“Are you ready, Indie?” Elliott asks.
He’s talking about me leaving her in this little, clinical room. They’ve made it look nice with colourful prints on the walls and scatter cushions on the armchair, but it’s in a hospital facility, and her bedroom door will be locked. It smells like vanilla, as if they’re covering up the scent of the deep-cleaning products they use between patients. It’s not as comforting as Anya’s office.
“I guess.”
“All right. Is there anything else you need to know?”
“No. I just want her to get better.”
We’ve been here for ages going through the process, the rules, and Mum’s background. They’re going to organise grief counselling, too.
I haven’t even told my own counsellor that Dad is gone yet. My next appointment isn’t for a little while. I’ve been too focused on Mum to even think about grieving for Dad. I will be gently telling my future patients how dangerous that is.
“We’ll do everything we can for her here.”
Elliott leads me back through the long corridors, towards the exit.
“Can I call tomorrow?” I ask.
“Of course. We’ll update you as often as you like, Indie. You won’t be able to speak to your mum until next week, though.”
“I understand. Thank you for helping her.”
He smiles. “We look forward to hearing from you tomorrow.”
We’ve probably taken up a lot more of his time than any other admission. Can’t blame the guy for wanting me gone.
I step outside, and I pull the zip of my coat right up to my chin. The bitter wind stings my cheeks as I jog to my car. The damn thing doesn’t even have decent heating.
Fumbling in my bag, I grab my keys before I unlock the door, and I drive home with a massive hole in my chest.
I want to be curled up in Spencer’s arms. If I call him and ask him to come, he would have a lot of questions. I’d have to tell him everything. Then he would have more questions.
It’s late by the time I get home, and after replying to texts from Spence, Wren and Mila, I make a quick bowl of pasta and sit at the kitchen table. I stab my fork into one of the pesto coated bows, and my stomach churns.
The house is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. There’s not even a vodka bottle being opened. The silence is devastatingly beautiful. I both love and hate it.
Sitting downstairs doing nothing is weird. I never spend time down here unless I’m cooking or cleaning. Most days, I eat in my room to avoid them. I feel like I should be doing something like checking on my parents, cleaning their mess, smuggling empty bottles in my boot so I can drive to the next town and to the recycling units, or hiding in my room with music loud enough to drown their arguing.
There’s currently nothing to do. Nothing I can focus on.
I don’t even know where to start with processing my emotions.
How can you be surprised by something you knew was coming?
I’m so stupid.
I drop my fork and push the bowl away. At some point, I’ll have to make myself eat, but not tonight. Dad is dead, Mum is gone, and I’m so lost, it terrifies me.
The kitchen is tidy, the bathroom scrubbed, and there’s washing in the dryer. Nothing needs to be done. Except the living room. Going in there feels so wrong. It was Mum and Dad’s room. I have to make it look new before she comes home. She won’t want to see the place where Dad died looking exactly the same. I’ll make some calls, book decorators and a carpet fitter in.
We both need a new beginning. I wish it could have been both of them getting sober, but I still have her, and I need to take it.
Biting my lip, I dump the pasta in the bin, and I put the bowl and fork in the dishwasher. Maybe one day next month, when she’s hopefully home, we’ll sit around the kitchen table and eat pasta together. We’ll start again and I won’t throw the past in her face. I have another chance to have my mum.
She might want to talk about it. She never has before. Even on the rare few sober days they had over the years, they never said sorry to me for the shouting, the way they spoke to me, or the fact that they were present but absent in every way that mattered. Not once has she acknowledged hitting me.
I fill a glass of water to take it upstairs. Then I change into pyjamas, wash my face, and brush my teeth.
My reflection is washed out, and my hair a knotty mess. I’ll sort it tomorrow.
In bed, I unlock my phone and call Spencer.
“Hey, babe,” he says with a smile to his voice.
“Hi,” I whisper, trying to make my voice light.
“You okay?”
“Yes. I just got into bed. What are you doing?”
He laughs. “Lightweight. I’m out shopping.”
“You are? Do you have sunglasses on?”
“I’m in full disguise, wearing thick, black glasses and a huge nose.”
I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling.
“If you could actually get one of those and send me a picture, that would be great. So, you have no one with you?”
“Jared, of course, but sunglasses and a cap are doing the job for now.”
“I can’t wait until you have a proper big bouncer.”
“Really? You just want to flirt with someone with insane muscles and no neck.”
“You have muscles. I’ve seen them.”
“I spend almost every day in the gym just for you.”
“I knew it! You’re so obsessed with me.”
If only he knew how obsessed I am with him. Without knowing it, he’s been the one thing to get me through living with two alcoholics. Spending time with him, texting him, and taking his phone calls have all kept me sane.
When I’m with Spence, everything
