10. Levi

"Sit up. No, not like—scoot forward."

My mom's tone gets shriller with each syllable, her frustration palpable.

She always did have a knack for making a scene.

It's a struggle, and fuck, does it hurt, but I shift to a spot that's seemingly acceptable for her. I bite my tongue to keep from mentioning that I'd prefer not to need my mother's help to put my goddamn pants on either.

"There," she declares proudly as she straightens. She swipes at nonexistent sweat on her brow and blows out a satisfied exhale.

I'm dressed, and I'm showered, thanks to the help of the male nurse tech who worked last night. By all definitions, I'm ready.

It's discharge day.

I'm not sure I've ever dreaded anything more.

With her hands on her hips, my mom purses her lips and assesses me. Brows knit, she stares with an intensity that makes my cheeks heat.

She's looking at me a little too closely. A little too hopefully.

It'd be easier if she'd look at me the way she did the summer before I moved to California. I'd take the reserved defeat over this any day. Hell, I'd even take outright disappointment.

Because now?

Her eyes gleam with potential.

She always did love a project.

That's how she views this ordeal. My unceremonious return to North Carolina. The dashing of my dreams. She sees it as a second chance. An answered prayer. An opportunity to course correct and put me on the straight and narrow—literally—while I'm healing and dependent on her.

She's gone as far as forcing me to commit to attending church with her each week and allowing her to help me get "reacquainted with South Chapel society." It's all part of the deal we made when I explained the details of my surgery and rehab.

I need her help. I need to be on her insurance, and I need a place to stay where I don't have to pay rent for the foreseeable future. But I can't help the dread that's been churning in my stomach all morning.

The door cracks open, and a nurse clears her throat. "I've got your discharge instructions," she announces as she enters the room.

"Oh, I'll take those," Mom insists, holding out a hand.

Nurse Heather quickly sidesteps and falls back into the pocket, using her computer station to put space between herself and my mom's prying hands.

"These are for the patient," she asserts.

Hands on her hips, my mom huffs. "Well, I'm his mother."

Unbothered by my mother's frustration, Heather clicks away at my chart without looking up. "That you are."

I try to hide the chuckle that works its way out of me behind a cough but fail.

Mom's glare hits me hard. My body is so conditioned to cede to her, it takes genuine effort to keep my head up.

I met nurse Heather my second night here and instantly knew I liked her. She didn't lecture me about staying on top of the pain or not being a hero by refusing meds. From the beginning, she's respected my choice to refuse narcotics. She's always professional, and she hasn't pushed to uncover the reasons behind my denial of the medication.

"Since I'll be my son's sole caregiver for the foreseeable future, I'll need to know the instructions," my mother presses. "Wouldn't it be easier to go over them now so we can ask questions? Tell her, Levi."

Shoulders sagging, I turn to my nurse. She's young, probably just a year or two older than me. She's been nothing but accommodating and kind during my stay.

When Heather meets my gaze, a flash of pity mars her pretty features. It doesn't take a genius to deduce what kind of person Patricia Moore is at her core.

There's no use fighting the inevitable, so I nod my consent.

Nurse Heather keeps her attention locked on the screen as she rattles off instructions.

My mom scrambles to the other side of the room, where she left her purse on a chair. Then she pulls out a lined yellow steno pad and clicks her pen.

"No weight-bearing activities for at least two weeks. Resting and attending daily PT sessions are the biggest priorities. Stay on top of the pain"—she pauses then, likely adjusting the next orders for my benefit, and side-eyes me—"by alternating acetaminophen and ibuprofen. That should do the job. There's a script being sent to the pharmacy on file, just in case—"

"No," I reject, cutting her off.

They can call it in, but I'm not filling it. I won't take it. The last thing I want is my mom hounding me about it for the next—

Fucking hell.

I have no idea how long it'll take to heal and rehab. No one does.

Because I didn't seek medical care immediately after the incident, the injury took on a life of its own. Literally. Calcified bone started to grow inside my hamstring. We won't know about the final nerve damage for weeks or maybe even months.

I'll be dependent on my mom—on the person who stood by, muttering scripture under her breath, as my old man beat on me—until I regain feeling in my thigh and rebuild my strength.

Any amount of time would be too long. But having no idea what the timeline looks like is excruciating.

I don't feel strong enough to endure what's required right now.

Gritting my teeth, I take in a cleansing breath. It does little to ease the pit of despair taking up residence in my chest.

"Take it easy for the next few weeks," Heather continues. "Your body is still recovering from surgery, and your system needs this reset. Lay low as much as possible. Your daily trips to PT will be about all the exertion your body can handle for a few weeks."

"What about Sundays?" Mom interjects. "He won't have therapy on Sundays, will he?"

Heather looks at me, her eyes full of kindness and empathy, and I nod my assent again.

"The care coordinator will call within twenty-four hours of discharge to set up the appointments. But no, PT doesn't typically see patients on the weekends."

"Thank heavens," Mom mutters. She fusses with the edge of the hospital blanket, then rests her hand on my leg.

"Shit," I curse, jolting away from her touch as pain shoots through me.

"Levi, language," she hisses.

Never mind that her hand is still settled on the leg with the five-inch incision.

"Mom," I grit out, peeling her hand off my thigh.

"Whoops," she mutters, her tone more absentminded than apologetic, and turns to Heather. "If that's all…"

The nurse nods.

"I can breathe easier now, knowing our church routine won't be affected by all these therapy appointments." She stashes her little notebook back in her bag.

"Levi." Heather keeps her eyes on my mother, her expression wary, as she steps around the computer and comes to stand by my bedside. "I would strongly recommend not overdoing it once you get home. Even a few hours out of the house will be exhausting, and it puts you at risk for reinjury or delayed healing, since, like I mentioned, you should avoid all weight-bearing activities."

The reminder at the end is directed at my mother.

"Nonsense," my mom declares with a wave of her hand, clearly unfazed by the warning. "The Lord heals, and the Lord provides. There's a wheelchair available at the church for this very need: to usher in the sick and broken and to bring them home to the Kingdom of God."

A foggy memory of the vestibule leading into my mom's church swirls in the back of my mind. Now that she mentions it, I remember the wheelchair hidden in a corner of the lobby. A rust bucket that might as well be a relic. It was ancient when I was a kid. I can't imagine what shape it's in now.

Just like I can't imagine having her wheel me into a place that outright condemns the very nature of who I am.

"Mom, I don't think it's a good idea—"

"Hush, sweetie. You need rest. You heard the nice nurse," she patronizes.

I snap my mouth shut. There's no point wasting my energy arguing a lost cause.

I'm better served saving my strength so I can heal as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here.

I'm at my mother's mercy from now until who fucking knows when.

I can already smell the stale air and the unmistakable scent of old hymnals that rest in the holders on the back of each pew. I can practically feel the stiff chemically treated red fabric cushioning of each bench under the pads of my fingertips.

A wave of nausea washes over me as the memories infiltrate my senses.

Mom fussing over my outfit, all while frowning and muttering under her breath.

Pinching my tricep to keep me alert and sitting at attention throughout the service.

Squeezing my kneecap firmly when the pastor spoke about homosexuality—and the sanctity of biblical marriage—of poison and sin, of the path to heaven.

One memory after another thrashes against the walls of my mind.

Then suddenly, the memories aren't the only things rioting inside me.

"I'm going to be sick." Heaving, I bolt upright, which causes a wave of pain to roll through me, and grab for the mauve container I've been stashing my phone in all week.

Fucking hell.

My eyes burn, and so does my throat, as I choke back the bile rising within me. My incision throbs an erratic rhythm as my pulse quickens. My stomach twists and contracts, and I cough and gag, but mercifully, nothing comes up.

When I'm sure I'm not going to be sick, I right myself and shove the pink puke bin with enough force that it rebounds off the tray table and clatters to the floor.

A surprised squeak snags my attention. When I look up, Hunter and Greedy are standing in the doorway.