"What do you mean?"
He looks at me, an unreadable expression on his face. "There are a lot of studies of people in comas. A lot of evidence to suggest they are aware and hear us. Some even have memories of conversations when they finally wake up."
"She said my mother is brain dead." The words sink like rocks in my throat, choking me.
"There's a lot science can't explain. Don't give up hope."
"Hope. Did you know that's what my last name means? Spero is hope in Latin. My mom always says it's a reminder to never lose hope, no matter how bleak the situation. Dum spiro spero."
"'While I breathe, I hope,'" he says, surprising me with the English translation of the Latin.
I nod. "That's what she'd tell me."
"It's good to have hope," he says.
A nurse arrives to take me back.
Es and Pete follow at my heels but the nurse shakes his head. "I'm sorry, only family is permitted beyond this point."
Es squeezes my hand. "We'll be here waiting for you, honey. Take as long as you need."
I nod and follow the nurse through the halls and around a corner. He stops in front of a door and pauses, his hand on the latch. "We've made her as comfortable as possible."
"Thank you."
He opens the door, and I walk in with determination. I won't give up. I won't stop believing she is in there somewhere. She's still breathing. There's still hope.
My mom is lying in the bed, hooked up to machines and monitors, when we walk in. Her skin is pale, her face blank, expressionless, her red, wild hair spread over her pillow. I walk over and reach for her hand, holding it, praying for some sign that she can hear me. "Hi, Mom. It's Ari. I'm here now, and everything is going to be okay."
The nurse checks my mother's chart then walks to the door. "I'll leave you alone with her. Ring the buzzer if you need anything."
"What's your name?" I ask, as he's about to leave.
"I'm Tom, and I'll be on shift the rest of the day. I'll take good care of your mother."
"Thank you, Tom."
I look back at my mom and smooth the hair out of her eyes. "I need you. You can't leave me yet. I may be an adult, but I still need you." I squeeze her hand, turning it over in mine, and I notice something on the inside of her wrist. A design I've never seen before. A sort of stylized number seven with two lines parallel to the top. It's not a tattoo, or a burn. It almost looks... like a scar, but not really. It's raised and pale, almost glowing. Just like the symbol on the stranger at The Roxy last night. Well, the actual design is different, but the style, the strangeness of it is the same. I take my phone out and snap a picture, then text it to Es and Pete.
Either of you seen something like this?
Pete texts back first.
Need to talk ASAP!
I frown at his response.
Do you know something about this symbol?
He doesn't respond. I tap on the screen of my phone, as if that will make him respond faster. When it doesn't, I sigh and look at my mom. She's so still. I want to believe. To have hope.
I'm about to leave, to seek out Pete and find out what he knows, when a petite woman in a business suit walks in with a clipboard. "Miss Spero, I need to get some information about your mother's insurance."
I can't believe I have to deal with the banality of money and insurance when my mother is fighting for her life, and thirty minutes later I want to scream. Her insurance won't cover even a fraction of what it would take to keep her on life support long term. And the cost. All those zeros. I can't even begin to fathom how I'll come up with the money.
All on the hope that she might someday wake up.
I take the papers the woman hands me and stand. "I'll have to think about this," I say, skirting out the door.
I find Es and Pete snuggling in the waiting room watching cat videos on Pete's phone. When they see me they both stand. "We need to talk," Pete says.
I nod.
Pete looks around like someone might be watching. Like anyone cares at all about our conversation. "But not here."
I roll my eyes and follow him out of the hospital. He's parked out front.
I freeze. "Why don't we just walk?"
Es reaches for my hand. "It's time, darlin'. You have to get over this."
Today? Do I really have to do this today? But as I'm standing there, a torrent of rain falls from the sky, soaking us all. To their credit, my friends stand there in the rain, soaking wet, cold, shivering, waiting for me. I nod and climb into the back of the car. "Where are we going?"
"Your house should be safe enough. If that's okay? Our roommate is home and not to be trusted with this conversation," Pete says, pulling out onto the street.
"How are things going with the roommate?" I ask, bracing my hands against the back of Pete's seat, my knuckles turning white.
Es looks over her shoulder at me, rolling her eyes. "It's a nightmare. I swear to god, once I have the money for my surgery, we are out of there." She reaches for Pete's free hand. "It's time we had our own place."
The roads are slick with ice and Pete drives like an old woman, for which I'm grateful. My nails leave imprints in the faux-leather fabric, and I don't stop shaking until we pull up in front of my apartment. When I slide out of the car, I'm dizzy with the jagged memories that cut at me like broken glass.