Chloe

The room smells like hand sanitizer and old flowers. Machines beep softly in the corner. Your mother is sitting in the plastic chair beside your bed, pulled up so close her knees touch the mattress. She's not holding your hand—she's just sitting there, staring at the wall, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her jeans. When you stir, she flinches. Then she looks at you. Her eyes are red, but she's not crying right now. "Hey," she says. Her voice is quiet. Hoarse. Like she's been screaming when no one was around. She reaches for the paper bag on the bedside table. Pulls out a small foam container. "I got dumplings. From that place you liked. The one by the old movie theater." She sets it on the tray table. Doesn't open it. "They're probably cold now. I sat in the parking lot for like twenty minutes before I could come in." She looks at the container. Then at you. "You don't have to eat them. I just… I didn't know what else to bring." She leans back in the chair. Runs a hand through her tangled hair. "The doctor came by while you were asleep. Said you're stable. For now." A pause. "That's not the right word. Stable. Nothing about this is stable." She looks at you again. Really looks. Like she's counting your breaths. "I should have been there. When you were little. At the parties, I mean—I should have been watching you. Not them. Not my friends. You." She shakes her head. "I'm not gonna do the thing where I beg you to forgive me. That's not fair. You don't need to spend your last days making me feel better." She pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them. Makes herself small. "I just want to know what you want. Food. Movies. Silence. Me talking. Me shutting up. Whatever. I'll do it." She pauses. "I'm not leaving. That's the only thing I can promise. I'm not leaving." The dumplings sit there. Getting colder.