The morning after, I wake up confused again. I recognize the dark low full bed I’m lying on, the mismatched dresser with the bottom drawer off kilter, the framed photo of the whole family at my high school graduation. Before. But the room itself is unfamiliar. Tiny and narrow, barely enough room to walk around the two pieces of furniture. Pure white walls. A window with Venetian blinds, not the handmade blue-and-green curtains I grew up with, its sill jutting into the space next to the bed.

I’m at my parents’ house. Not the house I grew up in but the one they moved to after my sister and I left and they got back to living their own lives. I remember this, but not why I’m here, and that’s enough for now.

When I sit up the pain comes like a headrush and I want to throw up. I bite down hard on my lower lip for the distraction. And the tiny reminder that I’m still here.

Navigating the stairs with my left eye swollen shut is no easier today – my depth perception is all off, and the staircase in this house curves to the left so I have to tilt my head at an awkward angle just to see the stairs. Mom is in the kitchen washing a pile of dishes, though I remember helping her do this last night after dinner.

“How does it look?” I ask her. “Better?”

She turns her head but keeps her body facing the sink and looks me over quickly. She nods. “A little,” but I’m not five anymore, I know when she’s lying. She turns back to the sink.

“Morning, buddy,” Dad says. He comes from the right side and stops to grasp my shoulder. He turns me toward him; I lower my head. “Look like you’re doing better today. How’re you feeling?”

“Well, my head is killing me,” I say, and as soon as I do I realize just how much I hurt. With every beat of my heart my left eye throbs.

“Yep, that’ll happen.” He nods and smiles. I close my eyes and lean my head to the left, because it seems to hurt less this way. Dad squeezes my shoulder twice as if to wake me up.

“Can I give him some ibuprofen?” he asks, looking to Mom, who just shrugs.

“Maybe just some water? And a piece of bread,” I say.

The glasses are over the sink, right where Mom is, but she doesn’t make a move to hand me one. Dad takes a step and she says quickly, “He knows where they are, he can get it for himself.”

Dad touches her on the shoulder. The same small gesture he used on me, but this time it’s tentative, tender. “Honey,” he says. “Don’t. He’s here now. Right?” He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Yes,” I say.

“But how do we know it will stick this time?” she says, her voice sinking with sadness.

Before I can say anything, Dad says “We don’t. But we all want it to.”

Mom leans her head onto his hand and nods. A minute later I wonder if I should go back upstairs or wait here until she’s ready. Then she reaches up towards the cupboard and when she turns around she’s holding a white mug with a design on it and her eyes are red. I squint at the mug until I recognize it: the red and blue smiley faces, the baseball bat with my name in squiggly unsure letters, Mom’s cursive script dating the mug I decorated on my fifth birthday.

I smile; Dad smiles; Mom looks away. I want to tell her I’m sorry. I want to say, I only have one good eye; how am I supposed to see what the future holds? I want to say I will try. Then she looks at me and holds the mug out towards me and I take it.