Chapter Text
Dear Champion Vending Company,
This letter is in regards to vending machine 815 located in North Place Valley Medical Center, which should have given me a can of Coca-Cola. Unfortunately, it didn’t.
I found this very, very upsetting as I was very thirsty and the step-brother dragged me all the way from New York to Saratoga, Wyoming three days ago because apparently our mother is dying.
Nobody actually says she’s dying. They keep using phrases like, “it may be time,” and, “you should prepare yourself.” Which, I think, is a cowardly way to say the exact same thing.
I have not slept properly in over thirty hours. I still feel jet lagged even though Wyoming is only two hours behind New York. My phone barely works here. And earlier I watched a man who looked like a good husband having a meltdown in the family waiting room.
The step-brother keeps insisting I talk to my mother even though she is in a coma. He says something about hearing is the last thing to go. Which sounds made up but unfortunately emotional enough that people believe it immediately.
I talked to her anyway. I told her about the weather in New York. Then I told her the vending machine stole my only cash.
Then I spent fifteen minutes standing in front of machine 815, wondering if kicking it hard enough would legally count as destruction of property or an act of grief. Then I came to the nurse station, asking if they’re having a spare key so I can open it and take the drink myself–
A gentle touch on my back snaps me back to reality. Brad, the step-brother, has a constipated look in his face.
My stomach drops in an instant. He only makes that face when something really bad happens. Like… when he found out his hamster died days before he moved out to college. He still doesn’t know that I’m the one who killed it. By accident, of course. It escaped its cage and I stepped on it in the hallway. And in my defense, that little creature dies so easily all the time.
I have no choice but to act like nothing happens. I take my sweet, sweet time on folding the paper since I’m nowhere close on writing the complaint letter. Then I return the pen back to the nurse behind the counter I yelled earlier and thank her.
My mother is finally gone. Not me. Her. Leave my life. Permanently this time. Which means I don’t have to reject her phone call anymore. I don’t even have to give her empty promises about coming home to visit her during the holiday season.
Well, technically I still can visit her if I want to. In her graveyard, knowing the step-brother thinks cremation is against her will. I’m pretty sure she never mentioned that before. Or maybe she did. Who knows. I stopped talking to her years ago.
Fuck. I don’t know what to say. Or what to do.
It feels surreal. That’s the least thing I could think of right now.
“She’s, uh, gone?” I asked. “Like, officially deceased?”
Brad nods weakly. “Something like that. The doctor is running another test before… you know.”
Honest to God, I don’t know what he’s talking about. I don’t even know what kind of procedure he’s going to deal with after this. I bet it has something to do with a bunch of paperwork. Calling a bunch of numbers too. Insurance is probably on the top of the list. Followed by any distant family members. Then my mother’s friends since she was quite popular here.
“Look at the bright side, dude,” I said hesitantly. “She’s–was–no longer in pain. No more needle or tube or that weird medical hose thingy attached to her body.”
Brad smiles, followed by a single tear streaming down his cheek. Dramatic.
“At least part of her will stay longer with us.”
“Yeah, definitely. Her DNA runs in our blood. Ellie’s too–”
“–The doctor will harvest her organs,” Brad sobbed. “That’s why I’m looking for you. We’re going to do the honor walk soon.”
I blink. Harvest. What the fuck? Why would he say something like that? Is she a field of corn or something?
My mind completely blanks out. She’s an organ donor? But since when? Can a woman in her sixties even do that? I thought her parts would be as worn out and useless to the world as her relationship with me was.
Why on Earth am I just finding this out now?!
“Right,” I mumbled. “That’s… yeah. Honor walk.”
My stomach does that slow and heavy flip.
I didn’t know. I could’ve known this if I’d picked up just one of her calls over the last three years. If I’d actually come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas instead of making up that lie about shitshows in my apartment.
Fuck. I think it’s coming now. The whole messy wave of it. Grief. Loss. Regret. Everything hitting at once. But there are still no tears. My eyes stay entirely dry.
I place my hand on his shoulder carefully. This is me, silently offering the step-brother some comfort he desperately needs. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I’m not quite sure.
Before I can figure out which it is, Brad lunges forward and squeezes me into an aggressive hug. I thought he might break my ribs. My hands hover awkwardly in the air behind his back, unsure where to land.
Goddamn it. I really suck at this.
“I should probably go get Ellie first,” I blurted out against his shoulder. “Can I borrow your car? I’ll go pick her up from school. It’s Saratoga Middle High, no?”
Brad finally let me go. Thank God. He wipes his face with the back of his hand. Still sniffling.
“No, no. It’s fine,” he said. “Emily already called the school. One of the teachers is bringing her over right now.”
Option A: Escape via rescue mission, officially dead.
“Uh-huh. Well, I still can go see her in the parking lot,” I said, already taking a step backward. “So she won’t get lost or whatever.”
“My wife is already there.”
Fuck.
“Can I just borrow your car real quick?”
“Why?”
“I need to go… somewhere.”
“No. You’re not going anywhere,” he insisted. “How would you even drive, anyway? You don’t have a license.”
I freeze. Right. The license.
When you blow twice the legal limit and plow your hatchback directly into a bright orange construction cone and by that I mean sending it flying into the windshield of a parked state trooper, it turns out the DMV doesn’t just give you a warning. They take your little plastic card away. Forever. A permanent suspension to my own stupidity.
Okay. There is nowhere to run. I am trapped in a hospital in Wyoming with a dead mother, a weeping step-brother, and a looming parade for her organs. Yeah. This is super manageable. In a way.
“You’re right,” I muttered. “Forgot about that.”
Before I can invent a fake stomach ache to hide in the bathroom, the ICU doors double-click and swing open.
It officially begins.
The nurses from the front desk step out from behind their computers. Doctors in wrinkled scrubs emerge from the breakroom. People I don’t even recognize start lining up against the beige walls of the corridor.
It’s an absolute and crushing silence. The only sound is that heavy and rhythmic hush of the portable ventilator as my mother’s bed is slowly wheeled out of her room.
Brad takes his place right behind the metal frame of the bed. His hand reaches out to touch the railing. He then looks back at me with pleading eyes.
I swallow the massive lump in my throat. I really want to say something. Anything. Maybe wait for Ellie and his wife first since I don’t see them anywhere.
However, I take a step forward, falling into line next to him. Walking behind a corpse. Technically still alive since the life support is still attached to her body. Fun family activities.
We reach the main elevator bay where the crowd of hospital staff is thickest, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with their heads bowed. That’s when the elevator doors slide open with a cheerful ding that feels entirely offensive given the vibe.
Emily steps out first, looking confused and frazzled. Behind her is Ellie. Her oversized backpack slouched off one shoulder. She looks small and intensely confused by the sudden wall of silent people.
Right behind Ellie is a man I haven’t seen in an entire decade.
Mr. Miller.
He looks exactly the same but with more gray in his hair. As well as his facial hair. The exact same Mr. Miller who, ten years ago, used to look at me across the classroom like I was some puzzle he was determined to solve.
Back then I was in a walking, talking disaster zone. I hate to say this but he was the only adult who actually noticed how deeply miserable I was. He made me feel completely and terrifyingly seen. And because of that, I hated his guts. I hated him more than anyone else on this planet. Still do, by the way.
Our eyes lock across the crowded hallway.
For a brief and agonizing second, the entire hallway disappears. He catches my gaze and that familiar heavy look returns to his eyes. Yes. That quiet, observant expression that screams, I know exactly what kind of trouble you are.
My armor instantly goes up. My jaw is clenching so hard, my teeth ache. A mini-reunion from hell, apparently. Right at my mother’s death march.
The crowd shifts as the bed moves forward, forcing me to step aside into a small alcove by the vending machine to let the parade pass.
Ellie, who is right across from me, handles the tension by slipping past her mom. She leans against the wall right next to Mr. Miller. A few feet away from where I’m trying to blend into the wallpaper. I really wish they don’t see me standing in the shadow of Machine 815.
“Who’s that?”
I hear Mr. Miller asks her in a low and gravelly whisper, nodding subtly toward the front of the procession where Brad is walking.
Ellie glances over, her brow furrowing. Our eyes lock for a brief moment.
“Oh. That’s my aunt. She came from New York and she’s kinda intense. Well, step-aunt.”
Atta girl. She corrects herself quickly. Mimicking the exact emphasis I always put on the word.
I see Joel look back toward the hallway where I had just been standing. His face makes weird expressions. It’s the look of a man who suddenly understands a punchline he’s been waiting for so long to hear.
“Step-aunt,” he repeated, keeping his voice down as they watched the bed disappear into the surgical wing. “No wonder you remind me of someone.”
Ellie looks up at him, squinting. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He say nothing. Thank fucking God. From my peripheral view, I can see he’s looking out at the empty hallway where the silence is finally breaking.