by Lee Jacquot
Her words, the physical pain, her absence—all of it, are embedded in my every hesitation, every negative thought, every foul action.
And just now, the placebo effect my aunt had on me is gone, replaced by the realization that no matter how happy I am now, it isn’t real. Not in a way that lasts because it can be ripped to shreds at the drop of a hat.
The door slams shut, and after a few minutes, when my heart returns to a fairly calm rate, I enter through the back door.
Mina is on her knees, sweeping up dirt from a plant that must have been knocked over. Her shoulders are shaking with a silent sob, but when she hears me shuffle behind her, she snaps up, a calm grin on her face.
“Ah, how was school, mi amor?”
“It was okay,” I whisper, grabbing some napkins and joining her on the floor.
“Clumsy me.” She motions to the mess, but I don’t look away from her. Her dark amber eyes scan my face, searching for something before I grant her a soft smile, not wanting to lie. I wrap my arms around her neck, pulling her closer.
It hasn’t been easy watching my mother become lost to alcohol, but to be honest, I never really knew her in the first place. She was always locked away in her room, treating me like I was an annoying house guest. But my aunt Mina? She knew her before her first sip. When they were kids who probably loved each other more than anything in the world. So the pain currently coursing in my veins, squeezing my heart in the process, isn’t for me. But for her.
Mina’s silent cries reverberate through her body, sprouting goose bumps along my arms and a shiver down my spine.
We’re both hurt, just in different ways.
The daughter who wasn’t good enough to love, and the big sister who couldn’t save her.
“How many gifts did you get, Amora?” A genuine laugh erupts from my mouth as I take in the pile of presents and assortment of flowers she’s attempting to balance.
Valentine’s Day came fast, and while the flowers and parading of love used to just annoy me, now it twists the muscles in my chest until breathing’s a chore. Amora suggested a break by heading out for lunch.
“Come on, Lily. A little help.”
I roll my eyes but grant her an olive branch by opening the back door to my car and taking the top bags from her pile. It’s not a secret Amora’s had her fair share of guys, but the truth is, she hasn’t slept with any of them. Well, maybe sleep is the wrong word. She definitely enjoys the pleasure of their tongue between her thighs, but her slight obsession with Blaze has left her waiting on him to dick her down.
I’ve told her more times than I can count that she and Blaze are too polar, but she has this notion that opposites attract. Opposites, sure, but not in the way she and Blaze are different. Amora needs someone who will take the shit she throws, add a little spice, and toss it right back. Someone with a tongue sharper than hers and the patience to reel her in.
All of which Blaze is not.
After loading up way too much shit, we head up the street for lunch. The drive-through lady takes our order and has us park while we wait. Amora adjusts in her seat, facing me.
“So, how’s Mina? Does she need a touch-up yet?”
Amora dyed my aunt’s strands a shade of honey and platinum that make her look like she walked out of a magazine. It damn near looks like a professional job.
I sigh, leaning back and stretching my hands above my head. “No, but we do have our first family therapy session coming up.’
“Seriously?”
“Yep.” I’m extremely excited about it too. My heart flutters when I think of going and finally healing the way I need to.
My aunt and I are fine, better than that, actually. But just because that piece of my garden is pretty doesn’t mean the weed growing in the corner can’t overtake it someday. We’ve decided to tear it up by the root, and for that, we need a little help.
“That’s really good to hear, Lil. How often?”
“Once a week at first and we’ll go from there.”
Being able to tell Amora about therapy openly does something to me. It chips away at the barrier I’ve held in place for so long, not allowing others to truly see me.
Amora smiles, grabbing my hand as the worker appears at the driver’s side window with our food. “I’m proud of you. I still want to call the police on that crazy bitch of a mom you got, but this is good.”
The corners of my mouth curl. “Enough about me.” I poke my thumb in the direction of all the presents. “Who got you what?”
And just like that, I learn about the fourteen guys that think they stand a chance with the Duchess of Emerald Falls.
The therapist’s office resides in the middle of downtown, at the top of a fifteen-story building. Walking inside, it feels more like a business meeting than a place to let loose and delve into all my secrets. Not to mention the high windows give me pause. I wonder how many people have looked out of them longingly.
When I used to dream of running my own practice, I was going to buy a home on some land. Make it comfortable and inviting, have a playroom for kids and a couple of therapy animals.
This place is sterile, like a hospital, and every piece of furniture is hard plastic. We’ve been sitting in the waiting area for fifteen minutes, and the entire time I’ve become entranced with watching the aging secretary twirl a set of pearls between a fresh manicure. She told us the doctor would like to see us separately at first and finish up with a joint meeting at the end.
Finally, the door creaks open, and a tall woman steps out. Her inky hair is brushed into a taut bun and she’s wearing an equally dark, fitted linen dress. Small black spectacles sit on the bridge of her skinny nose, held in place by a silver chain wrapped around her neck. When her neutral tinted lips stretch into a smile, it transforms her relatively sad face into a ball of warmth.
“Miss Conley. I’m ready when you are.”
My aunt squeezes my hand, leaving a whisper of a kiss on my temple as I stand. I follow behind the doctor into another sterile room. It lacks personality, with only a few diplomas, abstract art, and a couple of dying ferns scattered around. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, letting in too much light for comfort.
No part of the space makes me want to bare my soul, and I vaguely wonder how many people stopped seeking help because they felt so out of place here as well.
The doctor strides behind her desk and sits, tapping her computer, so it whirls to life. That simple act leaves me feeling as though this is an interview, but I force my mind to hold on to her warm smile and shove away the nagging wall that’s trying to rise up and shield me.
“Miss Conley. My name is Dr. Floren. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Swallowing around the knot in my throat, I plaster on my cheerleader smile. “Lily is fine.”
Her dark eyebrow raises above the rim of her glasses. “So not Liliana? Got it.”
She types into her computer, and I shift in my seat, suddenly hyperaware of the chill in her room. It sprouts goose bumps all down my arms even though I have on a thick sweater.
After a few more seconds, the doctor grabs a notebook from inside her desk drawer and shoots her chair around, sitting a few feet to my left.
“Alright, Lily. How are you feeling today?”
It’s a simple question. One that people literally ask one another every day. But being asked in a room that I’m not sharing with him cuts through the air, slicing into me despite my emotional barriers. Despite her impersonal office, tall windows, and lack of therapy animals.
It punctures my chest, letting everything seep out and pool on the floor beneath me.
The truth is, I’m not okay, and pretending to be is becoming too hard. Burying my issues seemed easy, but after each rainstorm, everything just floated back to the surface, leaving me to repeat the process. So instead, I bury my nails in the dirt and rip up the ground. Taking out every little thing for me to shove on a table to be dissected and picked at. Scrutinized and judged.
I hate
my mother. I hate that she carried me for almost ten months and felt absolutely nothing when I was born. That she was able to throw me aside, and nothing I did was enough for her attention—enough for her to leave that goddamn room. That I’ve let my mother turn me into a monster like her.
I hate my father. I hate that he left me with someone he knew didn’t love me and found himself a new family instead. He’s a coward that couldn’t fight for me.
He’s a coward that couldn’t fight for me.
Spencer.
I fucking hate Spencer Hanes. I hate that he left me, again, when all I wanted him to do was stay.
My eyes reconnect with the doctor’s, and my smile fades to a grimace. I tell her what I wanted to tell him every time he asked. “I’m pretty fucking sad today.”
Jenny’s Smoothie Shop.
Still a relatively new place not too far from Emerald Falls stadium, and it’s dead as a doornail on a Thursday night. Blaze suggested we stop by after our stint at the gym. One of the many things my therapist suggested.
“Find a way to relieve some of the tension. Instead of focusing only on cheer and helping other people, try focusing on your body.”
It turns out you really can’t judge a book by its cover. Her plain-Jane office had nothing to do with her incredible personality. Every session, she milks more out of me than a dairy farmer. I try to pass some of that on to Blaze, but I’m not quite sure if any of it is sticking yet. He’s got a soft spot for me only because we share the same bruise. Not sure if he’ll ever let anyone else see it.
When we walk inside, Remy’s face is buried so far in a book that she doesn’t even hear us come in.
Blaze stiffens and nudges my shoulder. “Grab me a banana mango. I’ll be in the car.”
Instead of questioning him, I nod and strut to the counter.
When I’m three feet away, I clear my throat, waiting for her face to pop up.
The customer service smile she wears fades quickly, replaced with furrowed brows and twitching lips. She snaps the book closed. “Lily, what do you want?”
I bite my tongue. The temptation to spew a harsh comment or quick insult is strong, but it won’t get me what I want, what I need. Instead, I shove my hands in my back pocket and rock on the balls of my feet.
She raises a brow, drumming her fingers on the cover of her book, her patience clearly wearing thin.
Forcing a large breath through my nose, I relent. “Two mango, banana smoothies. Also, did Spencer move?”
“Why do you care?” she clips, and the nerve in my temple tics.
This girl has been a frustrating conundrum since the day I learned of her existence, and it’s clear that won’t be changing. I clench my jaw a few times, swallowing the dozens of retorts that nearly slip before finally answering, giving her the simplest answer I can muster. “Because I do care, Remy.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes before snatching her book off the counter and away from me. Almost as if I could taint her precious romance with my words. She rings up our smoothies and shifts to make them, keeping her back to me. “Yes, and I believe you like I believe in Santa Claus.”
Like you believe in those romance novels. I bite my cheek again and focus on keeping my tone neutral; after all, she’s seen me do some not-so-nice things to her friend. “No need to be sarcastic when I’m being honest.”
“Lily, you’ve done nothing but make his life miserable. Why should I believe even for a second that you give a crap about him?”
“Look, Remy, I don’t know what Spencer’s told you, but...” I pause, searching for the right words.
She twists, dropping two smoothies in front of me, and tilts her head, narrowing her eyes as if there’s nothing I could tell her she hasn’t already heard. Maybe she does know the whole thing and sees no fault on Spencer’s part, but that doesn’t make my hurt any less valid.
“We all handle our pain differently. Out of all the books in the world, none of them agree unanimously on how we have to deal with our traumas. I think you need to make amends for any hurt you may have caused someone and let it go.”
I replay Dr. Floren’s words. I overreacted with my treatment of Spence; that much was evident even when I was lashing out. And now, it’s time to right my wrongs the best I can and close the chapter properly. For the both of us.
The thought of letting him go completely feels like swallowing a rock straight out of a volcano. It sears my insides, leaving scars I’m unsure will ever mend. But at this point in my healing process, it needs to be done.
Remy taps the counter, and I realize she’s waiting. “Just need to clear a few things with you.”
She ignores my comment and instead asks a question that surprises me. “How were you ever best friends in the first place?”
My brows knit together, and I think about her question for a second. It’s not her place to ask and my business to keep, but a small part of me wants to tell her. To make her realize just how amazing Spencer is, so she doesn’t mess up his friendship the way I did.
I latch on to my necklace and begin pulling it back and forth. “For me, he was the light in the dark. He made me feel important, funny… loved. Out of all the superficial friendships I’ve had, he was the only one that felt real. He would stay up with me till three o’clock in the morning in our treehouse, reading stories to me after I had a bad day. Even when he had to be up at six to go fishing with his dad.”
A swell of emotions bloom in my chest at the many memories we shared throughout seven summers. Amora, with all her funny quirks and fearless attitude, to Blaze, my broken knight in shining armor. No one has ever made me feel the way Spencer did.
I try to swallow down the knot that’s now tripled in size, making it difficult to breathe, and find Remy’s natural hazel eyes on mine. She pushes up her hexagon glasses and nods, pursing her bee-stung lips. “He’ll be back for the fair.”
He’s coming back?
The temptation to drill into this small girl and gather as many details as possible is overwhelming. Almost as perfuse as the excitement lighting my nerves on fire. Instead, I take a quick breath and grab our drinks. “Thank you.”
“The love he has for you is going to ruin him. So please, just…” She sighs and looks behind me out the window. “Decide what you want and stick with it.”
Has. Present tense.
I tell myself not to read into that, not to let the small flicker of hope turn into a full-blown inferno.
But I’ve never been too good at putting out fires.
TWENTY NINE
“William, Just text her. And for the love of all things virgin, don’t let me have to beat your ass. And also, don’t take all day. Remy has lots of other shit to do besides tutor your dumbass.”
“Hmm. You’ve mentioned my buns of steel twice. Got them on your mind, Hanes?”
“Fuck off, Will.” I grit my teeth, wondering why the hell I just sealed my dear friend’s fate with the likes of William. He needs to retake his SATs if he wants any chance of going to school anywhere in Washington, and if anyone can help him, I know it’s her. She’s got the patience of a shepherd herding sheep and the ability to help just about anyone.
My mother’s peppered hair catches the light and reflects in my periphery. “Hey, man. I got to go, but I’ll call you soon.”
“Yeah, but, hey. Good luck tomorrow. I know you busted your balls over that project. It’s going to be great.”
I mutter a quick thanks before ending the call and bounding over the couch to my mother. She giggles, her thin shoulders shaking as she places a frail hand on my chest.
The trip was the best thing I could have imagined. My dad had me waking up at five in the morning to get schoolwork done, but the rest of the day was something out of a movie. We went sightseeing, kayaking, bungee jumping, and sailing. We ate foods from Greece to China, exploring every nook and cranny the world has to offer and marking off literally every item on my mom’s bucket list.
Out of the twelve-week trip
, she only had an episode twice. Twice. The least amount she’s had in years. But Dad had to remind me on more than one occasion that it didn’t mean anything. He said there could be a plethora of reasons she was managing so long but warned that she’d continue to deteriorate as soon as we came back.
Sure enough, on the plane ride home, about ten minutes in, she couldn’t even remember my dad. The walls of excitement—of hope, came crashing down in an instant. It reminded me how fragile life is, how nothing is permanent.
It taught me the one thing I’ve forgotten since my mother’s diagnosis.
Hold fast, hold steady isn’t just a coping mechanism she taught me to keep my cool. It was something my mother would recite when things got tough. When I needed a gentle reminder that nothing is easy, and everything required consistency and work. When the waters get crazy, hold on, ride it out.
And whatever you do, don’t fucking give up.
“Are you excited?” Her soft voice pulls me back to her.
“Yes,” I lie.
The long-awaited science fair is this weekend, and the bus leaves in about thirty minutes. I’m not sure if she’s going, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to see her. I thought about her more than I’d care to admit, mainly about all the things I regret.
“You’re going to win. Don’t you worry about it.” She leans into my shoulder, and I wrap an arm around her back, cherishing the ache between my lungs.
Today is the day. Not only for the fair, but my mom’s departure, and no amount of preparation could have got me ready for the train wreck of emotions that are flitting through me. She’ll only be an hour away. Fifty-three miles, to be exact, but it’s not the same.
It’s not like I’m going off to college and leaving her at home. No, I’m taking her to the place she’s more than likely going to die. Alone. Surrounded by people she doesn’t know, mourned by people she doesn’t remember.