I say one last silent prayer and don’t stall a moment longer.
Waiting for the results to come back is some of the most stress-filled minutes of my life. I keep eyeing the timer on my phone, and when the alarm vibrates I lift the directions off the pregnancy test.
Not pregnant.
The words glare up at me. Mocking me.
I inhale a breath, then another, and then I lose my fucking mind.
I scream—a blood-curdling kind of scream. I shove everything off the bathroom counter. Towels, makeup, toothbrushes, lotion—everything, goes tumbling to the floor. I scream and I keep screaming. I can’t stop. I have to let it out.
Knocking starts on the door and the knob rattles. “Blaire? Blaire?” my mom calls, sounding concerned. “What’s wrong? Let me in.” I don’t know whether she’s asking me to let her in the room or to just let her in.
I tear at my hair and I kick the bathroom cabinet.
I’m crying again. I’m so sick and fucking tired of crying and now I’m angry. I never understood the term ‘seeing red’ until now. I seem to see everything through a red-tinged, anger-filled rage. I clench my fists and lean my head back, screaming at the ceiling.
“Blaire?” My mom sounds more urgent now. “You’re scaring me.”
“Let me scream,” I yell through the door.
I hear my dad say, “Let her be, Maureen.”
I wish there were more things for me to shove off the counter, but since there’s not I settle for throwing anything I can get my hands on. I throw a shampoo bottle at the wall and then my makeup bag. I stupidly throw a bottle of foundation at the wall and the glass shatters and makeup splatters everywhere. I can’t bring myself to care. Ben’s gone and I’m not even pregnant. My body failed me again. Or maybe I failed me, because I haven’t been taking care of myself the last few weeks. Maybe this is my fault.
I slide down the wall, sobbing, and wrap my arms around my legs. I’m falling apart at the seams and I don’t know what to do. Ben’s always been the strong one. He always knows—knew—what to do in any situation. I’m not like that. I’m more of a follower, and he’s a leader.
“Kid?”
I can’t answer my dad around my choking sobs. I can’t tell him I’m okay anymore, because I’m not. I’m sad. I’m angry. I’m hurt. I’m confused. I’m tired. I’m feeling a million things and none of them are good. There’s no happiness inside me and that scares me. What if I never feel happy again? What if it will always be this way? Ben was my sun— What do you do when the sun doesn’t shine anymore?
I wipe my tears on the sleeve of my shirt. I’m a fucking mess and now so is the bathroom. It looks like a hurricane hit it.
“Kid?” my dad says again, rapping his knuckles against the door. “Just tap the door or somethin’.”
My breath leaves me in a shaky breath and I lean over and flick the lock on the door. He hears it and slowly eases the door open. He takes one look at me and the mess around me and clucks his tongue.
“Well, Kid, that’s one way to go about it.”
My lips tremble with more tears.
“I take it the anger set in?” I nod. “’Bout time. I couldn’t take your mopin’ a moment longer.”
I know he’s trying to make me smile, but I can’t. I try, and I’m pretty sure it looks more like a grimace.
“Let’s get this cleaned up,” he says. I don’t move. “I’ll clean up. You just sit there and look pretty.”
Surprisingly, a small laugh bubbles up my throat. His lips twitch with a smile, and I know he’s pleased to have caused such a reaction.
He begins to pick things up and put them on the counter, and he refolds the towels, putting them under the sink like I should have earlier.
“Hey, what’s this,” he says suddenly. “Oh. Never mind.”
It’s too late. I’ve already seen it. A paper crane. The first one anyone’s found in the last two weeks—that I know of. I think they’ve been hiding them from me when they find them, afraid that I’ll break down yet again.
“Give it to me,” I plead, ready to fight my dad for it if he doesn’t give it to me.
He reluctantly hands me the paper bird. I sit it on my lap and run my fingers around the worn edges. It looks like Ben had lodged it in-between the cracks in the cabinet wall. I lift it to my nose and smell it. It doesn’t smell like him, only ink and paper, but it’s still a familiar smell, and one I love.
“Kid, you sure you should open that?” My dad watches me like I’m a bomb that might detonate in front of his face at any second.
I nod. I have to open it.
I slowly unfold the edges, peeling back the folds Ben previously made to reveal the message hidden inside.
I never thought I’d love someone the way I love you—I think I was made to love you. I used to make fun of love-sick fools like me. Then you came along and changed everything. Now I wish everyone could experience the kind of love we have.
—Ben
I know I’m crying—because it’s all I do anymore—but I fold the paper crane back up and hold it to my chest.
“Blaire? You okay?” my dad prompts.
I nod. I’m okay. For the moment, at least, because right now Ben’s here with me. I can feel him even if I can’t see him.
“You need to go back to work.” My mom glares at me across the kitchen table.
“You need to get out of my house.”
“Blaire,” my mom scoffs, “don’t be ridiculous.”
I eye her over my bowl of cereal. “I didn’t know I was.”
She huffs out a breath and her bangs brush her forehead. “We’re not going home until we know you’re okay.”
“I am okay,” I tell her. It’s a lie, and we both know it. I don’t know why I bother even saying the words. She can see right through me.
“You are so far from okay.” She rests her arms on the table. “Dan, come talk some sense into your daughter.” She calls to my dad where he sits in the family room. He’s taken up residence on the couch and claimed it as his own. That’s fine with me since I’d rather lie in bed all day.
“Why does she suddenly become my daughter when you’re mad?” he calls back.
“You both are exactly the same,” she grunts. “Stubborn to a fault.” She points a finger at me. “Go take a shower. At least do that.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I’m irritated by the fact that my mom thinks she can come to my house and boss me around.
“I honestly don’t know what’s been wrong with you the last two days.” She shakes her head. “You’re even worse than you had been.”
She doesn’t know about the pregnancy test. My dad does, though. He found it when he was cleaning the bathroom. He looked at it, then me, then tossed it in the trash and hasn’t said a word since. He’s probably afraid I’ll bite his head off if he says something. He might be right.
“I’ll go shower,” I mumble. I’ll do pretty much anything to get out of my mom’s sight. I know she’s trying to help, but I just want to be left alone. I’m sad and angry—I lost Ben and then the news that I’m not pregnant has been devastating. I know I should tell her that, she’d understand, but voicing the words out loud—I’m not pregnant—makes it real.
My mom nods as I leave. I think she’s as happy to see me leave as I am to do the leaving.
I take a long shower—washing my body more than once. I even wash my hair which I haven’t been doing much of. I haven’t had the energy. Something I learned is that crying non-stop makes you exhausted. I feel drained even when I wake up. It sucks, but I’m learning to live with it.
I change into jeans and a t-shirt. It’s the first time I’ve worn real clothes in too long. I’ve been living in sweatpants and pajamas. Ben wouldn’t be happy with me. I know he’s probably up there, watching over me, cursing me for being such a bum. I keep telling myself one more day, but one more day has turned into three weeks. What if three weeks turns into three months? I know I can’t keep goi
ng like this, but my argument is: it’s easier than dealing.
I dry my hair, but I don’t bother styling it. This is better than I’ve been doing so I figure it’ll make my mom happy.
When I pad downstairs she’s sitting in the chair in the front room reading a book. Her jaw drops. “Are those jeans?”
I look down, pretending I didn’t already know. “Yeah.”
“I feel like I should take a picture,” she mutters to herself.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn her, coming the rest of the way downstairs.
“Since you’re dressed, why don’t we go somewhere?” she suggests. “Target? Wal-Mart?”
I stare at her, a bit shocked. My mom considers Wal-Mart the tenth ring of hell. Seriously, she hates the place, so she must be desperate to get me out of house if she’s suggesting Wal-Mart.
“Nah, I don’t feel like it,” I say automatically, starting for the kitchen.
“Dan, grab your daughter and the car keys, we’re going to Target.”
I stop in my tracks. I know that tone of voice. She’s going to kill us if we don’t get in the car.
My dad looks over at me from the couch. “You gone and done it now, Kid. You awakened the Kraken.”
“Car. Now.”
My dad and I get moving. You do not mess with my mom when she sounds like that.
I grab a coat while my dad shoves his feet into his shoes and shrugs on his own coat. My mom is already waiting by the door with her coat on and her giant purse—seriously, the thing is so huge you could smuggle a puppy and a couple of hamsters in there.
We pile into my parents’ rental car and Dad drives us to Target. He grumbles the whole way. I would too if I wasn’t afraid my mom would beat me over the head with her giant ass purse. The woman can be crazy.
We arrive at Target twenty minutes later.
“Out,” my mom says in a clipped tone. If she was a bad guy she’d have a gun held to my middle right about now. I half-expect her to demand, “Walk,” when I get out, but she doesn’t.
She grabs a shopping cart and sets her purse in the child’s seat.
“Let’s go.” She gestures with her hand for us to follow—almost like she’s herding cattle or something.
My dad shoves his hands in his pockets and barrels forward. “I’m getting popcorn.”
My mom huffs, “Like hell you are. You don’t need any popcorn.” She points to his round middle.
He makes a face. “If you expect me to get through this, I’m gettin’ me some damn popcorn.” He heads off before she can protest further.
She looks to me and sighs. “He’s like trying to raise a big kid. He never listens. Ooh, look at this stuff,” she says, distracted by the dollar section. “I need these.” She grabs a handful of cheap notepads.
I don’t bother explaining the difference between need and want to her.
“Kid, you want anything?” my dad calls from across the way.
My mom makes a face and hisses, “Could he not make a scene?”
“Yeah, get me a Dr. Pepper,” I yell back, just to spite my mom. She looks like she’s about ready to lose it between my dad and me. It’s pretty funny—serves her right for dragging us out of the house.
“You two will be the end of me,” she groans. “The end, I tell you.”
Normally, I’d make a joke right about now, but I don’t feel like it. Instead, I stand there mute.
“Come on, let’s look at the clothes,” my mom says, ushering me over to the left. “This would be nice on you,” she points at a flowery summer dress—and please, someone explain to me why companies put out summer clothes in the middle of winter; no one’s thinking about hot days when there’s a foot of snow on the ground.
I make a face and move on down the aisle. Not even retail therapy can pull me out of this funk. I commend my mom for trying, though. God, she’s trying so hard. Bless her heart.
“How about this?” She holds up another dress, this one a little more weather-appropriate. It’s cobalt blue with long sleeves. I actually like it, but I only shrug in response. She sighs and puts it in the cart anyway. That almost plucks a smile from me.
“Here, Kid,” my dad says, appearing with a large bag of popcorn and two drinks.
I take mine and mutter, “Thanks.”
My mom throws her hands in the air. “Why do you talk to him and not me?”
My dad looks over his shoulder at her. “Because Maureen, I don’t irritate the girl like you do.”
She sighs for probably the fiftieth time that day. “I’m not irritating,” she argues.
“Yes, you are.”
“No—”
“Guys,” I interject, “please stop. And Mom, you are irritating—” her face falls “—but I know you mean well.” She brightens at this. “Thank you for trying.”
She smiles, and I know I’ve said the right thing.
We walk around the rest of the store and checkout. On the way home, my dad veers off course.
“Dan?” my mom questions, but he doesn’t answer her. He continues driving like the two of us aren’t staring a hole into his head.
When he stops in front of the café, I nearly have a heart attack.
“Get out of the car, Kid.”
All the blood drains for my body. At least it feels that way.
“No.”
“Kid,” he warns, “get out of the car before I drag your ass out. Your friends are waiting.”
My eyes flit from the front of the café to my dad. “How?” I ask.
“You left your phone on the couch and you got a text—I’m a sneaky bastard, so I read it. Your friends miss you and want to see you, so I pretended to be you and said you’d meet them for lunch.”
I glare at my dad. “You’re worse than Mom. You’re like the sneaky snake that waits in the grass to get you when you least expect it.”
He smirks. “Yeah, that’s me. Sneaky Snake. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” he asks my mom.
“It’s perfect,” she agrees.
“I don’t want to go,” I argue. “I can’t see them.”
My dad sighs. “Five minutes, Kid. That’s all I ask. We’ll wait right here for you.”
My lips press together in distaste. I haven’t seen my friends since the funeral, and I barely spoke five words to them then.
“Out of the car.” My dad points to the car door. “You do this thing where you wrap your hand around the handle there and push. Then the door does this magical thing called open. Try it.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” I put my hand on the knob. “I’m going. See? Bye.”
“Good girl.” My dad winks. “I’ll give ya a sticker later.”
I crack a small smile. When I was a little girl, my dad used to give me stickers for every little accomplishment. Get an A on a paper? Here’s a sticker, Kid. Win the Spelling Bee? Here’s a sticker, Kid.
I head inside the café and find Casey, Chloe, and Hannah waiting for me.
They all flash me a small smile as I approach. My favorite sandwich and coffee is already waiting for me. I take a seat and wave awkwardly.
“How have you been?” Casey asks me.
“Not good.” I frown. My hands are shaking so I press them in-between my legs.
“Stupid question, huh?” Casey says.
I shrug.
“I brought by some food; your mom answered the door and said you were sleeping. I hope it was okay. You know I’m not the best cook,” Casey says.
I didn’t even know she brought food. I’m sure my mom told me, and I probably ignored her. I don’t even know if I ate any since I’ve barely been able to stomach anything. When I do eat, I tend to throw it up. I’m too upset to keep anything down.
“Yeah, it was good,” I lie.
“Great.” Casey breathes out a sigh of relief.
We all sort of stare at each other and then Chloe loses it. She begins to cry. “I’m so sorry, Blaire. This is all so tragic and sad.”
Her tears signal all the rest of us and we all sit at the table in the café bawling our eyes out. Somehow, we end up in a group huddle, holding each other as we cry.
As much as I hate breaking down in public, I need this. I need it so much. I need to cry. I need to be angry. I need to let it out.
“I’m so mad,” I say through my tears. “Why Ben? He didn’t deserve this. He’s so good.”
“I know,” Hannah says. “It’s not right.”
“It’s not fair,” I sob into my friends’ shoulders.
I’ve never been one to use those words before. It’s not fair. But that’s the way I feel. It’s not fair that Ben’s time on Earth got cut short. It’s not fair that I’m not walking down the aisle to him next week like I should be. It’s not fair that I’ll never have his baby. It’s not fair that I’ll never grow old with him. It all fucking sucks.
“It’s okay to be mad,” Chloe says. “You have every right.”
I sniffle. Sometimes I feel like it’s wrong that I’m so angry. Angry at myself. At the world. At Ben. I hate myself for being angry at him. It’s not like he chose to die, but I’m angry anyway. I know it’s part of grief, but I don’t like it. I’d rather feel sad than angry.
“You’ll be okay,” Hannah sniffles. “We’re here for you.”
I nod. I know they are even if I haven’t let them be. “I love you guys,” I tell them. I’m lucky to have such amazing friends. I’ve ignored their calls and texts the last few weeks but they still wanted to have lunch, and if it wasn’t for my dad I wouldn’t be here. I’ll have to remember to thank him later. I needed this.
We separate and sit back. I won’t lie, it hurts seeing the empty chair that Ben used to sit in, but for now I ignore the pain in my chest.
“Tell me something, anything,” I plead.
“I’m all moved into my new place,” Hannah says with a semi-happy smile. I wince, but she doesn’t notice. Ben was supposed to help her move. “You should come by and see it, I think you’d love it. My neighbor is a bit … annoying, though.” She shudders. “Cyrus. He’s constantly throwing parties and he’s kind of a jerk, but a hot jerk.”
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