by Celeste, B.
For his sake, he’s probably right. My fingers aren’t blue and I can feel my extremities. Before leaving the bathroom, I noticed my cheeks and nose were a little red, but nothing unusual because of the scalding water I’d stood under for longer than I probably should have.
“Emery—”
“You should go.”
I want to lay down with a book or watch something on my laptop. Maybe go to bed early. Anything that means him going away.
“I didn’t—”
“Kaiden,” I cut him off, “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want you in my room. I don’t want…” I shake my head. “I just don’t want to deal with this right now.”
“This was my room first,” he points out.
I put my hands on my hips. “If you want it back so bad then fine. You can switch our stuff when I’m gone next week.”
His lips twitch. “It’s just a room.” Before I go to reply, he adds, “You’re getting quite the backbone. Maybe I shouldn’t call you Mouse anymore.”
“Mice are courageous,” I argue, not that it really matters. “For something so tiny, they risk a lot around people who want them gone.”
“They usually get killed.”
I think about the one time Lo and I had a mouse in our room. Mama swore putting peanut butter on the trap would lure it in and get rid of it, but the mouse was smart. Somehow, it licked the peanut butter off without getting harmed.
“Not all of them.”
We’re silent.
“I didn’t know you were out there.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t.” He stands, combing his fingers through his hair. “If I’d known, I would have opened the damn door. Rachel and I were listening to music downstairs and—”
I hold my hand up. “I don’t want to know what you two were doing. In fact, I’d like to think about anything but those possibilities. If you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.”
He snorts. “Like what? More homework? Got another book to read? Is this one about a cowboy or army vet?”
Blushing, I throw back my blankets. I remember Mama reading books with guys like that on the cover of them, but not so much me. I don’t feel like correcting him though.
“I’m tired.”
“It’s not even six thirty.”
“The cold does that to me,” I snap, eyeing him as I slide my feet under the comforter.
He’s silent, teeth grinding.
I want to tell him that the cold does a lot more to me. It causes me bone deep pain that leaves me uncomfortable for days, makes me so fatigued I sleep for fourteen hours straight, and irritates my already sensitive skin. Instead of giving him those details, I lay on my side with my back facing him.
It hurts my shoulder and hip, but I don’t care. For once, I want to hurt him. I want to stop feeding into the way he treats me like I deserve it. For once, I just want someone to feel the pain I do so maybe then they’ll truly understand.
“You at least need to eat.”
“Not hungry,” I murmur.
I think he cusses under his breath, but sleep draws me away. I hear the door close behind him and I drift off.
When I wake up a couple hours later, it’s to the smell of something salty. When I sit up and rub my eyes as they adjust to the dim-lit room, I see a plate on the nightstand with a thermos and a post-it.
The thermos has soup.
The post-it has a picture of a mouse.
Chapter Seventeen
Grandma greets me first outside the house. It seems so different to me now. It’s stupid, because nothing has changed. The front door is still painted white, the light blue siding is still chipped, and the walkway leading up to the main door still has moss growing between the stones.
The grass on the front lawn is a little longer than I’m used to, like someone hasn’t cut it for a little while but still tries to keep it up. The kiddy pool that used to rest off to the side by the lilac bushes is upside down and grimy from dirt, mud, and who knows what else. And the tire swing Lo was adamant on having is hanging unloved, with the rope fraying on one side from the weather.
How long have I been gone?
Grandma pulls me into a tight hug while Dad sets my bag down beside me. He gives Grandma a smile and kisses my cheek. My heart sings a little from the tiny gesture. He used to kiss our cheeks goodbye before work.
“Call me if you need me, okay?”
The ride here was long and quiet. He would sometimes ask me questions out of obligation more than curiosity. Like what music I like to listen to, so he could drown the silence. I remember his. Class rock—70s and 80s grunge bands with big hair and bigger voices. Dad used to play guitar in a garage band that went nowhere, because Mama said they weren’t any good.
I told him country was fine.
He liked that too.
“I will,” is my response, despite being positive I won’t pick up the phone once while I’m here.
Grandma thanks him for driving me before taking my bag and guiding me toward the house. I hold my breath as we walk in, unsure of what or who I’ll find.
Pictures still litter the walls in the entryway, though noticeably fewer of Lo and me. I wonder if Mama ever found the hoard of them in my old room. I never moved them when I packed up, because Mama rarely stepped foot inside the tiny space.
Grandma notices my gaze and gently squeezes my hand. “Don’t think about it, darling girl. You’re here to enjoy yourself.”
Am I?
I focus on the thin layer of dust coating the shelf off to the side. I can tell something is missing from it, but I can’t remember what. A bowl? A vase? Wracking my mind comes up empty, so I let Grandma walk me through the house.
It’s clean, not that I’m totally surprised. Mama would go into cleaning frenzies all the time. I just assumed she stopped once she didn’t have to worry about anything triggering our flares.
“It looks the same,” I murmur, feeling guilty over assuming the worst.
I keep doing that, thinking their life here would have gone up in ruins as soon as I left. Deep down, I know it’s the opposite. Their lives were unpredictable when I was here, waiting for the other shoe to drop before needing to stop what they were doing to help me out.
You left to give them some peace.
Grandma laughs softly. “Your mother has been keeping busy at her new job. She doesn’t have time to obsess over cleaning and reorganizing like she used to. Did she mention it to you?”
New job? I make a face, wondering if Mama has been telling Grandma that we’ve spoken. It’s been too long since we’ve exchanged words, and something tells me Grandma isn’t aware.
She sighs. “Emmy…”
I press my lips together. “Where does she work?”
Grandma walks over to the couch and pats the cushion next to her. Without hesitation, I drop down on the familiar worn seat, sinking into the material and remembering all the times I’d snuggle with Mama here.
“She works as a nurse for the local high school.” Grandma’s hand rests on my knee, giving it a tiny pat. “She used to love working in pediatrics, but the way she left made them hesitant to hire her back.”
I start to let the guilt consume me when Grandma shakes her head. “Don’t you dare blame yourself, Emery. Truth be told, I don’t think your mother could handle going back there and seeing sick kids. Not when she still pictures Logan so little. Where she is now is a great first step for her, and it gives her time to work and heal until she finds something else. I promise you, she’s doing better.”
I’m quiet.
Mama would sometimes have to work the floor on Saturdays at the clinic. After Dad left, she would bring Lo and I with her to play in the little area the hospital set up for the kids. There was a big plastic toy house that Lo, me, and some other children would play in until they had to go to their appointments.
Before Dad made his grand exit, he would visit us in between whatever job priorities he had o
n summer days when we were at the hospital with Mama. He’d take us to the ground floor where there was a long tunnel connecting the two different buildings from underground. He’d take us to the vending machines down there and let us run around to burn off the sugar.
I visited the tunnels shortly before leaving for Dad’s. It wasn’t as magical as I remember. The food in the vending machines was overpriced, and half the time when you’d click on one candy bar, a different one would fall out. Lo wouldn’t care if she got a Mounds or Almond Joy because she ate anything.
But I cared way more than I should because it’s not what I wanted.
It’s not what I wanted.
“Emmy?”
I break away from my train of thought, blushing over zoning out. “Sorry. Does she…is she okay? You know, with everything?”
Her shoulders draw back a little. “Your mother is stronger than even she believes.”
Why don’t I believe that?
We order pizza for dinner. Hawaiian for Mama, and pepperoni, sausage, broccoli, and onions for me and Grandma. We could have easily gotten a cheese and split it between us, but Grandma says Mama likes bringing leftovers to work.
When I hear the car pull up in the driveway, my body tenses on the couch. The pizza is in the kitchen, waiting to be served, and the television is on some soap opera rerun on a channel I’ve never heard of.
The door opens.
I hold my breath.
Is it possible to swallow your heart? It feels like it’s lodged in my throat, choking me. All because of the woman turning the door handle.
Grandma gives me a reassuring smile from the armchair she’s sitting in. She’s into the soap opera, I’m too in my head to figure out if the man really slept with his brother’s wife. It seems likely.
The door fully opens and Mama steps in, seemingly not realizing I’m now standing in the middle of the living room. My heart hammers rapidly and I hold my breath until she looks up from the purse she holds.
She’s in scrubs.
Her silver-blonde hair is a mess.
But it’s Mama.
“Hi,” I whisper, too afraid to step forward. I take in the little yellow ducks on her blue shirt. It’s the kind of top she’d wear at the hospital. The school probably doesn’t require them, but she’s got a closet full to choose from.
She remains by the door, her eyes sliding over me and then traveling back up to my hair. I wonder what she thinks of it. The style has grown on me, and Cam plans to take me every six weeks when she gets her hair trimmed to keep mine up.
I’m terrified when her lips part. I tell myself it’s been long enough—she won’t make the same mistakes she did when she was stuck in grief.
“Hi, Sunshine.” Relief floods my chest when I hear those soft words until I’m practically running toward her. She wraps me in a tight hug and I soak in the sweet smell of vanilla and lavender, her two favorite scents.
I pull back and stare at her face. She looks tired, like she’s somehow aged, but I notice something vital that allows me to breathe.
Mama’s eyes aren’t golden.
Chapter Eighteen
Mama and I spend the night talking about her new job and hobbies. She seems happy, lighter than I remember. The relief knowing she’s doing okay is short lived because of my conscience telling me she was only hurting because of me.
But you knew that.
Knowing Mama likes her new job and joined a crafts club at the Community Center makes everything easier to handle. She needed to find herself. To get through the loss of Lo, and in many ways, the loss of me.
I almost forgot what Mama’s smile looks like. It’s the same type of foreign anomaly as her laugh—airy and eager like bells. I want to tell her how much I love the sound, but I’m afraid it’ll make her stop.
Before Grandma comes back, Mama notices my bracelet. Her smile doesn’t falter. That’s how I allow myself hope, like we can be like how we were.
Emery and Mama.
Sunshine and blue skies.
You’re my sunshine, baby girl.
Then you’re my blue skies, Mama.
Logan would always be the rainbow, colorful and happy and effortless no matter the storm.
I want to play the song, but I’m afraid.
I want to ask about Lo, but I’m afraid.
I want to be there for Mama, but…
I’m terrified.
I’m terrified that talking to her about anything other than our lives as they are now will break her. Will she shut down again? Cry? Freeze? Go silent? Will she stop seeing me as Emery and start calling me Logan again?
I want to know about her job and what she has for breakfast and what she does with her spare time. But I also want to know if she visits Lo and talks to Grandma and sees a grief counselor like everyone has suggested.
But I can’t.
Because Mama’s smiling.
Because Mama’s eyes are green.
Because I love her too much to hurt her.
In my head, I sing the song.
In my head, Mama sings with me.
Instead, she touches my bracelet, stares at the letters, and then kisses my cheek before going to bed. It’s early, but not as early as she usually went to sleep. I wonder if she still takes sleeping pills.
Grandma doesn’t come back right away, so I clean up the kitchen and living room before heading back to the place I hold the most memories. My bag rests on my old bed—the new white and blue comforter set on it is one I haven’t seen before. It’s tucked in and folded at the corners like you’d see at a hotel, and I know it’s Grandma’s doing because she used to be a housekeeper.
The room is exactly as I remember it. By the nightstand is a dent in the wall from the time Lo and I were jumping on my bed and I knocked over the lamp in the process. It smashed against the drywall before shattering on the ground. It was Mama’s favorite.
It hasn’t been repainted, the off white I remember it once being now looks more cream. The entire house could use some upgrades like Dad always told Mama he would start when we were little. She wanted a new apple-themed kitchen, something red and bright and welcoming.
Pushing the thought away, I examine the bookshelf. I had books galore covering every inch, along with hidden picture of Lo in between books I knew Mama didn’t want to read. The ones I left behind aren’t on the shelf anymore, which makes me walk over to the closet.
It’s empty.
Heart hammering, I look under both the beds for any of the frames I’d taken down for Mama’s sanity. They used to haunt me while I slept, guilt seeping into my bones worse than the aches did. Now they’re gone, the space under my bed dust free like someone cleaned it special for me.
I vaguely hear the front door open and Grandma call our names. Panic buries itself in my chest as I open dresser drawers and plastic storage bins to see what happened to Lo. Every memory taken of her is missing, and I need to see them. I need to know they’re there.
“Emmy?” Grandma’s voice is closer, but I struggle to hear it. My chest is so tight I think I might be dying from suffocation.
Someone shakes me.
Someone calls my name.
“Breathe,” a soft voice commands.
Not Grandma’s.
Mama’s.
I’m crying into her chest while she sits next to me on the floor, rubbing my back and hushing me like she used to a long time ago. She was humming. It wasn’t our song.
It wasn’t our song.
It feels like forever by the time I’m able to pull away, and I only do when she somehow produces a tissue and wipes down my face. It makes me want to cry harder because I never liked being this way with Mama, even if I dreamed of her comfort.
Where were you then, Mama?
I needed you.
I choke down the words because they mean nothing now. Not when Mama is here and holding me and comforting me and being the woman I want her to be. I left her like Kaiden said, but only because she needed me gone.
>
Kaiden is wrong though.
I need Mama more than she needs me.
“I don’t want to forget.” I hiccup and glance at all the empty space in the room. “I don’t want to forget her, Mama.”
Her eyes glisten and the familiar tone of gold breaks through. There’s anguish and something more, something deeper. Guilt.
“You will never forget her,” she whispers, brushing the pad of her thumb across my cheek.
Grandma walks back in holding a large leather book. She passes it to Mama who opens it slowly and smiles at the contents. When she turns it to me, my heart dances.
It’s a photo album of Lo.
Of all the pictures…
I look at Mama and wonder how I got to the conclusion that has made me doubt her so much. When I think of her, I think of her sadness, reclusion, and brokenness. I don’t see the woman who sang to me or baked me cookies because I was sad or told me how much she loved me because she could.
I’ve judged her.
Criticized her.
Wondered why she let me leave.
She knew you’d be better off…
“You put them in an album,” is my quiet response. It isn’t a question, just a surprised statement.
Did Mama know how I felt about her?
Another tear falls.
“Baby,” she whispers.
I close my eyes.
Mama falls asleep next to me in my bed that night, holding me and combing her fingers through my hair. The notion hurts, but I don’t tell her that my scalp aches or that I wince every time her nails get caught and tugs. I try to remember what it felt like before the pain. It comforted me. Lulled me. Eased me.
When we wake up in the morning, she sees the hair on my pillow first.
Her lips part.
Her eyes widen.
She whispers, “Not again.”
She chokes on tears and fear and worry as she sits up and stares at the chunk of hair resting beside me on the cotton pillowcase. Her eyes can’t travel anywhere else.
“Not again, Logan.”
And I know the truth.