My Peace (Beautifully Broken 5)

He gestures around us at the sterile room. “I’m here,” he says simply. “And next, I’m going to rehab. You deserve better, Mila. And you’re going to get it.”

“I deserve you,” I insist, but his eyes are closed now, and he presses the nurse’s call button. She appears immediately, elderly and stern.

“Mrs. Tate doesn’t want to leave and I’m tired,” Pax says quietly. “Can you show her out?”

The woman stares down at me sympathetically, but she has no choice other than to do as he asks.

“Wait,” I tell her. I hand Pax Zuzu’s picture. “Your daughter made this for you.”

His eyes well up and he looks away.

“I’m not leaving you, Pax,” I tell him over my shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t answer. When I look over my shoulder, as the door closes, he is still, his lashes on his cheek, and Zuzu’s picture clutched to his chest.

31

Chapter Thirty

Pax

Watching Mila walk away is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

Pushing the button for the nurse was hard.

But shaking her off my arm, and sending her out… that was excruciating. The rejection on her face…

It’s for the best, I tell myself. It’s for the best.

I live in a place now that is unsuitable for them. I live in the dark, in the oblivion, and I’ll never be safe from it. I’ll never be able to say that I’m impermeable to slipping.

I never thought I would. But I did.

I’ll never make that arrogant mistake again.

I’ll never think I’m stronger than I am. I’ll never doubt my ability to fall. I’ve fallen hard. And I’m not sure if I’m getting back up. I don’t deserve it.

The paper in my hand is fragile, and it’s priceless. I gaze at it, and I feel the tears start to swell. Me, Mila and Zuzu stare back from the page in crayon form. Zu had made Mila’s belly round, to show the baby that will be growing there, and I can’t swallow. I can barely breathe.

I prop it up on the stand next to the table, and I fall asleep again, because sleep is medicine.

It heals my broken body, and when I sleep, the pain of sending Mila away is dulled. It’s always there, buried in my heart, but when I’m not conscious, it’s not as sharp. It’s not as real.

I’m resentful when I wake to find my father standing above me.

He’s troubled, concerned, and he’s holding my hand. He hasn’t done that since I was a child.

“I was afraid,” he says simply.

I nod. “I was too.”

“You’re ok.” He says it as a statement. I shrug. I don’t know about that.

“You’re ok,” he says again, more firmly this time. As if saying so will make it true.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I’m an addict. Remember telling me that years ago? I denied it then. I said I was just a user. But I’m not. I’m an addict. I lied to myself then, and I lied to you. I buried it instead of dealing with it, and now here we are.”

“This isn’t your fault,” he says and his voice is soft. I pull my hand away.