“Mom.” My voice creaks, but the tears won’t come out. The medicine in my veins has dried them up. Still, my breathing sounds like sobbing as I get out the words, a desperate whisper. “What . . . if this . . . ruins . . . my life?”
“No,” she whispers back. Her tone is fierce, eyes unblinking. “This is going to ruin a few days. It might make some weeks harder. A few hard weeks in a great, big life. You can do that. We can do that. Look at Uncle Mitch. He has really tough days, but his life is so great that we’re jealous of it!”
My little sob noise almost becomes a laugh. My uncle has severe anxiety. And a sweet little apartment in San Francisco and my cousin Pip and these great friends whose laughs sound like a big, cacophonous symphony together. My mom and I lived with Mitch for a short while when I was little. I used to fight to stay awake so I could hear the group of adults laughing around the kitchen table. Mitch has his work at the museum; he has Golden Gate Park runs and wonderful food. He has medication and therapy. He’s had some hard weeks in a great, big life.
“How much longer do I have to be in here?”
She presses down on her lips, so I know this isn’t going to be good news. “Not too much longer. They want to keep you under observation.”
“Oh my God.” My eyes flick all over the place. “Could I die?”
“No, no, no,” she says, shushing me. “It’s just . . . it wasn’t clear if you crashed your scooter or if you . . . jumped off, trying to . . . hurt yourself.”
Now it’s my turn to flood my eyes with tears. I can barely get the words out. “I wasn’t. Mom, I swear.”
“I believe you, baby. It’s just that you have a . . . history.”
That scar is now covered by a cast, the scar that runs down my left wrist like a scarlet S. But I was not trying to kill myself—I really hadn’t thought that far ahead—and I don’t know how many goddamn times I have to explain this. I didn’t want to die. I was just trying to feel something. It turns out feeling a cold blade slice into your flesh and then warm blood slopping onto the floor is actually infinitely worse than feeling nothing.
I clear my throat. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I jumped off the Vespa thinking that I wouldn’t get hurt. I wasn’t even really thinking about it. I thought . . . I was thinking about flying.”
My mom nods, processing this. Her eyes are lined in tiredness. She looks older and younger at the same time.
“As long as you’re doing okay tomorrow, the doctors need to move you to another hospital in Santa Rosa. It’s partially an insurance thing, you know, because—”
“It’s a psychiatric hospital. Right?”
“It has a psychiatry department, yes. But mostly you’ll be there to recuperate physically. They want you to have access to the psychiatric staff while you do. It’s only for a few days.” Her tears start in earnest again. “Viv, I would do anything for you—you know that, right? You’re my whole world, and I know I am not a . . . conventional mother, but I . . .”
“A conventional mother?” I give a weak laugh. “What does that mean?”
She looks embarrassed, something my mother has never been in her life—at least, not in front of me. “You know. I don’t bake chocolate chip cookies from scratch or care how late you stay up. I don’t keep tabs on you at all times or think you need lectures every day to make good choices.”
We look at each other for a few moments before I know what I want to say.
“Do you remember when I was little, when it was our turn to bring cookies to school? You bought sugar-cookie dough and let me put anything in them that I wanted.” My mind drifts back to pink sprinkles and mini marshmallows and those silver sugar balls that seem too pretty to be edible. I was always so proud that I made the cookies, that they weren’t like anyone else’s.
My mom frowns. “I remember.”
“Mom, I loved that.” More tears stream down my mom’s cheeks, and I’m unbearably sad that she feels this way. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that you have to deal with—”
“You never apologize to me about this, chickie.” She’s gripping my hands so hard now, like she can press these words right into my skin. “I’m so sorry. You’re so strong, and we’re going to figure it out. We just have to work better together. That’s what Dr. Douglas says.”
“You’ve been talking to Dr. Douglas recently?” She’s my therapist from Seattle, the one they made me see after the “suicide attempt.” At the time, I resented every moment spent in that chair. Now—I can’t explain it—I want her here. Because she already knows the worst of it, knows every hideous weed in my garden.
“Yes.” My mom doesn’t elaborate.
“Can she come here? Or can we go there?”
“Yes, we can figure that out,” she says. There’s yet another look on her face that I’ve never seen before. She looks steeled. Sure of herself. “I obviously can’t help you on my own. I should have known you weren’t taking your pills. I’m your mother. I should know how to help you better. I have to learn more, and I need to talk to her, too.”