Somebody Up There Hates You by Hollis Seamon

it’s crushed under a load of stones and someone keeps heaping them on. Every sob, another boulder. “Ma,” I keep saying. “It’s all right, Ma. I’m fine, I swear. Come on, Ma. Don’t cry. Stop crying.” My own voice breaks, and then, of course, I’m crying like a baby, too. And then I can’t breathe and I think maybe I’ll die, right here right now. And that would be kind of a relief.
    But I don’t.
    So we both sit there, on opposite ends of the phone, crying until we can’t cry anymore. We both get quiet, clinging to our separate phones. Then, finally, I have an idea. “Call Grandma,” I wheeze. “I want Grandma to come up and take care of you. It’s time. Do it.”
    There’s a very long silence. See, my mom and her mom don’t see eye to eye on much of anything. Not since my mom was seventeen and knocked up and wouldn’t even tell anyone who did that to her. Locked her lips. Or maybe even since way before that; maybe from when Grandma, a tough Jersey girl, was sixteen and herself knocked up, and the baby in her belly—the one that made her leave high school and miss her prom and basically ruined her life—was my mom. I mean, it’s hard to understand, for me. They talk on the phone, like, daily, but in person, they’re horrible. In person, they’re crazy, always mad, always both of them right, about everything. Both of them just constantly pissed off and throwing verbal punches. But from what I can hear, when Mom’s whispering on the phone lately, Grandma has been begging to come up, to help us, she keeps saying. For months, she’s been begging. To be here, to see us through this. But Mom’s been saying nothing but no. No. No. Not yet. Like she’s totally terrified that when she calls her mom and lets her come up here, that’s like the signal for the end. Surrender. White flag. SUTHY wins. And maybe even Grandma feels like that, too, because she hasn’t just shown up on her own, either. I get it, I really do, but right now I just want my mom not to be alone. I want someone to take care of her, for once in her life. ’Cause if she’s all alone and she’s sick and crying, I swear to god, I’ll break out of here and take care of her myself. I’ll call a cab. I’ll walk.
    And that’s what I tell her. “Ma, do it. Or I’ll come home. I’ll just fucking break out of here and come home. I mean it. No one can stop me, if I really want to go. You know what? Maybe I’ll just call Phil. He’ll come get me.”
    There’s still silence. See, here’s the other thing: she’s totally scared that if I step one inch outside of this hospital, germs will pile all over me and carry me off. That’s part of why she’s so pissed at Phil. He took me outside these sacred walls. She thinks—she makes herself think—that being in a hospital keeps me safe. Maybe even that a hospital, despite all she knows about it, equals a cure. The miracle around the corner.
    â€œI mean it, Ma. I’m on my way.” I throw off my sheets and start banging the rails of my bed, loud enough for her to hear me.
    Finally, there’s just the smallest whisper. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
    And what scares the holy shit out of me is her voice, giving in. Giving up.
    ***
    Rest of the day, I lie on my side in bed, looking out into the gray sky. I keep my back to the door. If anyone comes by, they’ll think I’m asleep. Once, I think I smell Sylvie’s perfume, floating in from the doorway, and I hear a soft little, “Hey, Rich-Man,” but not even that can make me turn around.
    Three o’clock rolls around and Edward comes in. He bends over the bed and says, “You still with us, my man? I heard you had a rough morning.”
    I just sort of shrug under the sheet.
    He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Sulking, Richard?