Sing Me To Sleep

Chapter 19

Tears stain my cheeks and my knuckles are as white as the crumpled paper I grasp tightly in my hands. She's gone. My mom is dead. My head seems to flood with thoughts, memories, and images as my eyes rake over and over again the scrawled messy handwriting.

What am I supposed to do now? Where do I go? A foster home? I won't be eighteen for nearly ten more months. I can't live on my own. Even if I were old enough, how would I support myself? I don't have a house, not anymore, or a job. I don't have anything...

I try not to think about it, but the intrusive question keeps finding it's way into my mind and I shy away from wanting to know the crude details. Still, every imaginable scenario is playing through my head.

How did she do it?

Did she overdose, like I had tried? The thought of her body lying limp on the floor, twisted unnaturally or maybe peacefully, assaults me but it's the best image so far. I don't want to think of her hanging herself, her neck broken and bruised, or putting a bullet in her temple. I wanted her to go painlessly. I didn't want her to suffer, not because of me.

I wipe the back of one hand across my eyes, smearing tears, when the door cracks open and the frizzy haired nurse from before peeks around the corner. Ray. I sit up straighter and swallow hard. He doesn't need to see me crying. I feel my jaw clench unintentionally once and fold my arms across my chest, an attempt to cover the markings still visible there.

"The cops left," He informs me, shutting the door quietly behind him though he stands awkwardly close to it, his hands folded in front of him. "Doughnut run, probably." He smiles weakly and I attempt to mimic the motion but my face refuses to work with me and I simply stare. He sighs, stepping forward. He places a single hand at the end of my bed, not touching me, but close enough to be a considered a compassionate gesture. "I'm not really supposed to get involved in patient's lives," He says. "And I could probably get in trouble for this, but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for your loss. I don't know how it feels, so I won't say I understand, but I know it hurts and I'm sorry you have to deal with that."

I nod, the only response I can muster, and sniffle. How am I supposed to feel when I find out my own mother has killed herself? Sad, that much is sure. Should I feel guilty? Angry even? My thoughts seem to be spinning and through the vertigo, right now all I feel is hunger. As if on cue, my stomach growls and alerts the entire room to my dilemma. Ray smiles a little and focuses his attention on the tray to my left, sliding it across the tile floor toward me. "I know, shitty hospital food is not what you're craving right now, but doctor's orders." I slide the single sheet of paper under my leg, feeling the roughness as it scrapes against my skin, sensing once again just how real the suicide note is. I glance at the off-white platter, adorned with various foods. I pick up the fork and begin prodding at the contents as Ray moves around the room, straightening up and checking the monitors. The tray holds what looks like meatloaf, some yellow colored mashed potatoes, and something pale green and leafy. I ignore the meatloaf, the sight of the brownish-grey lump, even drizzled in ketchup, making me feel a little sick to my stomach. I pick up a small bite of whatever the green stuff is and nibble at it hesitantly. Spinach. Overcooked and chewy. Yum. I settle with a few selective bites of potatoes before pushing the tray away.

I look up to see Ray standing near the door again, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed against his chest. He watches me with a concerned expression and I bite my lip a little nervously under the scrutiny. I avert my own gaze quickly and shrink down lower into the sheets. 

"My shift ends in an hour," Ray finally speaks, his voice low and for a second I'm not even sure that he's talking to me. "Then I can see about getting you some clothes to wear instead of a hospital gown. And maybe some real food."

I want to ask him why he cares so much-- I'm just another patient, anyway. I'm sure he has better things to do than take care of me to the extent of smuggling me outside clothes and food-- and scream at him to stop caring, both at once, but when he turns the handle of the door and starts to leave, I find myself doing neither. "Ray," I say instead, stopping him mid-step. He turns back for a second and raises an eyebrow in question. I swallow hard and attempt a smile once again, this time succeeding a little though my voice is still a bit shaky. "Thanks. For everything."