Page 35

HARPER

The hospital smells like bleach and old coffee and something else—something sterile and heavy and clinical that clings to the back of my throat no matter how many times I swallow.

The air conditioning is cranked high, humming through the vents even though it's almost 30°C outside, the Florida humidity clinging to the windows like sweat.

I'm wearing a soft tank top Millie handed me this morning and the pair of light linen shorts she ordered while I was showering. I feel too small. My skin still remembers the sharp chill of Vancouver air, and now the heat of this place wraps around me like a fever I can't break.

Millie's beside me in a white cotton T-shirt and denim cutoffs, her hair pulled back in a messy braid she did with shaking fingers.

She looks exhausted. She looks beautiful.

She hasn't let go of my hand since we stepped into the hospital lobby.

It's all beige walls and uncomfortable chairs.

People moving with quiet urgency. It should feel busy, but it feels frozen. Or maybe I'm the one who is.

I'm not sure I've taken a real breath since the doors opened and swallowed my mother whole.

I don't remember walking here.

I don't remember sitting down.

I don't remember the nurse's name or the way Millie talked to the receptionist, clear and focused, while I stood behind her, shaking so hard my teeth clacked.

I remember her arm sliding around my waist, grounding me, like she's done a thousand times already in the past two months.

I stare at the wall across from me, at the peeling corner of a poster about blood donations.

I try to make myself care. I try to think about anything but the operating room a few doors down.

But all I can see is my mom's face when I saw her too many months ago.

Pale. Thinner. Still trying to smile for me.

She told me not to come back after that visit. Said she didn't want me to remember her like this. But she's still her. She's still my mother. And I'm still her kid, even if I don't know how to be one right now.

I press the heel of my hand into my chest like I can push down the panic clawing its way out.

Millie pulls me into her side, her arm wrapping around my shoulders, her lips brushing the top of my head. "I'm here," she whispers, like she already knows what I need.

I don't answer. I can't. My throat's closed up tight, like grief has its hands around it. But I lean into her, let myself curl into her warmth, even though my whole body feels like it doesn't belong to me.

A doctor finally comes out. His face is kind, but tired. His scrubs are wrinkled and stained at the hip. My heart stops in my chest.

"Harper Lane?" he asks.

I nod. Somehow, I stand. Millie stands with me. Her hand stays wrapped around mine.

"The surgery was successful," he says gently. "She made it through. But... her body's weak, Miss Lane. Her lungs are fragile, failing, and there were some complications we managed, but... she's not going to recover. I'm sorry. She doesn't have more than a few days."

His voice is calm. Clinical. Like he's done this a thousand times before.

And just like that, the floor disappears. I don't fall, not really, but I go quiet. Like the world dims around the edges. Like someone turned the volume all the way down and left me behind in the silence. My ears ring. My legs tremble. I forget how to exist.

Millie's arms are around me before I even register the tears on my face.

"I've got you," she murmurs, pressing her cheek to mine. "I've got you, baby. Just breathe."

I don't want to breathe.

I want to scream.

I want to rewind time.

I want to crawl into the hospital bed and hold my mother's hand until the end. I want this to be a nightmare.

I want a miracle.

Instead, I sob. Hard and silent and endless. I collapse into Millie like she's the only thing left tethering me to the earth. Because she is. She really is.

And she holds me. Fierce and steady and soft. The way no one's ever held me before. "I can't lose her," I whisper, my voice broken glass.

I'm not strong enough to lose my mom.

Millie doesn't let go of me as we walk. My legs barely work, like my bones forgot how to carry me. Like I'm floating somewhere outside my own body. The hallway feels too bright. Too clean. The linoleum shines under the fluorescent lights, and every step echoes like it's happening in a cave.

The nurse leads us past open doors and beeping monitors. I don't look inside any of them. I can't. If I see someone else's mother lying in a bed, it'll break me. And I'm already breaking.

Room 217.

That's where she is.

I pause just outside the door, my fingers clenched tight around Millie's. My heart feels too loud in my chest. My breaths come short and shallow.

"I can't—" I whisper, but the words die in my throat.

Millie turns to face me, her hands cupping my cheeks. Her thumbs are warm against my skin. "You don't have to go in until you're ready," she says gently. "But she's here. And she's still your mom. She's still fighting."

My eyes sting. "I don't want her last memory of me to be like this. Scared. Shaking. Useless."

She leans in, presses her forehead to mine. "Then just let it be you. That's all she wants. You don't have to be anything else right now."

I nod, even though nothing feels right. Even though every part of me wants to run.

When we step inside, the room is quiet except for the soft hiss of oxygen and the steady blip of her heart monitor.

The blinds are open, letting in a strip of sunlight that cuts across the foot of the bed.

Outside, the sky is cloudless and painfully blue.

The kind of sky that shouldn't exist on days like this.

My mom looks smaller than I remember. Her skin is pale and thin, her hair tucked behind her ears in wisps. There's an IV in her arm, and wires tucked into her hospital gown, and she looks like she's sleeping.

I stop a few steps in. I can't move.

Millie stays close. She doesn't touch me, doesn't speak, just stands beside me like a quiet anchor, like she knows I need her presence more than anything.

After a moment, I take one step. Then another. Then I'm at her side, my hand hovering above hers. She stirs. Her eyes open slowly—heavy, glassy—but she smiles.

Barely. But it's there.

"Hey, baby," she rasps.

I lose it. My knees hit the floor beside the bed. I grab her hand and hold it like it's the last real thing in the world. Tears stream down my face, but I don't wipe them away. I let them fall. I let her see all of it.

"Hi, Mom," I whisper, voice cracking.

"I told you not to come," she rasps, lips barely moving. She tries to make it light, teasing, like a mom scolding her kid for worrying too much. But there's no strength behind it. It's all breath and bones and fading light.

I choke on a sob, and it curls in my throat like a scream I can't get out.

I bring her hand to my lips, press it there like I can hold her in place just by touch.

She feels too warm and too cold all at once.

Her skin papery. Her bones sharp. I remember when these hands used to braid my hair, lift me into bed when I was too sleepy to walk, tap against countertops when she was trying not to worry.

"I had to," I whisper. "You're my mom."

Please don't leave me.

Her eyes flutter open, barely. It looks like it takes everything in her to focus. To find me in the blur of the sterile white lights and the quiet beeping of monitors. She looks at me like I'm still her baby, even now. Even when I'm broken and shaking and all grown up in the worst way.

She glances past me—just barely—and I know what she's asking before she even tries to speak. Her gaze flicks to the girl standing just behind me, the girl who's been holding me up without asking for anything in return.

"Who's that pretty lady?"she murmurs, and God, even that takes something from her. Her breath catches halfway through it, and I feel her grip weaken in my hand. But her eyes don't leave Millie.

I don't know what to say. I look up at Millie, standing still like she's afraid to breathe wrong. Her hands clasped in front of her. Her expression soft and open and careful. She doesn't want to intrude. She's just here. With me. For me.

"She's my..." I pause, my throat thick. "She's my friend."

My mom's lips twitch. It's barely a smile, but it's there. A whisper of amusement under the haze of morphine and pain.

"Are you sure?" she breathes. "Because I—I saw the news." Her eyes close for a moment, too tired to stay open, but the corner of her mouth lifts again. "You two... kissing. Coffee shop. The works."

Millie exhales a soft, startled laugh. I look back at my mom and feel the tears fall faster.

"You saw that?"

She nods, or tries to. "Thought... what the hell is my daughter doing on TV." She opens her eyes again, slow and aching. "She's kinda famous, huh?"

I lean closer, forehead brushing the edge of the pillow. I don't care that I'm crying. I don't care that my nose is running or that my chest is shaking or that my mom can barely speak. I need this. I need her.

"I love you," I say, voice wrecked. "So much, Mom. I'm so sorry it's like this. I'm so sorry I didn't come sooner."

She squeezes my hand again—barely—but it's there.

"You're here now."

I nod against her knuckles.

"You always were my favorite," she whispers, and the tears in my chest rip free again. I can't stop it. I don't want to.

Millie kneels beside me then, her arm slipping around my back like she knows I'm about to collapse. She doesn't say anything. Just holds me there, next to the woman who gave me everything she had.

There are so many wires. So many machines. The hospital room smells like antiseptic and air conditioning and the faintest trace of lavender—the lotion my mom always wore, the one Millie helped me pack without realizing what it was.

I don't know how to live in a world where my mom isn't alive in it. I don't know how to breathe past this moment.

My mom's eyes drift past me, over my shoulder, and land on Millie. She blinks a few times like she's trying to get her vision to sharpen, like she doesn't want to miss anything. Her hand twitches again in mine.

"You," she rasps. "Come closer."

Millie does, slowly, like she's walking into a church.

She sits on the edge of the bed, not too close, eyes wide and red and glassy.

She's trying to be strong, but I can feel the tremble in her hand still wrapped around my back.

Her other hand reaches for my mom's, tentative, asking for permission before she touches her.

My mom gives it—her fingers turning slightly to rest over Millie's.

"What's your name again?" she asks, voice barely a breath.

"Millie," she whispers. "Amelia, actually, but... everyone calls me Millie."

"That's a good name," my mom says, as if it's the most important thing in the world. She takes another long, slow breath. "What do you do, Millie?"

Millie swallows thickly. Her voice is soft, gentle. "I play hockey."

My mom's eyes flicker open a little wider. "Professional?"

Millie nods. "I'm the captain. Vancouver Storms,"

A ghost of a smile touches my mom's mouth. "Strong girl," she murmurs. "Figures."

Millie lets out a breath that's nearly a laugh, but there's nothing light about it. Her other hand brushes my back again. I feel her fingers tremble when my mom speaks again.

"Will you look after her?"

Millie's eyes snap to hers—wet, full of love and ache—and she nods like she's swearing an oath. "Yes," she says, fiercely. "Yes. I will. I already do."

My mom looks at me, then at Millie again, and she sees it—whatever it is between us. The quiet weight of it. The kind of love that sits low in your chest and doesn't need to be explained.

"You won't leave her alone?"

"Never," Millie says, and now her voice is cracking too. "I promise."

There's a long pause. My mom's eyes flutter shut for a second, like even this much is costing her everything. And then she opens them again and whispers, "You're in good hands, Harper. I can tell she's a nice girl."

I bury my face in the blanket beside her hand, and Millie reaches up, brushing the tears from my cheek with her thumb.

My mom's voice is so soft now it's almost not there at all. "Don't stop living, Harper. Don't let this... swallow you."

I nod, sobbing silently. "Okay," I whisper, though I don't know how. I don't know who I'll be without her.

Her gaze shifts to Millie one last time. "Remind her," she says, voice broken and slurred. "Remind her to keep going."

"I will," Millie breathes. "I promise. I'll take care of her."

And then my mom closes her eyes again. Her chest rises, falls. Barely.

I sit there holding her hand, my forehead resting against her blanket, while Millie holds me like she's trying to piece me back together one breath at a time. I don't know how much time we have left. An hour. A day. A week, if I'm lucky.

But every second is a goodbye, and every breath is heavier than the last.

And I don't know how to keep going.