the other side of us | ✓

1.25 | only the good die young

Tara Elena Carlyle passed away at six-fifteen the next morning.

               Mason and his mother held her hands while the nurses removed her breathing tubes and injected a sedative into her IV. She was already unconscious, and as her breathing slowed, his mother sobbing quietly while Tara drew her final breaths. When the heart monitor flattened into a single monotone beep, Mason exhaled shakily and looked at her small hand in his, marveling at the size difference. Gemma put her head down on the bed as she sobbed, and a nurse moved forward to unplug the machine, plunging them into silence.

"My baby," Gemma murmured, her voice nearly a whisper.

               They sat there for nearly an hour, Gemma crying over her small, still body. Mason's eyes remained dry, and he rocked back and forth slowly. Gemma pushed Tara's hair away from her face, smoothing it near the nape of her neck. Mason placed her hands—God, they were so tiny—on her stomach, pulling her sleeves down to cover her wrists.

               Mason and his mother didn't make eye contact while they did this, and the room was silent except for her sniffling and crying.

               The door to the room slid open quietly, and Doctor McCall stepped forward, placing a soothing hand on Gemma's shoulder.

               "Ms. Carlyle," she said gently, "we need to take her. We're so sorry for your loss."

               "No." Gemma said, her voice cracking.

"Mum," Mason said softly.

"No!" She wailed.

He pried his mother away from the bed and passed her to a nurse who rubbed her back in what he was sure they thought was a soothing manner as they led her, still wailing, away from the bed.

               Another nurse pulled the sheet up over Tara's face, and Mason closed his eyes, unable to watch.

               "Was there anything else we could have done?" he asked softly, his voice shaking.

               "I'm afraid not," she replied, her gaze softening. "Sometimes it doesn't matter how determined a patient is. Sometimes their determination runs out, and there's nothing that you can do but accept it."

               Mason nodded and watched as they wheeled the bed out of the room.

               "I really thought she'd make it," he said softly. "She was doing so well."

               "We all did. But she caught us by surprise," Doctor McCall said somberly.

Mason turned to survey the room one last time.

               The collection of plush animals in the cupboard and the array of brightly colored flowers, all in various stages of decay, that covered every available flat surface. There were cards and pictures taped to the walls and the windows. He picked up the polaroid sitting on her bedside table.

               It was a snapshot of the two of them at Halloween the previous year. Tara was dressed as a bumblebee and had pulled her face into a ridiculous expression, while Mason was dressed as a flower, bright white petals extending from his face. They'd had so much fun that night, going door to door in the hospital, visiting the nurses.

               Mason pocketed the photo and turned to face the doctor for what he hoped would be the last time.

               "If there are any more forms that need to be filled out," he said, "I'll take care of them."

               "Your mother already did," she replied softly. "All that's left is the final payment, but we can take care of that later."

               Mason's heart squeezed at the word final as he nodded.

               "Thank you," he told her. "For everything. I know that you all tried your best."

               "I only wish that it had been enough."

               Doctor McCall patted his arm one last time before leaving him alone.

Only when he heard the door close behind her, did Mason lower his head, and begin to cry.

His fault.

***

Mason was lying about something, and he had been for the past two weeks.

It was like Christmas all over again. He'd started blowing off his shifts and stumbling in late with the flimsiest excuses Charlotte had ever heard.

               "I thought that you and Mason were doing something tonight?"

               Charlotte looked up at her father who was attempting to look nonchalant as he read the paper.

               "We were, but he's, um, busy."

               "Busy?"

               "His mom needed him for something," Charlotte didn't make eye contact with her father when she said this, choosing instead to stir her dinner around on her plate, and she felt her stomach twist.

               There had been something in Mason's voice when he'd called her to cancel their outing, but she hadn't wanted to question him over the phone. He'd sounded . . . distracted.

               Telling her father any of that was out of the question though.

               There wasn't any reason to give him cause to dislike Mason more. She was probably over reacting again. If he were there, she knew he'd tell her she was being silly.

But he wasn't there.