Best of 2017

Today was different, though. Today she was here. In my hospital. What were the chances? When our eyes met, it was as if my world fell off its axis. Disbelief, and then worry. What the fuck happened to her? Those icy blue eyes were once so dynamic. What happened to cause that much pain?

I remember the first time I saw her. She stole the breath from my lungs.

She was sitting at a table in the far corner of Paradise Diner looking out onto the street. She was beautiful. Serene. But what left me breathless was that she looked just like her.

I remember thinking it was her . . .

Sloane.

But that wasn’t possible. And as much as I knew that, I still found myself gazing across the space that separated us. The similarities were uncanny.

I stepped forward and her familiar features began to fade. Like an impressionist’s stroke on a canvas, up-close formed a new image.

This image was vibrant and alive. This image was not the woman who haunted my waking thoughts, who taunted and tormented me. No. This woman was something else all together. A part of me wanted to cross the space that separated us. Wanted to speak to her. Wanted to discover everything about this girl who reminded me so much of a time before. But I didn’t. How could I? What would I even say?

I almost fell over in shock today. It took every last piece of my soul to hold myself together as I watched her.

There she was lying in a hospital bed, weak and frail. She reminded me of fresh fallen snow. She had fair skin, pale blond hair and icy blue eyes. Now I had a name . . . Eve Hamilton.

I don’t know why I handed her my card. I didn’t have to.

I shouldn’t have.

A referral would have been enough. But there was something in her eyes. Something I had seen before. A deep-rooted sadness I wanted—no, needed—to fix.

CHAPTER THREE

EVE

THE LAST WEEK AND HALF, I’ve done nothing at all. I feel as if the world is closing in around me and there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. Heaviness sits on my chest. There’s a feeling of suffocating with every strangled breath I try to take.

I can’t eat.

I can’t sleep.

I can’t go on like this. Something has to give.

I find myself staring down at Dr. Montgomery’s card and wondering what it would be like to sit in front of him and purge my soul. The card is starting to fray and bend from the countless times I’ve handled it. Should I call him? He seemed to know what he was talking about, but at the same time I’m not sure he would be the right fit for me. I’m not sure I want to look into his eyes and let him see my weaknesses.

Since I’ve been home from the hospital, I’ve started having nightmares that leave me feeling hopeless and scared. Every night I pray for peace, but as sleep finds me, an array of images and smells and feelings so crisp attack me. They rip me from my bed night after night in sweat and tears. But I know the nightmares will always find me. I have no choice.

This morning, after a dreadful night of tossing and turning, I’m woken from my haze by the sound of glass shattering.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I hear as I pad down the hallway and into the kitchen. I find Sydney on the floor picking up pieces of my favorite coffee mug.

I can’t help but laugh at the irony. Everything is falling to pieces. Why not my mug, too?

She spins around at the sound of my laugh. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I was trying to make you a cup of coffee and I accidentally knocked it off the counter.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I try to give her a reassuring smile. “Seriously, Syd. It’s only a mug.”

Nodding she stands, placing the shards of ceramic into the garbage can and then heads over to the cabinet and grabs another coffee cup.

“Want some?”

“Sure, thank you,” I say as she pours the coffee.

“So, what do you have planned for today?” She pulls out the chair at the kitchen island and takes a seat.

“I need to call my mom, see if she needs anything. That’s pretty much it.” Sydney’s lips set into a hard line. “I’ll be okay,” I try to reassure her, but she’s smart to worry about me. Talking to my mom is emotionally draining on a good day, and with my current condition, I’m not sure I can handle speaking to her. But I have to.

I take one more sip and stand from the table, grab my phone and start to dial. She picks up on the first ring, as if she’s desperate for someone to hear her neurosis.

“Eve,” she groans.

“What’s wrong, Mom? Are you okay?” I know she’s not. She never is. Her hypochondria knows no bounds. It encompasses every breath she takes.

“I’m dizzy and I can’t move. It’s as if my face is numb. I might be having a—”

“You’re not, Mom.”

“How do you know? I could be. My heart beat is slow—”

“Did you take anything?”

“Just my insulin.” And there it is. My mom doesn’t have diabetes. She has “self-diagnosed” diabetes, and with enough money and a crooked doctor, she now has insulin to treat an ailment she’s never had.

“I’m coming over right now.” I bite my lip and draw blood. The coppery taste coats my tongue as it swipes to wipe it. I’m not strong enough to deal with this now, but it falls on me regardless.

I’m all she has.

An hour later, I find myself on the Upper East Side in my mom’s apartment. My whole body is on edge. Richards’s apartment is in the same building, and a part of me feels empty knowing I can’t pop over to see him.

I walk into my mom’s living room, but it’s empty, so I continue to the bedroom. It’s where I find her, half-dressed and disheveled. There’s make-up smudged against her face and her eyes are closed.

“Mom, are you okay?” I rush to her side of the bed, grab her arm and check her pulse.

She groans at the contact. “Cold,” she mutters.

“Mom, can you open your eyes?” She does, but I see instantly that they aren’t focused and they look hazy. “Did you take anything else, Mom?”

“N-Nothing.”

“What did you take, Mom?”

“Nothing,” she mumbles. “Just my insulin.” And with that I know her blood sugar is dangerously low. I dash out of the room and into the kitchen to grab some orange juice. When I’m back, with my help, she drinks. Within a few minutes, the color returns to her cheeks.

Taking insulin could kill my mom. When she takes it, her sugar level is never high enough for the quantity she takes. I want to scream, but I don’t. Instead, I get into bed and rock her to sleep.

Reaching out my hand, I stroke her face, and she mutters unintelligible words. I don’t know what set my mom off today. All I know is today is worse than most. Normally, most of her ailments are fictional. They reside inside her brain and feed off the fear that lives there. But this time, she is actually psychically ill. She’s harder to deal with like this. On days like today there is no calming my mom. On days like today there is no asking questions or getting truths. On days like today I just have to treat the symptoms and pray it passes quickly.

She lies peacefully in my arms and, for one moment, my heart tugs in my chest.

This is so backwards. She should be holding me, comforting me, not the other way around.

She should be the one doing the mothering.

I’M EXHAUSTED when I arrive back at my apartment. Every muscle in my body hurts. Heading into the living room, I submerge myself into the fluffy white couch that sits adjacent to the wall. It was our first purchase when we moved in together two years ago, and to this day it provides the sanctuary I always need after leaving my mom’s. Reclining back, I close my tired eyes. They burn from all the fallen tears I’ve shed in the last week. Like sandpaper scraping against the grain of wood, they remind me of all the defects in me I need to smooth out.

“How did it go with your mom?” Sydney asks as she lazily strolls into the living room.

“Not good.” I breathe out a chok

ed groan as I run my hands through my hair and pull at my roots.

“What’s going on?”

“She’s sick.” My fingers tense in my lap. “This time she was dizzy.” Sydney knows what this means. Today it’s dizzy, last week it was a stomach ulcer, and the week before that a blood clot. I swallow with difficulty as the familiar anxiety weaves its way through my blood stream.

“She’s having a reaction to her insulin. It’s making her weak and lethargic.” A silence surrounds us as she takes in what I’ve said. My stomach churns uncomfortably at the void. She has a puzzled look upon her face.

“Insulin? For diabetes? Since when does she have diabetes?”