Chapter 22

brADY

When Grace told me she was coming with me to Las Vegas, I didn’t have the strength to tell her no. And as we drove to the hospital, I couldn’t help but be thankful that she was with me.

Mom’s nurse said she had only days left. When I’d called the nurse after we’d gotten into town, the nurse had told me that Mom was hanging on.

“I think she’s waiting for you to say goodbye,” the nurse had said, her voice kind.

I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to believe that this was truly the end.

How many times had Mom gotten so sick that the doctors had thought this was it? Too many to count.

Then again, there’d always been the hope that if Mom turned her life around, she would recover. But now that wasn’t the case.

It was too late for her to get over the addiction that had destroyed her life.

“Am I a bad person?” I asked Grace. “Because I don’t want to go to the hospital at all.”

Grace looked surprised. “You’re not a bad person. Of course you don’t want to see your mom sick.”

“Not just sick. Dying.” I shook my head. “Is it weird that I can’t believe that? She’s been dying for years, it feels like. One drink away from her organs failing. One drink from getting cancer, or whatever. I’ve heard it a billion times.”

“You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel. There’s no rule book for grief.”

I glanced at her. How could I have forgotten? She knew what it was like to lose someone she loved. I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

“The craziest thing is that I still believe I should’ve done more,” I admitted. “I had the money. I could’ve sent her to the best rehabs in the country. I could’ve paid somebody to make her stay in one. It would’ve been unethical, but I could’ve done it. I could’ve made her get sober.”

“You and I both know you can’t make somebody sober if they don’t want to be,” Grace said.

“Maybe I should’ve had her live with me. I could’ve looked out for her. Made sure she didn’t drink all the time. I’ve looked after her before when she was in withdrawal. I could’ve hired nurses, even.”

I knew I was sounding like a crazy person. But guilt weighed on me, heavy and oppressive.

Guilt that I hadn’t tried harder. Guilt that I hadn’t thrown every last penny into getting my mom better. Guilt that I’d failed her in the end.

“It’s my fault she’s a drunk,” I said, sighing.

“Brady, of course that’s not true. Your mom has always made her own choices.”

I shook my head. “She got pregnant with me when she was sixteen. Her parents kicked her out of the house. She was homeless for a while, and it was bad. Real bad. My dad was a piece of shit and too busy selling drugs to care about me or Mom. She told me once that she’d started drinking because it was the only way to stay warm at night in the desert.”

“That was not your fault,” Grace said, her tone firm. “You were a baby. And even now, as an adult, you’re not to blame.”

Although I appreciated Grace’s words, I couldn’t believe them. Because if I did, it meant that I had to admit that I couldn’t control everything that’d happened in my life. That I couldn’t have willed Mom to get better.

We arrived at the hospital later that afternoon. The place was a mess, with nobody at the front desk who seemed able to figure out which room Mom was even in.

“You’re sure she’s checked in to this hospital?” one attendant asked me for a second time.

I gave the name of the nurse I’d spoken to. That nurse’s shift had ended, so she was no help.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we were given Mom’s room and pointed vaguely in the direction of where we should go.

“I should’ve transferred her to a better facility,” I muttered to Grace as we went upstairs to the fifth floor. “Not this fucking hellhole.”

When we got to Mom’s room, though, I knew in an instant that it was too late to transfer her.

She was a shell of herself, so thin that I could see the bones sticking through her chest. Her eyes were sunken in; her skin was a horrific yellow color. She was on a ventilator, so she was completely sedated.

“Mom? It’s Brady,” I said, sitting down next to her. I took her hand, which was so bony and thin that my heart ached. “I’m here.”

Grace sat down next to me and put a hand on my arm.

Nurses came and went, taking Mom’s vitals and answering my questions. One assured me to keep talking to my mom, even if it felt like she couldn’t hear me.

I felt ridiculous talking to somebody who was sedated, but I did it anyway. It helped that Grace talked, too. We told Mom all about my latest game, and how much fun we’d had going out on dates together.

The afternoon waned into the evening. We ate some terrible hospital food and returned to Mom’s room. When I told Grace she could check in to a hotel for the night, she declined.

“I’m not leaving you,” she promised.

I just sighed and helped her make a bed on the hard couch near the window. For me, I stayed sitting in a chair next to Mom’s bedside.

I must’ve dozed off because the next moment, I woke to the sound of alarms and nurses rushing into the room. I stood to get out of their way.

“She’s in cardiac arrest,” a nurse said.

“Aren’t you going to fucking do something?” I yelled, horrified at her inaction.

The nurse gave me a sad look. “Your mom signed a DNR before she was put on a ventilator. There’s nothing we can do.”

I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to argue, to beg, to demand that they resuscitate Mom anyway.

Grace took my hand. Tears were in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.

A physician came into the room. We all watched as Mom’s heart finally stopped beating completely. And then the nurses began turning off the ventilator and taking out the breathing tube.

“Time of death, one thirteen,” said the head nurse quietly.

I was squeezing Grace’s hand so tightly that I was probably hurting her. But she didn’t pull away.

It was only her standing next to me that kept me from falling to my knees and screaming in agony.

After that, it was a lot of paperwork, condolences, brochures for funeral homes, and assurances that Mom was no longer suffering. Before Grace and I headed to our hotel, I gave Mom a kiss on the cheek and told her that I loved her.

“How will we check in to our room?” I asked Grace, my brain filled with sludge.

“Don’t worry,” she told me.

I realized that she’d made sure we would be able to check in no matter the time since the hotel had check-in kiosks. That extra bit of effort made me want to burst into tears.

How had I ever deserved this woman in my life?

Once we finally got into our room, I just sat down on the bed, exhausted but knowing that there was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep again.

Grace sat down next to me.

“There’s a game tomorrow,” I said suddenly. “I can’t go.”

“I already let Mac know. He’ll tell my dad,” Grace replied.

“Okay.”

I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t move either. I felt her hand reach for mine, but I didn’t want to be touched right then.

Touching hurt. Touching reminded me that Mom couldn’t feel any kind of touch again. She was cold and lying in the hospital morgue.

“I need to shower,” I said abruptly, getting up.

The moment I stood under the hot water, the tears started. I’d almost thought I didn’t have any tears to shed for Mom anymore. I’d cried enough about her over the years. As a kid, I’d quickly realized how pointless crying was.

But I couldn’t stop. I sobbed until I had to lean over, trying to catch my breath. I’d never felt like this before. Completely overwhelmed with emotion.

It hurt. Why did it have to hurt this much?

“Oh, Brady.” And then Grace held me in her arms, letting me cry against her shoulder. She helped me up when I couldn’t do it myself.

I cried until my eyes hurt and the water was running cold. It was only when Grace helped me out of the shower and handed me a towel that I realized she was still wearing her clothes.

“You’re soaked,” I said, my voice hoarse.

She shrugged. She dripped all over the floor, her hair plastered to her head, her mascara running. She looked absolutely gorgeous.

“I’ll hang my clothes on the balcony. Now, go get into bed, okay?” she said.

I did as she bade. I didn’t have the energy to protest. After getting under the covers, I waited for her to join me.

There’d been no discussion of separate rooms this trip, and I was infinitely grateful for it. Even if I wasn’t up for sex, I needed Grace’s company to get through this.

I’ve never felt so weak, I thought. I hated it. But thank God the only person to see me like this was Grace.

I felt Grace climb into bed behind me, putting her arms around me. I pressed her hands to my chest and fell asleep.

I woke up right before dawn. Grace was already awake; I could smell coffee brewing.

“Good morning,” she said softly and returned to the bed. “How are you?”

“I feel like shit,” I admitted. It was true: my eyes still hurt, my head ached, and I felt like I’d been run over. “Maybe I’m getting sick.”

“I think you’re just exhausted.” Grace pressed a hand to my forehead. “No fever.”

“What do I do now?”

Grace sighed and lay back down in the bed. “You do all of the things you have to do. You call the funeral home. You choose cremation or burial, depending on what the person wanted.

“You think about what color coffin they’d want, and then feel weird that you’re even thinking about it because they’re not really dead. It just can’t be true. But you still have to call people to tell them the news. I think that might be the worst part of all, telling people. That makes it seem real.”

Her voice trailed off. I took her hand as her gaze caught mine.

“I helped my parents when Ben died,” she said. Sadness filled her face. “My mom was too devastated to do any of it. My dad did his best, but he needed help.”

“And you stepped in,” I said.

Grace shrugged. “So lucky for you, I’ve done this before. I can help you.”

And Grace did just that: she helped me with anything she could. After we’d done all the necessary steps, we received the few personal items Mom had had with her from the hospital’s front desk.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the woman said. Then a second later, she was on the phone and yelling at somebody about a billing error code.

I hadn’t planned on going to Mom’s place, but something drew me there. I told myself it was just to make sure everything was in order, or, worse, she hadn’t left some poor dog or cat to starve. Mom had tended to go through pets quickly, although in recent years, she hadn’t wanted to spend the money on anything but booze.

When I unlocked her apartment door, I was assailed by a scent of cigarettes and marijuana that nearly made me choke. Grace went to open a window and turn on a fan, but that only made it worse.

“Jesus, Mom,” I muttered, looking at the mess.

The place was a hoarder’s dream—or nightmare. Every available surface was covered with stuff: from trash to magazines to records to bags of unopened purchases. I went through a few of the plastic bags, finding things that ranged from cooking utensils to stuffed animals to books that clearly had never been read.

“How did she buy all this stuff?” I asked, shaking my head. “I don’t get it.”

Grace was wiping dust from a photo album. Upon opening it, she discovered there were zero photos inside.

We wandered around the apartment, taking it all in. Despite all the crap, I couldn’t help but feel strangely at home. Mom’s personality and craziness were in everything, from the stuff to the random decor.

Weird posters and paintings that looked like they’d been grabbed out of dumpsters. Ugly lamps that looked older than me and rugs in garish colors. There was no theme to Mom’s decor, besides being bright and obvious.

When we went to Mom’s bedroom, I felt sick. The room was covered in bottles: wine, beer, liquor. Rows and rows of them covered tables, dressers, her nightstand. When I pulled a drawer from under her bed, it was full of bottles. All empty.

“Wow,” said Grace.

“My mother, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, bitterness dripping from my voice. I slammed the drawer back under the bed.

“Hey, Brady,” said Grace, motioning at me, “look at this.”

Grace handed me an album. Half expecting it to be empty like the one in the living room, I was shocked to find it filled. And it was filled with photos and articles about me.

Not only were there recent articles that Mom had taken the time to print, but there were even stories of my wins in junior hockey leagues as a kid. Interspersed throughout were photos of me with her handwriting in notes next to the photos.

My handsome boy 16 yrs old

Brady the hockey star 22 yrs old

Where did my sweet baby go? 3 yrs old

I sat on the edge of Mom’s bed and flipped through the pages. I couldn’t believe she’d saved all this. I found movie theater stubs from when we’d gone to the movies together; I even found tickets from the few hockey games she’d been able to take me to.

The photos of me petered off after age five, when I’d gone into foster care. But there were still more than I’d expected. She must’ve been asking for updates about me from my foster families.

“She really loved me,” I said, marveling.

“Of course she did. She was your mom.”

I shook my head. Seeing this made me feel even guiltier. I should’ve done better by Mom. I should never have left her to stay sick and die alone.

“Everyone I love only gets hurt around me,” I whispered. I looked Grace in the eye. “I don’t know if we should be together for that very reason.”

“Really?” Grace beamed at me. “Because what I’m hearing sounds a whole lot like you love me.”