Me, Myself, and I

strike

My mother was quite the protester in her day. Used to go on marches for equal pay, write angry emails and articles about the life of a nurse in her industry. Unheard of in a tiny town like ours. My father, a practicing doctor at the time, would have no choice but to listen, nod along, before she'd accept that he'd heard enough of her and move on to a phone call, complaining to her female coworking counterparts. She'd always threaten to strike at home, refuse to come in, but every time it came up, her self-proclaimed selfless nature kept her coming in, a need to care for those less fortunate or something to that degree. Then little paralyzed Max came into the picture, and her excuse finally rang out. Her permanent leave of absence to a home nurse for her son's every need was her self-described strike against tyranny.

I wasn't that special. I would to see my friend if it killed me. I wouldn't let someone else leave me with the last word. So I stayed in that hospital room. Julia, go home, rest, dad would say. And I'd ask again if I could see Ben, the cycle onward.

I woke Monday morning to my cheek against the hardwood floor, feet up on one of the gaming stools. A ring from my phone's screen, followed by a photograph. I flipped past the thirty-three gaming apps I'd downloaded since my time started there. (I'd reached past a few hundred levels in several different picture matching games. A good way not to sleep when sleeping was too hard.)

Thirty-two notifications.

Five missed calls from Alex.

Three assignments overdue.

And a partridge in a pear tree.

I scrolled up, watched the blocks of messages pass as if I were witnessing someone else's life. Not mine. Anyone but mine.

I stared at the beige walls, watched Ben's parents come and go as the lights in the windows changed, bright, dull, bright again, his siblings slowly left the place for timely matters. A photoshoot. A ballet recital. School. Work. They didn't tell me anything. Nothing about tearing out a tumor, or recovery, or a flat line. If it was still in there, sinking deeper, a beast feeding on his thoughts. At least with Max, they'd kept me updated, Mom and Dad. Only two differences between then and now. One, I hadn't wanted to know then. Now, I would do just about anything for answers. And two, Mom was the one with the updates.

Why'd his parents call my dad anyway? Had to have been about the news article. Still...seemed like the wrong time and place.

I didn't let my mind play with possibilities. I don't remember going to the hospital cafeteria for food, but my stomach craved nothing. Maybe I had. I didn't remember sitting up against the couch either, but that's the position I found myself in when a shadow passed over, and Dad was kneeling before me.

Before I'd fallen asleep, Dad had told me to go home for the night. Go to school. I'd rest better.

I'd told him to screw off. I was adulting.

This time he handed me his phone, I put it up to my ear, let myself look at him. Nope. Didn't like that. I stared at the wall behind Kyle's chair. I think it was his. He hadn't moved but to refill the silver flask in his pocket. Now his chin rested on his chest, gently moving, eyes fluttering, drifted somewhere else. Had I moved? Dad grabbed the phone and put it on speaker. I spoke first; kind of hurt:

"Hello?"

"Julia!" Alex. "Are you okay?"

"Why?"

Brooke's voice chopped in. I could hear the bustle of the Stacks restaurant. "No one's seen you in three days!"

I looked at Dad. Days. Days? That couldn't be right. I'd only been here a few hours. A night. Maybe a day.

Alex again. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? Why don't we forget that class happened and go see a movie? We can all just—"