Loving You Differently

Nine

Aria Adkins

I don't remember how I got here. One minute I'm sitting in Austin's office, stumbling over words and refusing to meet his always penetrating gaze. The next I'm sitting in a stuffy waiting room in a cheap plastic chair, ass completely numb.

I look across the room and feel oddly choked up once I take in the scene before me. Savannah and Austin sit on the floor, laughing and gossiping like old friends, tired grins spread across their faces. Paper cups of shitty hospital coffee and discarded candy bar wrappers sit in between them.

Despite the tight clenching of my chest and my throbbing migraine, I feel peaceful. Secure. Content.

And then I remember that Austin had to basically chase after me when I hung up my phone and stalked out of his office without a word or a single glance backwards. After Savannah's call, I was numb. Confused, angry. I knew Savannah was safe. If she wasn't, she wouldn't have been the one to call. But still, the anger that always seems to bubble and rise to the surface when mom gets herself into trouble will never fail to bring my walls back up while I come to her rescue yet again.

I should feel embarrassed that Austin led me to his car without a second thought, opened the passenger side door for me, buckled me in like a child, and drove me to Baptist Memorial after I softly uttered the word "hospital," and proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the car ride.

But I don't. For once, I take a selfish second to allow someone to help me. I bask in the feeling that, finally, someone was there to catch me when I was falling.

Through heavy lids and bleary eyes, I peek at the clock on the wall above the check-in desk. 4AM.

My voice is raspy with exhaustion when I finally speak. "Savannah, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Her head snaps towards me, traces of a tired, yet happy grin fading from her face. She stands to her feet, stretches her arms, and follows me around the corner.

"I need you to tell me what really happened," I demand.

Savannah's eyes widen slightly and she purses her lips. She hesitates, but then says, "She got mad at me when I tried to take her bottle from her. She was already drunk, and when she reached out to shove me, she fell. Hit her head on the edge of the coffee table. She blacked out and it scared me, so I called 911."

I take a deep breath and calmly say, "She tried to shove you? Is that why you told the medics she tripped?"

She nods meekly.

"She needs to go."

"I know," she whispers.

I stalk back around the corner and stomp to the check-in desk, demanding to know when the doctor would be finished stitching mom up. She refused to allow me or Savannah in the room with her, and we'd been forced to sit out here like fools while we waited.

I waited patiently while the nurse used the phone to page the back. After a few moments of nodding mindlessly and listening to whatever the person on the other end of the line had to say, she turned towards me reluctantly.

"The patient has requested for someone else to pick her up. They're on the way now," she says slowly, almost nervous to reveal the news.