Say When

T H I R T Y - O N E

The discharge from the hospital was painfully slow. The hours of waiting for release were made worse by my ribs which to my dismay were not just bruised. I had two cracked ribs and the bruises were auburn with anger. The nurses' voice, melodic and rehearsed, faded in and out. I was burrowed deep in my own head. My thoughts striking through the throbbing in my ears.

I needed my phone. I needed to talk to Jax. Nothing made sense to me right now.

"Do you have my phone?" I asked my mother, interrupting the list of instructions the nurse was rattling off.

"No. I don't have it."

"I dropped it." I closed my eyes and slumped in the wheelchair. I winced. I stayed as still as possible and listened to the rest of my home care instructions. My mother signed the discharge papers and handed the print outs to me. A hospital aide pushed me toward the exit. I focused on the paper. Cleaning instructions for the gash on my head. Bandaging and icing my ribs. A follow-up date for a check-up. Scribbled at the bottom was my mom's signature. Catherine Montez.

"Is Cat here? Catherine. Catherine Montez. Is she here?"

My Dad's voice burst into my ears. I looked around for his long legs and arms, expecting to find them swinging and striding through the busy Emergency Department. But he wasn't there. Not now.

But he'd been here before. I looked at the mahogany admissions desk that stretched along the far wall. I remembered being here. No more than eight or nine years old. My Dad leaned over the desk, so much so that I worried he would tip over and land in the woman's lap who was seated on the other side. He spoke directly to her. His voice strained. He was forcing himself to stay calm. My Brother was asleep over his shoulder and I stood tucked behind his left leg. My thin legs hurt from trying to keep up with him. We'd been in and out of the car at three different hospitals. His long strides sometimes leaving me ten paces behind.

"No, she's not in tonight Joe. If she comes in, I'll call you."

A woman in soft pink scrubs appeared behind the desk. She was older, gray strands weaved through her locks. She regarded my Dad with a mix of kindness and pity. Her and my Dad shared a knowing look. A glance that told me this wasn't their first time here in this spot. She nodded toward me.

"Get that baby home. It's late. Cat will be alright. It's her choice."

My Dad left reluctantly. He sat behind the wheel of our car for a long time that night. His shoulders shook with muffled sobs. We were looking for her again. She'd lasted a few weeks at home with us at that time until she was gone. We'd always start by checking the hospitals. If she wasn't there we'd move on to the dark smelly apartment downtown. I hoped we wouldn't go downtown. That night, out of all the others, I remember my heart shattering into a million pieces for him. Maybe because I was older. Maybe I understood more. Maybe I was heartbroken too. Whatever the reason, the first brick in the wall between my mother and I went up.

The woman trailing behind my wheelchair as we rolled toward the front doors of the hospital was totally different. For years I gave her an identity that didn't really fit. She was just an addict who chose a substance over her family. Considering that my Dad introduced her to it never crossed my mind. Where I saw abandonment she saw refuge. Where I saw neglect she saw preservation. Where I saw my Dad. She saw her trigger. This man who loved her so deeply and was her trigger.

I wanted home. I wanted safety. We eased into a cab and made our way toward home. I leaned against her to brace myself as the car jostled along the potholed streets of Brooklyn. The sun was setting. It cast long shadows of the large brick dwellings across the cement. I feared being caught out here in the darkness. If I could be attacked in broad daylight I feared what would happen in the shadow of darkness. I was exposed out here. I couldn't imagine my Mother spending all those nights out here on the street. Away from us. In the dark.