The hallway of the hospital is as sterile and sickening as it was when I made my escape so many weeks ago. A bed sits neatly to the side, waiting for some gunshot victim to be rushed in. The sheets ironed and tucked in, concealing the truth of just how many people have probably died waiting in the hallway for some nurse to rush by, reaching an out an arm for help. A weeping family gathered around, death is a certain companion. 
         The doors are all closed, providing a buffer between the outside world and the suffering that is transpiring within the room on the other side. Somebody attached to IV drip, another to a respirator. One of those people could be my mother.
         Reading the names on the charts that sit in a pouch outside each door, I realize that I may have to check a hundred rooms before I reach my mother's. But still, I can't stop until I find her, at least to know what happened. I pray that she is okay, or at the very least, that she is still alive. I don't know what I'd do if I found her dead. It would take a long time to come to grips with it, if I could at all. For all the things that my mother's been to me, I can't imagine not having her in my life.
         The chart at door number 545 reads J. Desjardins. I can't make out any of the jargon written down on paper, so I have no way of knowing how she is. But there is still a chart, which must mean she is still alive. Or they have just neglected to move the chart, rushed through the motions of providing quality health care under the strain of an ever shrinking budget. The one remainder of her life, a piece of paper; a disposable left over of a storied existence.
         But she's probably alive, I try to convince myself. I do realize that I will never know if I don't open the door and look. I'm tempted to walk away and forget the whole thing, go back to Evangeline and deny the fact that I even had a mother, regardless of if she is alive or not. But I know I can't. A sense of love brought me to this point, but a sense of obligation will lead me in.
         I listen at the door for signs of life. All appears to be quiet, but that could be deceiving. Gary could be sitting next to her, holding her hand, waiting for her eyes to open, waiting for any sign of life. But he's probably not. He's probably so racked with guilt over what happened that he wouldn't dare show his face around. After all, it was his child too, whether I like it or not.
         I slowly open the door, cautiously, as if walking on chards of glass. With eyes closed, I slide the door open, hoping that nobody but my mother lies within. Slowly, surely, I raise my eyelids. The first thing that comes into view is my mother; the next thing is nothing. Nobody sits with her holding her hand, telling her that everything will be okay.
         She lays there, fragile and weak, all alone.
         I walk in, gradually absorbing the atmosphere of the dank room. There are no flowers, no cards, nothing to lighten the morbid tone. The curtains are drawn closed; not one ray of light shines on the room. It's a small room with only one bed; my mother is once again alone.
         I take the chair next to her. She isn't awake, she probably hasn't come to yet. Her face looks soft and gentle, if not more worse for wear. An expression of nothingness overcomes me, the rising of her chest the only indication that she's still alive. There is no respirator, thankfully, but an IV tube transcends her blue hospital gown and a heart monitor attached to the wall shows a weak pulse. She's more beaten down that I've ever seen her. Before I would have felt victorious, but now I feel like crying.
         I grab her hand and squeeze it. There's no response. The bones are prominent, giving her a skeleton like ere. It's as if I'm holding the hand of a sixty-year-old, not the 36-year-old who lies before me.
         Her eyes are moist and red, like she's been crying. Her lips, barely spread, give an expression of horror. Her cheeks are sullen, her hair faded and wild.
         She wears not a spec of make-up, which is odd to see. I've only seen her a few times without her "face" on, usually the very first thing in the morning if I managed to beat her to the bathroom. To her, make-up is a symbol of pride, something to make her beautiful. Even when her boyfriend tells her she's a whore, even when she feels like the whole world is caving in on her, make up will cover it all.
         Chipped nail polished clings to her fingernails. Bright red, as is her favourite. It seems like giving an old house a fresh coat of paint. The outside looks good, but the inside is still rotting.
         I hold her worn hand close to my face, praying that through some magical force, I could give her some of my life energy. Just enough to get her back up on her feet again, enough to make her feel something good about herself.
         Maybe it worked. Her hand moves against my face, ever so gently, while a slight moan escapes from her body. 
         I look up, noticing that her eyes are slightly opened, her lips have closed. Through a groggy face, she slowly lifts herself to a smile, ever so slight as it may be. Lazily blinking, she swallows, as if trying to compose a sentence.
         I grip her hand even tighter, not really knowing what to say.
         "I'm here for you mom."
         She opens her mouth, tries to clear her throat, and then speaks in a very slight voice.
         "It means a lot."
         "I'll stay as long as you want me to."
         She looks to her stomach, tears welling up in her eyes. It breaks my heart. All of her hopes pinned on one thing, all of it gone.
         "I lost it," she sniffles, tears streaming down her face."It's gone."
         "I know mom. I know."
         "I tried so hard this time," she turns her head away. "And it still wasn't enough. I don't know anymore."
         "I know how badly you wanted this. Mom, I know. I was so happy for you."
         "But it doesn't mean anything now, none of it does."
         She strains to pull her hand up to her face, trying in vain to wipe away the tears. They flow freely, the only thing free in her life.
         "I was there last night. The paramedics knocked on our door first."
         "Gary called them, I suppose. I don't remember."
         "I felt so bad mom. I felt like I died too. Watching you being pulled away in that stretcher, when the paramedic said "miscarriage," my heart sunk."
         "I don't remember any of it. I saw lights, and heard voices, heard a siren, felt hands poking at me. But I don't remember any of it."
         "How did this happen? How did I come to this," I ask, nearly crying along with her, but restraining myself.
         "I fell, " she says. "The last thing I remember is falling and feeling such a sharp pain. Then I heard Gary screaming something, I don't remember what."
         "How did you fall?" I ask, though I already know that Gary has something to do with it.
         "I think I was trying to change a light bulb," she lies, though not very well. "The ladder slipped out from under me and I fell. I just remember hitting the floor, the pain, I think there was blood."
         "You didn't fall mom," I challenge her, though in a benign manner. "I know you didn't fall."
         "Just leave me alone. I just lost my fucking baby," she closes her eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling. "Don't throw accusations about Gary around."
         "I wasn't going to accuse Gary of anything. You just did it for me."
         "Don't, please don't. I don't have the strength for this now. I feel like somebody started kicking me in the stomach and didn't have the compassion to stop when I screamed in agony."
         "Did somebody kick you? And keep kicking you?"
         She doesn't respond. She puts her head back and takes a deep breath.
         "He did it, didn't he mom? That fucking bastard did this to you."
         She remains silent.
         "You can get him for this one. You say the word and I'll call the police and have him arrested. But I have to have your consent before I can do it."
         "You'll be thrown in jail too then," she reminds me. "I would die if my only child had to waste his life behind bars paying for a crime against something like him."
         "Then you do it. You tell the nurse. They will get him arrested."
         "What difference would make, tell me?" she cries, grasping her stomach. "Under the law a fetus is not a person. You can kill a fetus and it doesn't matter. Nobody gives a damn."
         "What about you? What he did to you mom? That does matter."
         "I don't care about myself, don't you understand that? My dreams were pinned on this baby, and now it's dead. I don't care if Gary spends one second in jail on account of me. The only vengeance I want is for my baby, and nobody can offer me that," she bawls, her face awash in tears, "The one thing I wanted the most, this baby, and it was robbed from me. But in the eyes of the law it doesn't fucking matter."
         Grasping her stomach, she looks longingly, as if hoping that her tears will form a lake and drown her sorrows away. But there is no way out.
         "But mom, please tell the nurse. They'll have him arrested for abuse. Then you can move away and start over."
         She looks, straining, "How many times can I start over? I've spent my whole life starting over, I can't do it anymore. I don't have anything left to start over with."
         "You can live with Evangeline and I, get yourself back to rights. We'll help you. I'll help you, mom. I love you."
         "I don't have anything left. The baby was all I had," she exhales, exhausted. "The baby was going to give me something to live for, something to get up in the morning for. You were my reason to keep trudging along for so many years. No matter how many men came in and out of my life, no matter how many times I feel flat on my face and had to start all over again, I had you to live for. Now I don't have anything."
         "So what do you do now?" I ask, fearing the answer.
         "I go back," she states point blank. "I make a life with him, I keep going."
         "How could you make a life with him after what he's done?" I cry, frustrated by her answer.     "After all this, how could you go back to that?"
         "I have nothing else."
         "But he's the nothing, mom."
         "He may be nothing, but he's the only thing I have left. I've lost everything. I've lost my baby, my son, my family, my looks, my youth, everything. Gary is the one thing I have left that I have no fear of losing."
         "That's because nobody else would have him."
         "Maybe so," she stares off with a resigned look. "But I'm the nobody that will."
         With no last argument to make, no point left to demonstrate, I stand and kiss my her on the cheek.
         "Good luck," I wish her, feeling a death transcend from her body to mine.
         I walk out of the room and close the door behind me, leaving her to her destiny. 
         The only thing she has left.