16 Things I Thought were True Part 5

I watch a monitor as it beeps out her heart's rhythm. "Me? I'm not strong."

"Yes, you are, Morgan. You're stronger than the boys. You've had to be." She sighs, and for a moment, her silence is deafening. This is not the usual script. She doesn't let go of my hand, and I barely 31 sixteenthings.indd 31 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

J a n e t G u r t l e r resist an urge to pull away from her. She squeezes it. "I always hated it when my parents pried into my life when I was a teenager," she says, "but you know you can always come to me."

I gently pull my hand away, pretending to have a scratchy arm.

"I did silly things too, Morgan. Everybody does. If there'd been camera phones around when I was younger." She whistles, and I glance away and her gaze follows mine, and we both stare outside the tiny window at mist creeping up a red brick wall. "Honestly, I expected Lexi to be a better friend," she says. My jaw clenches tight, and I close my eyes to keep out the images of me in under- wear. Dancing.

"Me too," I whisper and close my eyes, wis.h.i.+ng I didn't have to feel so incredibly guilty about what happened with that video.

It's quiet except for the whirs and beeps in the room, and then she sniffles. "I'm scared, Morgan," she whispers. I reach for her hand this time and squeeze, trying to forget my own pettier problems.

"You're going to be all right," I say, but it's hard to make my voice sound convincing when I don't know. She's been a smoker as long as I've been alive. And she loves wine and hates exercise. "You have to make changes. You will make changes," I say.

"Listen to you, acting like the mother." She tries to giggle but it turns into a sniffle. I reach over to the table beside her bed and take a Kleenex from the box and hand it to her. She takes it and loudly blows her nose. "I wish you had more friends to talk to," she says with another little sigh. "In case something happens to me."

"You're going to be fine," I answer automatically. "And I have friends."

She narrows her eyes. "I mean real ones."

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e Now this, this is the familiar script. I sit up straighter and hold in my comebacks. My online friends are real. No matter what she thinks.

"You're going to be okay, Morgan," she says.

I swallow and swallow again and breathe deeply, suppressing my urge to make this about me, to ask if I came with a money- back guarantee- or if a dream told her that. But this isn't the time or the place for old arguments.

"I'm not going to make it," she whispers.

"Mom. You'll be home before you know it." I wiggle myself a little closer to her on the bed, so my knee touches her hip. It's bony.

She's always kept herself so thin. "You're going to be fine."

"No." A single tear plops out of her eye and runs down her cheek.

My heart beats faster, and for a moment, I have an urge to throw up. She's not going to die. She's scared. She's going to have an operation and she's being melodramatic. I close my eyes and fight an instinct to flee the room, run to my phone.

"Yes," I say softly.

I stare down at her hand and notice age spots. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer to G.o.d. We're not always on great terms, but I hope He's listening.

"I owe you some explanations," she says.

I open my eyes, and she's staring at me so intently, I frown.

"Mom? You don't owe me anything," I say quietly. "And even if you did, you'll be home soon and can tell me then."

Frrrrrrrrrrapppppppppp.

There's a loud sound from the bed across the room. I turn my

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J a n e t G u r t l e r head, startled and realize the old man across from her farted. It's drawn out and loud and travels through the privacy curtain to us.

Mom and I stare at each other for a second and then we both start to laugh. The old guy snorts.

"Sorry 'bout that," he calls out. "d.a.m.n medication."

Mom and I laugh softly, but it dwindles quickly, and the room is quiet again, except for the whirring.

"I'm sorry for so many things," she says. "For not telling you..."

she continues, in a quieter voice.

My entire body goes stiff, on full alert. I don't move. I can't move.

"I should have told you I love you more." She wipes away a tear, and my own eyes fill up. I'm not used to this person; it's much easier dealing with the less helpless version of my mom.

I rub my eyes and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

"I know you love me," I say softly. The words taste foreign in my mouth.

In the back of my mind, I'm composing a tweet to make this funny somehow. Hashtag #awkwardparentmoments. It would probably trend on Twitter. I want to laugh at this to make the whole situation less real.

"Do you?" She stares intently at me, not blinking. "I've never been, you know, good at expressing things. And with you, you've always been so self- sufficient. You were an old soul, even when you were a baby. I swear you did everything on your own. I guess with the twins and the energy and attention they consumed, well, maybe I took your independence for granted." She stops talking and stares off past me, at the curtain separating us from the rest of the room. I remember being 34 sixteenthings.indd 34 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e younger and trying desperately to earn her attention. The things I did never seemed to matter as much as the boys' things.

This hospital version doesn't look the same or talk the same way as the mom I know. She doesn't even smell the same. "You're a lot like your father, you know, and sometimes I guess I resented you for that."

Everything in my body goes on high alert. I don't move.

Something fills my stomach, but it's impossible to tell if it's excitement or anxiety. My dad?

I don't even blink, yet somehow a tear rolls down my cheek and slides into the corner of my mouth. I ignore the salty taste and hold my breath, waiting for her to continue. I've never been this terrified, terrified she'll say more about him- terrified she'll stop and leave me with nothing but this one small mention. I'm like him?

Layers of silence pile on top of each other. Finally she sighs. "He had a dry sense of humor, your dad." She says it quietly and then laughs, staring off out the window, seeing something I can't. A memory of him? My dad. I want to see it. I want to peer inside her head and see it.

"You're smart like him. He could do math in his head in seconds.

And he could turn on the charm." Her eyes focus, and she turns to me. "You'll be able to do that someday- when you grow into your skin."

Her specialty- the backhanded compliment. Still, I lean forward and will her to continue. My heart beats so fast and loud I feel it in my throat, but if she doesn't say more about my father, it will stop and I will die. My math comes from him? What else?

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J a n e t G u r t l e r "Your awkward phase won't last forever."

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. No. This isn't what I want.

I don't want to hear about my faults. I open my eyes. She's about to have surgery. I shouldn't upset her. But she brought him up.

My insides are close to exploding, wanting to demand more. But I breathe and wait, reminded of the silent treatments I used to get if I dared ask questions about my dad when I was little. She never told me anything about him. Not if I cried, not if I had a tantrum, not even if I refused to eat. She knew eventually I'd stop and get hungry enough to leave her alone. And I did. I heard that being ignored has the same effect on the brain as being physically hit. My bruises were invisible.

She reaches up and moves my hair from my eyes. "Your blond hair is his too."

She smiles but it's low voltage and never reaches her eyes. "I loved him. It was different than with the twins' father. Than with any other man." She shakes her head and stares off again, caught up in her own memories. Ones I've never been privy to. She loved him?

My dad?

"I was so young when I had the boys."

I don't want to hear about Josh or Jake but don't dare interrupt.

"He swept me off my feet." She reaches up and traces her fingers over her lips.

Footsteps traipse by outside the hall, and I glance over and see a nurse hurry past.

"He asked me out at work. Before he knew I was a mom. I mean, he found out eventually, of course, and he met the twins. He liked

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e them enough, but the boys were two and kind of a handful. When we spent time together, the twins usually stayed with their dad, with George."

I hold my breath.

"He didn't want to be a father."

I strain to keep my emotions off my face, to hide the wound, the puncture she pounded into my chest. "When I realized I was pregnant..." She sniffles. "Well, he didn't want to be a father," she repeats and closes her eyes and folds her hands over her chest.

I wonder if the old men are listening through the curtain, hear- ing the truth about me- if they feel sorry for me that my dad didn't want me, or if they wonder if I got what I deserved.

"Do you ever talk to him?" I ask softly. "About me?"

"He's never asked," she says without opening her eyes.

Boom. Right through my heart again- an even bigger puncture.

I lift my chin. "Is he dead now?"

"Dead?" She opens her eyes, frowning. "Of course he's not dead.

Why would you think that?"

As if I haven't imagined ways he's died hundreds of times. As if I never wondered about him just because she didn't want me to. "You never told me anything," I whisper. "I didn't know what to think."

"He's not dead," she repeats.

The pain in my chest expands. I hope I'm not close to having a heart attack too. I have a father. It wasn't immaculate conception.

Mom presses her lips tighter and then turns away from me, star- ing out the window. "I'm the one who's dying."

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J a n e t G u r t l e r "No, you're not." I fight to keep bitterness from my voice- and the fear. If she leaves me, I'll be all alone. The twins aren't exactly responsible- adult material. I reach for ChapStick in my pocket, pull it out, yank off the lid, and jab my lips. "You're having surgery.