You are doing your homework in the dining room when you hear a loud thud. You drop everything—pencil, folder, paper—to go make sure everything is alright.

     (Nothing is and nothing is ever right anymore).

Your mom is lying on the blue-tiles floor of the kitchen. The spatula lays a few feet away from her and you can hear the oil sizzling with the chicken she was going to make. Your mom is not awake. Blood. You see blood. A pool of it forms beneath her head. For a moment, you think she looks like Jesus. A holy woman—that's what your mom is. You remember church camp and communion classes. Why do the holy bleed?

     Call the ambulance and tell them the situation. Stay calm. STAY CALM.

My mom—she fell and now she's bleeding from her head. She's not waking up! Oh, god. Please! Please, can you send somebody!? She's not waking up!

Get on the ambulance with her. She may be out of it, but she's still the loveliest and scariest person you know. She will complain to whoever she can that the paramedics left her eleven-year-old daughter at home alone during such a nerve-wracking moment.

Follow emergency services into the emergency room. You watch them transfer your mom onto the other bed. The doctors and nurses open her eyes and point a penlight into her irises. You notice the pool of blood under her head. It soaks through the wrinkly, white sheets. Look down. You are too young. You don't need to see.

Talk to the man from social services. He's small, stubby, and balding, but he seems genuine. Answer his questions truthfully because you don't know any better and assume that he's simply trying to keep conversation.

I didn't see it happen. I just heard her hit the floor. Yes, she was bleeding when I got to her. Yeah, I'm scared. I'm not going to cry. I think I have to call my dad. Can I call him? Please?

Give him your dad's work number and pray to the god's that he answers. He almost never answers, but today seems like a good time to start doing so. He can come and then ask the Sinclair's to watch your sister until this blows over.

Answer, answer, answer-

He does. The social worker stays on the line with your dad for a few minutes. The man hangs up first and rubs his temples as if this whole situation is exhaustive for him. The social worker says that your dad is coming after he drops off your sister with the neighbors. Good. You won't be alone for much longer.

When your dad gets there, sweaty and panicked, let him hug you. Listen to him apologize for not being there when it happened. Don't tell him it was for the best. (You are stronger. You can handle it.). Watch him talk to the doctors and ask what happened. Listen to the doctors retell the story of your comatose mother. Take note of the way they are focusing on her heart.

Her heart couldn't have been the cause of it. No, not her heart.

Hold your dad's hand as the nurse leads you into your mom's hospital room. Make yourself comfortable. Sit on every chair and put your weight in it. You will be there a long time. Stay comfortable.

Listen to the doctor as he bears your mom's test results. He opens the manila folder up and you see a series of similar looking lines going up and down and up and up and down and up.

Your wife suffered from a heart attack. It took quite a toll on her heart and body. But, the fall—that's our worry. It was quite strong. Your wife bled a lot. We stopped the bleeding, but as of right now, it's a waiting game.

You wait. Your brain rakes over the doctor's words. Don't let your hope diminish so clearly. Your dad is still here. Do not let him see the diminishing of hope within you. Hours on end at your mother's bedside, you wait for her eyes to open. Her deep chestnut eyes—the same ones you have—you have to see them again.

Perk up when the hospital phone goes off. Let your dad answer. Listen to your dad talk to Mr. Sinclair and then to your sister. Tell your dad that it's okay if he goes to pick up your sister. You will stay here. You will stay here with your mom. You will not leave. If something were to happen, you would get a nurse. You will be responsible.

     Let your dad breathe a little.

     When your dad leaves, hold your mother's hand. Hold it tight. Memorize her fingers. Memorize how they fold against yours. Reminisce on the days she'd take you to the park with the Sinclair's and how she'd hold your hand when crossing the street. Look at the blue nail polish she had painted on a few days ago. Don't forget that you're abhorrent at doing your own. That you asked her to do them the day she did hers. Don't forget. REMEMBER IT.

     REMEMBER IT ALL.

     Don't cry when your sister arrives. Don't let her see you weak. You are the oldest. Hold her as she cries. Give her a hug. Tell her it will all be alright as your dad sits at your mom's beside, silent. You have to be strong. You CANNOT cry.

     Go to sleep on the chair you claimed. Close your eyes and let the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion take over. One day, you will realize that you deserved it. You won't hate yourself for doing so.

     The next day, after the doctor ordered more tests and labs to be run, don't freak out when he tells you that your mom is brain dead. That the heart attack took such a toll in her heart, it practically looks like a balloon. Coupled with the hard fall she took, he said, her chances of waking up are slim to non-existent.

     Deal with the fact that this will be the last time you will see your mom alive. Marinate in that feeling. Dread and emptiness—they're not nice together. Hold her face this time. Memorize the wrinkles on her face, count her eyelashes and freckles, and be grateful that this is the woman you called a mother. Kiss her cheek and let a lone tear roll down yours. You are no superhero. You are eleven. And your mom is brain dead. So, let that tear roll down.

     Argue with your dad when he says it might be best if you and your sister don't watch as they unplug your mom. Tell him that you want to be there. That you want to be there when the doctors wipe their hands free from your saint of a mother. Cry from frustration. Let your dad see your tears and let him realize that this is the first time you've cried since everything happened. Let your tears guilt him.

      Let your sister hold your mom's hand. She deserves it. Let her be the last person to hold your mom alive. You can give that up for her. (You can, you can, don't resent her, don't....). Watch as the doctor pulls the breathing tube from your mom's mouth. Listen to the machine grow erratic. The machine wants to save her mother. An innate object made of wires and codes has not given up yet. It still has hope. But, with the click off of a button, it is turned off. Another chance of survival, gone.

     Feel the pit of your stomach grow when the doctor says that it may take a while. Feel dread that you will have to watch your mom actively die and that no one will want to stop it. Attempt to understand science. Attempt to understand life. Why does life stop science? Why does science stop life? When do they work together to stop death? When will they stop working against each other to save your mom?

     Watch as the respirations your mom takes take longer to come after an hour and a half. Realize that you have arrived at the end of the road. Lean your head back and look up at the popcorn ceiling. Take this place in. The place your mom died. Take it in. Remember it. Do NOT come back.

     Place your small hand on her chest. Remember how your mom painted your nails. Red. She chose red this time. Close your eyes and let those tears fall. One breath. Cry and hold your dad's hand. Look over at your sister who is now crying as she stares at you.

     One breath.

     Try to wipe them away. Be strong, remember? Be strong. Why aren't you strong?

     One breath.

     Take note of how they are getting smaller and take longer to come. Her chest isn't rising as much as it had been before. It no longer looks as if she is breathing. It's barely anything anymore. Barely-

     One breath.

     Mommy, your sisters cries. Mommy, wake up. I love you. I want you to stay. Please, just stay. Don't leave. Mommy, please.

     Your sister drops to the floor in between sobs. Your dad lets go of your hand to comfort her. You are the only one holding onto your mom. You are the only one there with her. You do not want to be alone. You want them to hold her hand. Tell them to come back. That it is almost over. Tell them-

     One breath.    

     Flatline.

     Close your eyes and breathe in the rotting scent of death enclosed in the floral scent of your mom's hair.

      This is how you watch your mom die.

     The question now is—do you die with her or not?

"HOW'S THE SLEEP?"

Lucy blinks twice, and averts her eyes from the pink sign in her dad-mandated therapists's office that says, Rock On!, in a painfully corny font. She looks at her therapist, the third time she's done it since she arrived at the rundown building and asks, "Sorry?"

"Your sleep." The therapists tucks a strand of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. "Last time you were here, you said you weren't sleeping well."

(Sleep? Lucy Choi hasn't hand a good sleep in years. The last time she did was on the chair of the hospital room her mother was in—alive. She can't have her mom back which means she can't have her sleep back. She thinks it's a fair exchange.).

"It's fine now," Lucy lies. "I think it's just my bed. I've had it for years."

"That'll do it," her therapist laughs. "It certainly will."

Her therapist—Dr. Manning—is freshly out of school and was the cheapest her dad could afford after the... incident. So, Dr. Manning, a perky, smiling, yellow-wearing woman, has limited experience. In fact, Lucy is her first true therapy case. It should no surprise to Lucy that she's picked apart in a brightly-colored room that smells like autumn leaves and cinnamon. Dr. Manning's squared, wooden table is cluttered with open textbooks and notebooks that hold names to thousands of disorders Lucy could possibly have. Do you know how strange it is to feel like you're being dissected? To know that someone is picking apart all the words you say to fit them into a disorder?

Dr. Manning says talking and coming to a solution will help Lucy in the long run. Lucy disagrees. She thinks Dr. Manning wants a basket case. She wants someone so hurt and damaged that is almost impossible to cure. Here's the thing—Lucy is simply not that. She can live with her feelings. Her grief. She mothers it. She nurses it. She kisses it at the top of its head and tells it how much love she has for it. She holds onto it just as it holds on to her, strong and unwavering.

"Look, Lucy," Dr. Manning begins. "I know you've been growing impatient with these sessions. I know you want them to be over—"

Here comes the therapist.

"But, in order to get better—in order to move on from what happened on the bridge—we have to talk about your grief." Dr. Manning crosses her legs. "We have to talk about your mom."

My mom is mine, Lucy wants to say. My mom is mine and I won't let you pick apart her grave, looking for the tears I marked on her gravestone. She won't be the lab rat that you'll use to help me. What I did on the bridge was a moment of stupidity. I wasn't thinking and I wasn't actually going to do it. I was never going to jump. But, sitting here with you makes me want to jump off something.

Instead, Lucy says, "I just don't feel comfortable enough with that yet."

"Therapy is meant to be uncomfortable."

"I'm just not ready."

"No one ever is. But, in order to get better, you have to open up." Dr. Manning leans her elbows on top of her knees. "You have to talk."

Lucy shakes her head no. "I'm sorry. I just can't."

Dr. Manning sighs and looks at the golden watch on her wrist. "Then, I guess our time is up. Lucy, we'll continue this next week. And I hope you come prepared."