Chapter 51 - Please Come Back To Me
I was half listening to the radio, feet up on the coffee table, chewing on something I don’t even remember making, when my mom appeared in the doorway.
“I need you outside. Right now.”
Something in her voice shut everything else off.
“What’s—” I started, already standing, already grabbing my jacket.
“Just come,” she said, turning toward the door.
I followed without arguing. I always did when she sounded like that.
Slumped in the passenger seat. Head tipped toward the window. Too still.
My chest dropped straight through my stomach.
“Jesus,” I breathed, already moving.
Mom opened the door and I leaned in without thinking. Her skin looked pale. Her mouth was parted just enough that I could see her breathing—but it wasn’t right. Shallow. Measured.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Rizz.”
Mom’s hand came down on my shoulder. Solid. “She’s out,” she said. “But she’s breathing. Stay steady.”
I nodded even though my hands were already shaking.
I didn’t think about how. I just reached in and lifted her, careful the way Mom told me to be even before she said it. Her weight hit me all at once—too light, too loose, like she wasn’t fully in herself.
Her head fell against my chest.
Something inside me split clean open.
“It’s okay,” I whispered automatically. “I’ve got you.”
I carried her inside like that, repeating it under my breath without realizing.
I laid her down on the couch as gently as I could, adjusting her so she could breathe, pulling a blanket over her but not too high. I didn’t want her covered. I wanted to see her chest move.
Mom was already there, fingers at her wrist, brushing hair back from her face.
“I need to clean it,” I said as I rushed to my room.
“What?,” she asked calling to me.
“My room,” I swallowed. “I need to clean it. For her.”
I didn’t wait for her to answer.
I was already down the hall, already ripping the sheets off my bed like they’d done something wrong.
I balled them up in my arms and headed for the basement.
The stairs creaked under my feet. I took them too fast, nearly missing one, my hand slamming into the railing to steady myself. The basement smelled like damp concrete and detergent — cold, unfinished, real.
I shoved the sheets into the washer. Pillowcases. Blanket. All of it.
My hands were shaking now. I stared at them like they didn’t belong to me.
“Get it together,” I muttered.
The machine roared to life. Loud. Sudden. I leaned back against the wall and dragged a hand down my face, breathing hard like I’d just run somewhere.
I stayed down there longer than I needed to.
When the washer finished, I transferred everything to the dryer and set it longer than necessary. Extra heat. Extra time. Like that might make it safer somehow.
Then I stood there, staring at the spinning drum, until I remembered she was upstairs.
I took the steps two at a time.
When I went back into the living room, she was still there.
Mom sat beside her, one hand steady on her wrist, the other smoothing the blanket like this was something she’d done a hundred times.
“She’s stable,” she said quietly. “But she’s not okay.”
My eyes never left Rizzo.
“How long on the dryer?” she asked.
“Forty minutes,” I said. “I can reset it.”
“That’s fine,” she nodded. “That’ll do.”
I swallowed. My chest felt tight, like I’d been holding.
“What happened?” I asked. My voice cracked, and I hated that it did.
My mom didn’t answer right away. She waited until she was standing beside me, close enough that if I swayed she could grab me.
“She was discharged too early,” she said calmly. “That’s the first thing you need to understand.”
My jaw clenched. “They just let her go?”
“Yes,” she said. “And they shouldn’t have.”
I looked down at Rizzo again. Her breathing was shallow, deliberate. Like she was doing it on purpose even now.
“She has a fractured rib,” Mom continued. “Broke it during labor.”
The words didn’t land right away. They bounced. Skipped.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s why she can’t breathe deeply. Why she’s in that much pain. Why she’s been vomiting, shaking, spiking a fever.”
“She had a fever?” I asked.
“All night,” She said. “And she dissociated. Multiple times.”
I looked at her sharply. “What does that mean.”
My mom met my eyes. Didn’t flinch.
“It means her body and her mind are overloaded,” she said. “And when that happens, she checks out. Goes quiet. Goes somewhere else.”
I thought of her on the couch. Of how still she was.
“She almost went under again at the doctor’s office,” she added. “That’s why she’s here.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides.
“So what do we do?” I asked. “Do we take her back to the hospital?”
“No,” mom said immediately. “That would make it worse.”
That surprised me. She saw it on my face.
“She was restrained. Sedated. Forced to push through pain she couldn’t control,” She said. Her voice stayed even, but something steel-hard ran underneath it. “Another hospital stay right now would retraumatize her.”
“She rests,” Mom said. “She’s monitored. She’s not alone. And she’s somewhere quiet.”
Her eyes flicked to the hallway. To my room.
“That’s why she’s here. She needs quiet, care and a safe space. No crying baby, no crying boyfriend. She needs to heal.” she finished.
I nodded slowly, my head buzzing.
“You mind taking the couch?” she asked, apologetically, as if there was more than one response.
“No,” I said immediately. “Of course not. I already— I’m washing everything. I can remake it. I’ll—”
“I know,” she said gently. “I figured you would.”
She looked at me for a second longer than necessary.
I laughed once, breathless. “No.”
She nodded. “You will be.”
I dragged a hand through my hair. “Is she gonna be okay?”
She didn’t lie. Didn’t rush to reassure.
“She will be,” she said carefully. “But not if she’s pushed. And not if she feels like she has to hold it together for everyone else.”
“She hates being a problem,” I said quietly.
“I know,” Mom replied. “That’s why this is hard for her.”
We stood there for a moment, both of us watching her breathe.
Then she said, softer now, “She asked for you.”
My heart lurched. “She did?”
“Not clearly,” She said. “But your name came up more than once.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“She’s safe here,” Mom continued. “But I need to know something.”
“When she wakes up scared,” she said, “can you stay calm?”
“Even if she doesn’t recognize where she is?”
“Even if she cries,” She pressed. “Or shakes. Or asks you not to leave.”
“Yes,” I said again, louder this time.
Maggie studied me. Then nodded once.
“Good,” she said. “Then we’re on the same page. She’s going to need steady,” she said quietly. “Not perfect. Just steady.”
I looked down at Rizzo. At the girl who used to steal my fries and punch my arm and laugh like nothing could touch her.
“I can do steady,” I said.
She placed a hand briefly on my shoulder.
“I think you already are,” she said.
And for the first time since she walked in, my chest loosened just enough to breathe.
I went to the basement like my legs already knew the way.
The washing machine thumped softly, steady and mechanical. Normal. Too normal for how loud everything felt inside my chest.
I pulled the sheets out of the dryer the second the buzzer stopped, not caring that they were still warm. I shook them once, hard, like that might knock the fear loose. It didn’t.
I folded them the way my mom taught me — corners first, smooth the wrinkles, don’t rush. I caught myself rushing anyway and forced my hands to slow down.
She needs clean sheets. She needs calm. She needs this to be right.
I took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, and went straight to my room.
It looked wrong already. Too much me in it. Posters on the wall. Books on the desk. Clothes thrown over the chair like I still mattered in here.
I stared at the bare mattress. Blank slate.
I stretched the fitted sheet tight, snapping the corners into place. Smoothed it with my palms. Again. And again. Until it was flat.
Top sheet next. Perfectly centered. No bunching.
I tucked it in tight — hospital corners, the way Mom always did when someone was sick. The way she said made people feel held even when they were asleep.
I changed the pillowcases too. Both of them. Even the spare. I wanted everything to smell clean. Neutral. Safe.
I picked out the softest blanket I owned — the one Mom always complained about because it shed. I shook it out and laid it carefully across the foot of the bed.
Not too heavy. Not too light.
I stepped back and looked at it.
I pulled the blanket back slightly. Loosened it. Made it look lived in. Like she wasn’t a guest. Like she belonged here.
“She’s not dying,” I muttered to myself, under my breath. “She’s not.”
I went to the dresser and opened the drawer with the old T-shirts. The soft ones. The ones that had been washed a hundred times and didn’t feel like seams anymore.
I picked one out without thinking. Gray. Faded. Worn thin.
I folded it and set it on the nightstand.
In case she wakes up sweating. In case her dress feels wrong. In case she needs something that smells like a person instead of a house.
My hands shook when I finally sat on the edge of the mattress.
I pressed my palms into the sheet, grounding myself.
“You’re okay,” I told myself. “You’ve got this.”
I stood up fast before I could second-guess it and headed back to the living room.
She was still asleep when I got there. My mom was sitting nearby, arms folded, eyes on her chest rising and falling.
“Ready?” She asked quietly.
“Yeah,” I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “Whenever you are.”
And just like that, my room wasn’t mine anymore.
And I’d never been more sure of anything in my life.
“I’ll sit with her until she settles,” She said. “I want eyes on her for a bit.”
My mom didn’t announce it.
She just shifted closer and started working — two fingers at Rizzo’s wrist, eyes on her chest, counting breaths like it was muscle memory.
Doorframe. Hands braced against the wood. Watching.
She checked her pulse first. Then her breathing. Then reached into her bag and pulled out the thermometer like she’d been carrying it all along.
“Still warm,” she murmured to herself. “Not climbing. That’s good.”
She adjusted the blanket, careful not to press against Rizzo’s side, then checked again — wrist, chest, timing it all in her head.
I just watched the way she did it — calm, deliberate, like nothing in the world existed except the girl in my bed and whether she was still here.
“All of it,” I said. “What you’re doing. How you know when something’s wrong.”
“You understand,” she said, “that once you know how to do this, you don’t get to un-know it.”
“And if you’re the one watching her,” she continued, “then you’re responsible for saying something if it changes.”
I nodded. “That’s why I need to learn.”
She studied my face for a second longer — not searching for permission, just checking for steadiness.
Then she stepped back enough to make room.
“Okay,” she said. “Come here.”
She guided my hand to Rizzo’s wrist.
“Two fingers,” she instructed. “Light pressure. You’re not digging — you’re listening.”
I swallowed and did exactly what she said.
“There,” she murmured. “You feel that?”
But what I didn’t say was how it felt.
Not just the rhythm — steady, fragile — but the warmth under my fingertips. The proof of her. Alive. Here. Still fighting even when she wasn’t awake to know it.
Something in my chest went soft. Uncomfortably so.
I did, forcing myself to focus. One. Two. Three.
Her pulse pushed back against my fingers like it was answering me. Like it knew I was there.
The room went quiet except for the sound of Rizzo breathing and the soft tick of the clock on the wall.
“You’re steady,” my mom said after a moment.
I nodded, throat tight, afraid if I spoke it would give something away.
Because standing there, feeling her heartbeat under my hand, I wasn’t just learning how to take vitals.
I looked down at her — asleep, fragile, breathing — and something locked into place inside me.
My mom checked the watch pinned to her sweater, then Rizzo again. Her hand stayed at her wrist a second longer than necessary, like she was double-checking something only she could feel.
“She’s stable,” she said softly. “For now.”
I nodded. Didn’t look away from Rizzo.
Mom shifted her weight, fatigue finally catching up to her posture. I could see it now — the tightness in her shoulders, the way she rolled her neck like it ached. She’d been on her feet all day. All night before that.
“I’m gonna sit with her a bit,” she added. “Just until I’m sure she settles.”
It came out firmer than I meant.
I swallowed and tried again. “You should sleep.”
“I can stay,” she said, automatically. “I don’t mind.”
“I know,” I said. “But you should sleep anyway.”
She studied my face then — really studied it — like she was trying to decide whether this was bravado or something steadier underneath.
“I can wake you if anything changes,” she said carefully.
“I know,” I replied. “But I’ll wake you first. You didn’t sleep last night.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Danny—”
“I can handle it,” I said. Not rushed. Not defensive. Just honest. “I’ve got the numbers. I know what her breathing should look like. I know what her pulse felt like before.” My voice dipped. “And I’m not gonna sleep anyway.”
My mom glanced back at Rizzo. At the slow rise and fall of her chest. At the way her hand was curled, loose but not empty.
“If she wakes up she’s gonna be disoriented,” she said quietly. “Possibly scared.”
“She might not recognize where she is.”
“And she might call for someone who isn’t here.”
My chest tightened, but I didn’t look away. “I’ll be here.”
Then my mom exhaled — slow, deliberate — the kind of breath that meant she was letting go of control instead of losing it.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll lie down for a bit. Door open.”
“I’ll come get you,” I promised.
She nodded once. Then, softer: “Wake me if you even think something’s wrong.”
She paused in the doorway, looking back at me one last time.
“You’re doing good,” she said.
I didn’t answer. I just nodded, because if I tried to say anything, my voice would’ve cracked.
The door closed quietly behind her.
And just like that, it was just me.
Me, and the steady sound of Rizzo’s breathing.
And the knowledge that for the first time all night — maybe all week — someone else was finally resting.
It happened slow at first.
I noticed it before she did — the change in her breathing. Not faster exactly. Just… wrong. Shallow, uneven, like she was skimming the surface instead of actually resting.
I leaned forward in the chair.
“Rizz,” I whispered. “Hey.”
Her brow creased. Just a flicker. Then her fingers twitched against the blanket.
Her breathing hitched, sharp and quick, like she was trying to outrun something inside her. The color drained from her face, sweat breaking across her forehead almost instantly.
“Okay,” I murmured, moving closer. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
They went wide, panicked, tracking the room like it was a stranger. Like it was closing in.
“Don’t—” she gasped. “Don’t make me—”
I was at her side immediately, one hand on her forearm, firm but gentle. Grounding. The way my mom always did.
“Rizzo,” I said, steady. Low. “Look at me.”
Her hands came up, shaking, clutching at the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her tethered.
“I can’t breathe,” she cried. “I can’t—”
“I know,” I said. “I know it hurts. But you are breathing.”
I leaned closer so she could feel me, not just hear me.
“Okay,” I said softly. “We’re gonna do something together.”
“Count for me,” I said. “Just look around and tell me five things you can see.”
She shook her head, panic spiking again. “I— I can’t—”
“You don’t have to think,” I said quickly. “Just look.”
I waited. Didn’t rush her.
Her breath hitched once. Then again.
“The… the lamp,” she whispered finally. “The— the window.”
“That’s good,” I said immediately. “Keep going.”
Her eyes dragged across the room like it took effort to move them.
“Your… your jacket,” she murmured. “The chair. The— the radio.”
I nodded even though she wasn’t looking at me yet.
“Good,” I said. “You’re doing perfect.”
Her breathing started to slow — not steady yet, but no longer spiraling.
“Now four things you can feel,” I continued, gentle but firm. “You can say them out loud or just think them.”
“The blanket,” she said. “Your hand. The pillow. The bed.”
“That’s it,” I murmured. “You’re here. You’re with me.”
Her eyes finally flicked to mine for half a second.
“That’s it,” I said immediately. “Stay with me. You’re okay.”
Her breathing stuttered, then slowed — uneven, but no longer panicked.
Behind me, I heard the faintest movement.
I knew my mom was standing in the doorway, watching. Not stepping in. Letting me finish what I’d started.
Rizzo’s gaze settled on me fully now, recognition bleeding back in like color returning to a photograph.
“I’m here,” I said. “I’ve got you.”
Her grip tightened on my hand like she was afraid I’d vanish if she let go.
“I thought—” Her voice broke. “I thought it was happening again.”
“I know,” I said softly. “But it’s not. You’re safe. You’re in my room. You’re not alone.”
Her body shuddered once, hard — then again.
And that’s when I felt it. Her.
I shifted, brushing my knuckles across her temple.
“Okay,” I said calmly, even as my pulse spiked. “Hey. I’m gonna get my mom real quick, all right? I’m not leaving you.”
Her eyes widened immediately. Panic flared.
“No,” she said, clutching my sleeve. “Don’t go.”
“I won’t,” I promised. “She’s right here.”
That’s when my mom stepped forward.
Not fast. Not urgent. Just present.
“I’m here, I’m here,” she said quietly.
“She’s warm, really warm,” I informed her, my mom put her hand on her forehead and her eyes widened.
Rizzo’s breathing hitched again, but she didn’t spiral this time. She stayed with me.
“You did good,” she said to me quietly. Not praise. Confirmation.
Rizzo’s grip on my sleeve loosened just a little. Not enough to let go. Enough to breathe.
Mom reached into her bag without looking, fingers already knowing where everything was. “I’m just gonna check a few things, okay? You don’t have to do anything.”
She slipped the thermometer under her tongue with practiced ease, then reached for Rizzo’s wrist.
I watched her fingers settle there — two fingers, light pressure.
Fast. Too fast. Fluttery, like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to do.
Something in my chest went soft and tight all at once.
“One hundred point three,” she said pulling the thermometer out, “She’s tachycardic,” my mom said quietly, mostly to herself. “Not unexpected. Fever’s climbing.”
She checked her blood pressure next, wrapping the cuff around Rizzo’s arm with the same calm she used when I was sick as a kid. The cuff hissed softly as it tightened.
I leaned in without thinking. “You’re okay,” I murmured. “It’s just squeezing.”
Her eyes flicked to me again. Stayed there this time.
The cuff released. My mom glanced at the gauge.
“Low,” she said. “But stable.”
Rizzo’s eyes fluttered, exhaustion dragging at her now that the worst of the panic had passed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, already fading. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey,” I said immediately. “No apologies.”
I brushed her hair back, slow, repetitive. Grounding.
“You did great,” I told her. “You stayed.”
The heaviness in her eyes dragged her down. Her breathing evened out again. Not perfect. But better. Her grip on my hand loosened as she drifted back to sleep.
My mom tilted her head toward the door as she walked out. I turned back to Rizzo, securely asleep, breathing. I reluctantly got up and followed my mom to the couch, leaving the door open so if anything happened we could hear it.
“She feels comfortable with you,” she said softly. “I could’ve used you last night.”
“What happened last night?”
“More than that, vomiting, shaking, disassociating, hysteria. It was rough,”
“I would’ve come, if I knew,”
“I know you would’ve,” she said, her demeanor changed. “Danny, let me ask you something,”
“When you were younger, this girl was over almost everyday, and one day she stopped, it wasn’t gradual, she stopped coming here and you stopped going there. Friendship like that doesn’t just go away,” she said looking at me. Really looking at me.
“It doesn’t.” I said, not knowing what to say next.
The question I was avoiding.
“It’s not important,” I shrugged off the question but my mom was too intuitive for that.
“It is important, what happened Danny?”
“Nothing, we were just at her house one night, and you were working late, her parents were… her parents. And we were just hanging out, talking and then we stopped talking.” I closed my eyes, remembering the night clearly.
“You kissed?” She asked, sounding hopeful.
I nodded, avoiding her eyes.
“Anything else you’d like to add?” She pressed.
“Do you want me to spell it out for you?” I snapped.
“Daniel!” Damn, the full name. She wasn’t happy. “How old were you?”
“I don’t know,” I thought back, "Eighth grade so I was fourteen, she was probably twelve, maybe thirteen?”
She covered her mouth, her eyes full of tears.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
The house felt too quiet — like even the walls were listening now.
“I didn’t know,” she said finally. Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t sharp. It was stunned. “Danny… I didn’t know you were that young.”
“I didn’t either,” I said. “Not really.”
She dropped her hand slowly and rubbed at her forehead like she was trying to reorganize the past in her head.
“You were a child,” she said. Not accusing. Just stating a fact. “Both of you were.”
I nodded. “We didn’t— it wasn’t—” I stopped myself, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t what you’re thinking.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. “I’m not thinking anything yet,” she said. “I’m listening.”
“We didn’t plan it,” I continued. “We didn’t talk about it. We were just… there. Alone. And it felt normal. Too normal.” I swallowed. “And then it didn’t anymore.”
She sank down onto the couch beside me, slower than usual, like the weight had finally hit her legs.
“So after,” she said carefully, “you both just… stopped?”
“She stopped coming over. I stopped going there. We never talked about it. We just pretended it didn’t happen... I can’t speak for her, but for me it was too real.”
“It meant something. And we didn’t know what to do with that. So we stopped hanging out the way we used to. We were still around each other — just not like before.”
“Nobody should hold something that heavy at twelve. Not her. Not you.” she said quietly, squeezing her eyes shut.
The words weren’t sharp. But they cut anyway.
“I didn’t know how not to,” I said. “Every time I thought about seeing her again, it felt like… like opening something I couldn’t put back.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
“I was working so much,” she said, more to herself than to me. “I thought if you were home, you were safe. I thought if she was here, she was safe.” Her voice wavered. “I should’ve known.”
“This isn’t on you,” I said immediately.
She looked at me then — really looked — like she was seeing not just her son, but the boy he’d been.
“I missed something,” she said. “And because I missed it, you both carried it.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
After a moment, she wiped at her cheeks and straightened, nurse brain trying to reassert itself.
“And now it’s come back around,” she added quietly. “Not as a memory. Not as a mistake. But as a girl who’s hurt, exhausted, and ended up right back with the person who never stopped meaning something to her.”
“And I don’t want to screw it up again,” I said.
Her shoulders sagged — not with disappointment, but with something like grief.
“You love her,” she said.
She let out a slow breath. “God help us,” she murmured — not in fear. In surrender.
“She asked for you, she keeps asking for you, asking for you unconsciously,” she added softly. “That’s not nothing.”
“You understand,” she said, “that whatever this is… it can’t be fixed by you trying to be perfect.”
“I’m not trying to be perfect,” I said. “I’m just trying to be here.”
She studied my face — the same way she had earlier — checking for cracks, bravado, collapse.
Instead she found steadiness.
“Okay,” she said. “Then here’s what we’re going to do.”
“You don’t carry this alone anymore,” she continued. “Not what happened then. Not what’s happening now. If she spirals, you get me. If you spiral, you get me. No heroics.”
“If she wakes up and remembers things out of order — or not at all — that doesn’t mean you failed her.”
She stood slowly, exhaustion finally winning.
“I’m proud of you,” she said. Not for what I did tonight — but for who I’d chosen to be.
I didn’t trust myself to answer.
She squeezed my shoulder once and headed toward the bedroom.
I stayed on the couch a moment longer, listening to the quiet.
Then I went back to Rizzo.
She was still asleep. Breathing. Here.
I sat beside the bed and took her hand again — light, careful, exactly where I’d learned to put my fingers.
And this time, I knew I didn’t have to do it alone.
