Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,66

behind her. It’s the two of us now.

I can’t bring myself to sing. Instead I sit in the chair next to her bed and look at her, my mother, my still-living mother. My breathing mother. Her chest and stomach going up and down slowly.

Mom, I whisper. It’s Kel.

I think I see something flicker across her face.

It’s Kel, I say again. Your son Kel.

A wave of guilt hits me hard. That I have not been here with her. That I have been in Pells Landing, her favorite favorite place on earth, without her. That I ate turkey in someone else’s house.

I pull the chair closer. I put my elbows on my knees, and my chin on my hands. I pull the chair close enough so my shins touch the bed. For a while I sit and say nothing. The drone of the hospital gets louder. The drone of the fluorescent light above my mother’s head.

• • •

All weekend I stay. It is a relief to be here. It is a long time. I pretend it is my home now. I go down and get myself lunch and dinner from the cafeteria each day. I sleep in the chair next to her bed, curled up into a tight little ball. My neck hurts. My back. The nurses come and go. One of them likes me better than all the other nurses do. Without asking she brings me ten issues of ESPN magazine and two issues of Sports Illustrated.

All day Friday I talk to my mother about my life. I tell her things I never dreamed of telling her. She lies there on her back and I think she looks peaceful. I tell her about Lindsay Harper. I tell her I think she would like Lindsay Harper, and that when she wakes up I’ll introduce them. I tell her about Trevor’s parents’ house, the entire floor plan, and how they have a maid who makes their beds for them every day. And two refrigerators. I tell her about going to the party in Yonkers, missing my Yonkers friends. I tell her I’ve realized several things about my life. I tell her what I want to do in the future. I tell her that I have a private workout with a Mets scout in two weeks, which I already told her, but I tell her again. I know you want me to go to college, I tell her, but it’s not right for me, it’s not right. I tell her the things I thought about when I was little that I never had a reason to tell her. I ask her things about Dad and about herself. I tell her I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to her.

My cell phone rings at some point in the evening and wakes me from a nap. The unavailable number again. For the first time I am able to answer, and I do so as quick as I can, but there’s no one on the other end.

Hello? Hello? Hello? I say. No one is there at all.

On Saturday afternoon I run out of things to talk to her about and on one of my trips downstairs I buy two of the magazines she likes, Redbook and Cosmopolitan, and I read aloud to her from them. I skip the embarrassing parts. I read advice on fashion and men and imagine it being useful to her someday. When I’m done with this I read the sports magazines. And drift in and out of sleep.

Different nurses come by a lot to check on her. Twelve times I see her hands move. Five times I see her open her eyes. Four times her head moves.

On Sunday morning the neurologist comes by to run another test on her. They wheel her out and leave me there. I don’t try to be nice, I don’t have it in me. When he comes back he tells me things do not look different.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

He opens and closes his mouth.

He wants to see if I understand the importance of what he’s just said.

But I won’t meet his eyes.

I nod slowly and I tell him OK.

The Cohens leave seven messages asking where I am which I feel bad not returning but I can’t face them. Trevor texts me. Kurt and Peters and Kramer text me. Even Cossy.

Because I don’t want them to worry about me, I text Trevor: with mom in hosp. tell everyone for me. sorry.

Trevor texts back, i cant believe u