A Friend’s Mom

He swears he remembers the day he was born. It was September 27, 1997 in the new Mercer Wing at West Shore Hospital. He says he can smell the ammonia; see the blinding florescent lights. He sees his parents hovering that first night, anxious he's still breathing.

By his first birthday, his mom and dad have drifted apart. By the time he's three, they're both remarried.

He tells the story to a spidery, ginger-haired girl on the first day of medical school. She pitches forward over the lunch table, like she's going to gobble him up. He says that hospitals feel like home. He spent a lot of time in them as a kid.

At two, he swallows a button battery and nearly dies. At three, he dislocates his shoulder by jumping off a bed. At five, he leaps out of a tree and breaks his leg. At six, he crashes his bike and gets stitches in his head.

Each time, his parents rush to the hospital to be briefly united at their child's bedside.

He remembers his mom taking him to a fair to tell him she's pregnant. By then his father has twin girls with his second wife. At the fair, his mom says it's high time she started a family. She says it just like that.

He's holding a red balloon in his fist. It slips from his grip. He watches it fly higher and higher - tears streaming down his face.

His mom grabs his wrist and yanks him to the car park. She says she's saying something important and all he cares about is that stupid balloon. At the car, he can still see the balloon, a tiny speck disappearing behind the clouds.

And then he's 12. It's Sunday and he's at the beach with his best friend's family. It's his weekend to be at his dad's, but no one is home. His dad is away on business and his twin half-sisters are at the mall with their mom.

At the beach, he walks by his own mom and two younger half-brothers. The three of them are sprawled on an oversized blanket, eating Doritos, giggling, and playing Uno. His mom squints up at him between splayed fingers. It takes her a moment to realize it's her son. She smiles and is friendly but doesn't ask him to join them.

As they walk away, his friend jokes that he's more like a starter car - a Toyota Corolla - than a family SUV. They both laugh even though it's not funny. His friend can be a real jerk. He prefers his friend's mom.

She calls him one of her boys and makes spaghetti bolognese once a week because it's his favorite. He tells her he's going to be a doctor when he grows up. She beams proudly as if he really is her son. She buys him subscriptions to Discover and Nature. The family dog, Morris, a sweet yellow lab, sleeps at his feet.

One day the mom is visiting with a friend in her kitchen. They're speaking in low voices. He catches the two women looking at him with such sad eyes. Before then, he didn't know his friend's mom pitied him. He thought she genuinely liked having him around.

At fourteen, he hardly sees his old friend. At this point, he's into goth and death rock, while his friend is a junior varsity wrestler.

He still gets a card on his birthday from his friend's mom. There's always a renewal confirmation inside for his Discover and Nature subscriptions.

At 15, he overdoses on antidepressants at a party. His dad, divorced again, is away on business; his mom is at a school play in which her youngest son is the lead.

His old friend and mom race to the hospital. They drive him back to his dad's empty house. The mom suggests he come home with them. He's mortified and tired and begs them to go. His old friend leaves, but the mom quietly curls up on the livingroom sofa.

At 16, he quits school, gets his GED, and takes a job at a local vet. His friend's mom comes in one day with Morris. Cancer riddles the old lab's body, and he can barely walk. The mother has an appointment to put him down, and she's all alone. He stands next to her, holding her hand, as the dog dies quietly on the table.

For his next birthday, his friend's mom sends the usual birthday card, his subscription renewals, and also this time, a list of scholarships for undergraduate medical programs. That same day, he applies to them all.