears stream down my mom’s cheeks, and I’m unbearably sad that she feels this way. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that you have to deal with—”

“You never apologize to me about this, chickie.” She’s gripping my hands so hard now, like she can press these words right into my skin. “I’m so sorry. You’re so strong, and we’re going to figure it out. We just have to work better together. That’s what Dr. Douglas says.”

“You’ve been talking to Dr. Douglas recently?” She’s my therapist from Seattle, the one they made me see after the “suicide attempt.” At the time, I resented every moment spent in that chair. Now—I can’t explain it—I want her here. Because she already knows the worst of it, knows every hideous weed in my garden.

“Yes.” My mom doesn’t elaborate.

“Can she come here? Or can we go there?”

“Yes, we can figure that out,” she says. There’s yet another look on her face that I’ve never seen before. She looks steeled. Sure of herself. “I obviously can’t help you on my own. I should have known you weren’t taking your pills. I’m your mother. I should know how to help you better. I have to learn more, and I need to talk to her, too.”

I’m feeling so tired again, like the air above me is pushing me down so that the bed will swallow me whole. “Will we go back to Seattle?”

“We’ll talk about it, baby. When you’re feeling better, okay?”

That means yes. Good. For some reason, going back feels like the right thing. We stare at each other, and I don’t know how much time passes before I whisper, “Okay.”

But it doesn’t feel okay. I feel like I went to sleep, and my whole world changed. My summer nosedived right into the ground. I’m too tired to keep up with all this new information. I’m too tired for anything.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Jonah

I’ve seen Vivi twice since her accident, but she hasn’t seen me yet. She was drugged and out of it both times I was there. This morning she was transferred to a different hospital, in Santa Rosa. A hospital with a psychiatric ward. Which makes a bit more sense now than it did right after her accident.

I’m leaving for Santa Rosa soon, and I keep checking the time. Vivi’s mom thought I should wait till the afternoon to visit. So Vivi has some time to get situated in the new place. I’d rather keep myself busy in the meantime.

There’s a ring of sweat around my T-shirt collar as I power wash the hell out of the patio’s concrete floor. It’s not a pretty task. Let’s just say birds flying overhead have created graffiti in a few spots. The spray is so powerful that it feels as if it could do damage. Instead, it blasts them clean. It’s useful stress relief, as it turns out. I actually wish I had more stuff to power wash.

Vivi’s mom has been at the hospital most of the time. She did leave to give me Vivi’s house keys so I can take care of Sylvia. We sat on the front stoop because she didn’t seem to want to come in.

“Viv has bipolar disorder,” her mom said. “She said I could tell you.”

I failed to move or speak for at least a minute. She gave me this sad, gentle look during the uncomfortably long silence. It was a lot to take in. I mean, I thought “bipolar” meant, like, really moody. Which I guess Vivi is. I just . . . I didn’t know where to start.

“I only knew about her arm,” I said eventually. “I mean, the scar. Is that even the same thing?”