Chapter 25
6 weekslater…
Iapproached the room my mother had refused to leave for the last month and a half slowly, as if by entering I would be giving my consent to the inevitable. She knew she was dying and instead of wanting to come home with me and the guys, she had elected to stay at the Care Center. It wasn’t as sad as I had originally thought. She had friends come by—friends that she’d met in the common areas, people who’d healed and gone on to live their lives came by to give their condolences and spend time with her in her lastdays.
“Hey, Baby.” She smiled at me from the bed as I stepped into theroom.
“Hey,Mom.”
“You just missed Mrs. Collier,” shesaid.
“I caught her in the hall,” Iadmitted.
“Oh, good, good.” My mother’s eyes grew hazy as she turned her head on the pillow and looked out the window. “It’s bright today,” she said, “but Mrs. Collier said it'scold.”
“Yeah.” I sidled up to the bed and took a seat. It was December, of course it was cold. But if anything, my mom wasn’t too concerned about what time of year it was. She wasn’t much concerned with anythinganymore.
“So, the hearing happened?” she asked, turning to look at me as I shifted in the chair at herbedside.
I nodded. The guys and I had decided to tell her about Grayson’s mom. We’d told Alex as well, who’d been concerned but pleased that it had all been resolved. “It did,” I answered. “I went and Teddi will be in confinement for awhile.”
“That’s good, Baby,” Mom said. “She can’t hurt that poor boy of yoursanymore.”
“Yeah…” I didn’t know what else to say to that. I didn’t come here to talk about Teddi. To me, Teddi was nothing but a painful memory—for me, the guys,andGrayson. But she was out of our lives. She wasn’t a problem anymore. Not for us, not foranyone.
She hummed quietly. “So, what did you bring me today?” she asked after abeat.
I swallowed around a thick throat and reached for the bag that I’d brought with me. Retrieving it, I pulled out a book that one of the guys had gotten me. Even though it wasn’t Christmas yet, I’d been finding gifts waiting for me, placed randomly throughout the house—in my purse, on my bed, in front of my bedroom door—for the last few weeks. No one ever owned up to the presents, not even when I straight up asked. I think they had come to some sort of boys-agreement that anything they got me was from all of them. It made me smile even when I didn’t feel likesmiling.
“The Great Gatsby,” I saidquietly.
“You like that book,” shereplied.
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s one of myfavorites.”
“Let’s hear it then, Baby.” Mom shifted weakly in herbed.
“Do you need anything before we start?” Iasked.
She shook her head. “No, just…please start.” She wheezed out a breath and I hesitated, but the look she shot me—one of pleading—had me opening the hardback collectors' edition of the classic Americannovel.
My voice shook as I began to read. The words poured out of me, words of vulnerability and youth. Honestly, the book was entrancing. The eyes of a billboard capturing my attention as a reader and yet...it wasn’t enthralling enough to help me escape reality, especially with her laying so near, wheezing with every breath shetook.
I wasn’t sure if she was truly listening to the story or if she just enjoyed having me with her, talking. She no longer had the energy to carry on conversations—to follow them—so it was no surprise to me when she fell asleep halfway through the second chapter. I quietly stopped, closed the book, and held it in my lap. My eyes were drawn to the window where sunlight poured in through the openblinds.
The sunlight belied how cold it had actually become. Sitting inside the Care Center, swathed in my sweater and scarf, I still felt like I could sense the chill outside. After several minutes, I realized that my mom was awake again and watchingme.
I reopened the book without a word, but then she started coughing—hacking so loudly that I paused. “No!” she wheezed. “Keepreading.”
I didn’t want to. “Let me just call the nurse real quick,” I saidinstead.
“Baby.” My mom’s hand on mine as I reached for the nurse’s call button stopped me. “There’s nothing she can do.” I froze, my heart breaking in my chest as I sat back down. “I don’t want to fall asleep with the drugs,” she confessed. “I just want to hear my Baby reading tome.”
“O-okay,” I choked out, lifting the book. I turned to a page blindly. I didn’t care if I was picking up where we’d left off. I don’t think she did either because she didn’t sayanything.
I read about summer nights and the mysterious Mr. Jay Gatsby. I read about music and a distant time where money poured from champagne flutes and women wore beaded gowns and men smoked cigars while complaining about their wives. It wasn’t real, but oh, how I wished it was. Though I knew how things would turn out for Gatsby, I felt like I was staring out at the green light at the end of the dock with him. Tears fell down my cheeks as I read. Mom reached out, her cold hand touching mine as I spoke. I grasped it and held it, but I didn’tstop.
A few days later, she passed away in her sleep. When the phone call came, I felt numb to the news. I called Michael up in New York and told him. He promised to come down for the funeral the next week and when I hung up with him, I crawled into my bed and cried myself to sleep, seeking solace in the arms of the guys as they crawled into the bed with me. When one would leave—to go do whatever they had to in order to help me plan the funeral—another would climb in withme.