MIA
The bitter smell of antiseptic cut through the room like an unwelcome visitor as I sat quietly by my mother's hospital bed. Her pale face was faintly illuminated by the cold, pale light of the overhead lamp. Huddled beneath the tidy white sheets, she lay still, surrounded by machines that mocked my unspoken agony with their heartless regularity, beeping and humming. I looked for any indication that the kind mother I had known still existed inside of her, submerged beneath this brittle facade, a flicker or a quiver of eyelashes. I held her hand and grasped its fading warmth as if it were the only thing holding me to hope. This hand had once wiped away my tears, pulled into braids the knots in my hair, and pressed mine in silent reassurance. Now it lay still, dead, unresponsive to my silent prayers. "Mom," I whispered, my voice cracking with the desperation of my feelings. "I don't know what to do anymore. Everything's. falling apart." My throat closed, the tears coming too fast, but I gritted them back. I had to be strong, you, as the words flowed out, bitter and cutting. "They took everything. All of it, the house, the accounts.". It's all on me to cover Dad's blunders now that I'm drowning in his debt. Like a kick in the stomach, the shame struck me immediately. While Dad was not perfect, his inability to plan was due to love—a dirty, misplaced love that destroyed our life. As if proximity could overcome the unlikelihood of our being so far apart, I brought her palm nearer to my chest and gripped it tight. I signed, Mom', I said to her, half-fear and half-anger in my voice. "I didn't have a choice. If I hadn't." My voice trailed off, suspended in the cold reality of my deal with the mafia. Sobs of hot tears flowed down my face before I could stop them. "I can't do this without you. Wake up, please. wake up." The only response was the constant beep of the heart monitor, its unfeeling rhythm breaking what little of my composure. The door creaking open startled me, and I wiped my cheeks; the attending physician came in. He asked with an even but cautious tone, as if he already knew my response, "How are you doing, Mia?" I clamped my teeth into a small smile. "I'm coping," I growled. He sat down beside me and put a clipboard across his knees with a serious expression. "I wanted to speak with you about your mother's condition." I felt sick. The thought of giving this speech had been haunting me for a long time, and I had dreaded it. "What is the matter?" He let out a small but very audible sigh. She was badly injured, as you will know. Her swelling in the brain has decreased slightly, though. He hesitated, and the emptiness between his words was galling. "No neurological improvement has been noted. She hasn't responded yet. I clutched her hand tighter. "But she's alive," I stuttered, my voice shaking. That means that there is hope, right? That she might wake up?" Dr. Laurent hesitated, and his silence was louder than any words he could possibly say. "Hope never dies," he whispered. But I must be honest with you. Her possibilities of recovering consciousness decrease with the length of time she spends in this condition. We're doing all we can, but you must begin planning for the possibility that she won't awaken. "No." My reply was quick, forceful, and loud enough to resound through the quiet room. Shaking my head, I tried to refuse his words. She is strong. She is my mother. She will awaken. She must." "I know this is hard to hear," he whispered. And you're right, I hope so with all my heart. But take it from us that we are here for you no matter what comes your way. I bit my lip to keep another wave of tears at bay. "How likely?" My voice was hardly above a whisper and it hardly broke the silence as I asked. He paused before responding again. "They're very thin at the moment," he admitted. My breath was taken away with his words that struck me in the chest as a punch. The air grew too thick to breathe, and the walls moved in on me. Shaking my head yet again, I wouldn't believe it. "No." No way. My mother will come around, and I will figure it out. I will get it done, no matter what.
Dr. Laurent held my shoulder with his hand. Honestly, he told me, "Mia, I respect your strength." If you're right, I hope so. But don't you ever hesitate to ask for help. You don't have to do this by yourself. He walked out of the room silently, leaving me once more in the heavy silence, and I nodded, barely hearing him. I placed my forehead against our joined hands and leaned forward. "Mom, did you hear that?" I complained. They think you won't wake up. But I know you better than they do. You've always defended me. For us. So fight a little harder. Please. I need you. As I sat there, my mind racing, minutes seemed like hours. Threats, bills, and impossible choices haunted me. Now a heap of ashes, it was what I had hoped. Above all, though, I thought of her. She smiled. Her unbreakable strength. The unconditional manner in which she loved me. I would fight. I would fight for her regardless. I wasn't yet prepared to quit. I kissed her forehead as the sun rose above the hospital window. "I'll be back," I said, now talking steadily. And I shall have wonderful news when I return. You can count on it. I come home dazed. Afterward, I stood with a sorrowful heart but an internal fire of burning determination. "It's time" the message reads and I am utterly filled with dread of factors I know nothing about.