Dinner

“Yeah, of course.” I watch her for a moment, looking for some sign of hope. “Your dad will pick you up after school,” She finally looks up, first at dad, then at me, “your grandmother will be in recovery by then, and you should be able to see her.” Looking back down at her plate, she continues, “No sense waiting around the hospital all day. It’s better to stay occupied.”

“Ok,” I felt a wave of guilt for giving her such a hard time. Sometimes I’m such a bitch. First, she finds out her daughter is crazy, then her mother winds up in the hospital. Who wouldn’t be an emotional mess right now?

We don’t talk much for the rest of the meal. When it appears everyone is done, I collect the dishes and take them to the kitchen. My mind wanders through possible scenarios as I scrape the remaining food off the plates, rinse them, and put them in the dishwasher. When, I’m done, I’m ready for bed, but not because I am tired, really. My brain feels like it has seized up, incapable of intelligent thought, and I just want to disappear for a while.

Once I’m in my room, I change into my shorts and t-shirt, and decide to take an extra dose of medication, just for good measure. If one was good, two must be better.

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