I think that was the first time I realized my depression affected more than just me. But it was just so easy to lose myself in it. I felt so worthless and unloved that I honestly believed she’d be relieved all those times I canceled on her. But she wasn’t. She was hurt and confused, and that was on me. So yeah, the boat was rocked. That bitch was practically waterlogged.
We moved in together shortly after, and in those first few months, I slowly realized our fears of living together were completely unfounded. Because even though most friendships were surely tested by it, I forgot Naomi wasn’t like most friends. She wasn’t perfect. She left her clothes in the dryer for days, never took out the garbage, and her crap was constantly cluttering the common area. And let’s not forget the loud sex. But that didn’t matter because she was still my best friend and the best person I knew. So if she wanted to have loud, crazy sex and leave her stuff everywhere, she could go right ahead. I’d take the bad, because in the end, it paled in comparison to the good.
But as I continued tracing the scar and the water ran cold, I couldn’t help but think one day she would wake up and realize my good could never outweigh my bad.
Naomi and Caleb had successfully removed themselves from bed an hour ago to go to the movies. I’d just slipped into jeans and a T-shirt when I remembered my niece’s party was supposed to be at the park this year. If I didn’t know how hard it was to say no to Megan, I’d hate my sister for agreeing to this. Living in Arizona meant I typically limited my outside excursions to the months of October through April; anything else was a sure death sentence. Like right now, in the middle of freaking August.
Quickly removing my clothes, I settled on a knee-length mint-green dress instead, even though it would only make a minimal difference in the triple-digit heat, but anything would be better than jeans. I grabbed her present off my desk before rushing out the door and to my car. The party didn’t start for an hour, but my sister had put me in charge of watching Megan while she set up everything. I pulled in just as Jackie was slumping down on the bench.
“AUNTIE ARA!” Megan screamed as she came running toward me. I bent down, taking care to keep my dress tucked under my knees, and waited for her to launch herself into my arms. She barely slowed down as she plowed into me, and I rocked back with the force of it.
“Hey, sweetheart. What’s going on here today?” I made a big deal of looking around at all the decorations my sister had piled on the table, getting ready to set up.
“It’s my birthday party, Ara. Duhhh… remember when I gived you the pretty pink invitation with all the glitter?”
“Gave,” Jackie corrected from behind her. “You gave her the invitation, sweetie.”
Megan nodded, trying to look stern like her mother. “I gave you the invitation, remember?”
Jackie chuckled a little while I tried to keep a straight face. I hit myself on the head as if I just remembered. “Of course. What was I thinking? Wait… did I forget your present?” Again, I made a show of looking at the bags around me and frowning.
“You got me a present?” she asked excitedly as she hopped around in front of me, her big brown curls bouncing with her.
“I sure did. Now tell me. What was the one thing you wanted more than anything else?”
“Daddy, I wanted Daddy to come home. That’s the wish I made this morning on my breakfast pancake.” I saw Jackie’s face drain of color as she stood behind Megan and a look of complete torture came over her face.
“WAIT!” Megan yelled and grabbed my hand, bringing my eyes back to her now pale face. Her lips trembled and her eyes were wide with tears. “It doesn’t come true if I tell you. Mommy says it’s not gonna come true if I tell you.”
My sister sprang into action, coming around and kneeling with us. She squeezed her daughter’s hand as she reassured her. “That’s only on birthday cakes, sweetie, not pancakes. There are never any rules on pancakes.”
“Really?” We both nodded earnestly until the tears that had sprung up began receding. “Pinky promise.” She pouted, daring us to tell her we were lying, before sticking her pinky in Jackie’s face. After we both locked fingers with her, Megan gave us a wide grin and let out a sigh of relief.
“Why don’t you go play on the swings for a little bit?”
“Okay, Mommy.” Megan turned to run away before pausing and spinning around to face us again. She quickly ran and hugged me once more before whispering in my ear, “I missed you, Auntie Ara.” And with that, she was skipping toward the swing set.
“Hey, Jax,” I said, using her nickname from when we were kids. She smiled and pulled me in for a hug once we were standing. We stayed that way for several seconds before she reluctantly let go. I’d never been much of a hugger, but lately, every time Jackie hugged me, I held on a little tighter. It was beginning to feel like that was the only thing holding her together. “Have you heard from him?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“He’ll call. He’ll find a way. He loves that little girl more than anything.” I pointed toward Megan as she swung higher and turned to talk to an imaginary friend on the empty swing next to her.
“You’re right.” She paused. “I know you’re right. I just never pictured her fifth birthday being this way. I never imagined I’d be doing all this alone.”
“Mom and Dad—”
“Are busy.” She cut me off. “I can handle this. This is just one of those bad days, Al. You know?” She gave me a pointed look because, yeah, I did know.
Jackie walked away and began setting up the games while I went over and pushed Megan a little higher, feeling guiltier than I had in a long time. I couldn’t even begin to understand the type of stress and pain my sister was going through. And even though she never said it, I knew there was a part of her that wondered how I could be the depressed one when she was the one with so much crap on her plate.
Some people couldn’t understand depression without a source; my sister was definitely one of those people, and some days I could feel it—the resentment and disbelief. She never meant to make me feel that way. She was my sister and she loved me fiercely. But at the end of the day, some people just expected more… but sometimes there was no more. Sometimes there was no trauma. No death. No PTSD. Nothing.
Megan’s giggles broke me from my thoughts as she became almost parallel with the ground. I looked over at the setup on the picnic tables and grimaced as my thoughts collided with reality.
Sometimes there was no more. Sometimes there were just giggles, balloons, and a happy little girl talking about blowing bubbles, but you were still depressed and you still couldn’t figure out why.
One year. Today marked a full year I’d been without my mother. Three hundred and sixty-five days since I last heard her voice, saw her smile, or felt her touch.
When I left for Europe and told my sister I’d be gone for a little while, I honestly hadn’t meant for it to turn into six months. She never said anything negative about me being gone; she even stopped asking when I was coming home around the three-month mark. But I knew it had to be killing her.
It had been two weeks since I last spoke to her, and even though I’d already bought my plane ticket, I hadn’t told her I was coming home. I told myself it was because she was preparing for her senior year of high school and I didn’t want her to be concerned with anything but that. But really, I was afraid she was giving our father updates, and I was in no way ready to deal with him. Especially today.
I sat in my car outside my childhood home and looked into my mother’s kitchen, bristling at what I saw. A blonde model, at least fifteen years my father’s junior, was hanging around his neck as he gave her a few absentminded pecks on her lips. It was a horrible thought, but I couldn’t help but wish he were the parent who was six feet under.
I swallowed the breakfast that threatened to resurface and moved my eyes toward the driveway. Sam’s car wasn’t there, so I assumed my father and his mistress of the month were the only ones home. Despite
my need to see mom’s favorite place, her garden in the backyard, I couldn’t make myself go inside right now. Not with the scene currently taking place, and not with all my thoughts about what happened the last time I was in that kitchen.
Samantha was softly crying as my father and I continued to scream at each other across the kitchen. She was fingering the jewelry around her neck, a simple silver pendant with the phrase “I still believe in 398.2” etched into it. Our mother had given it to her on her thirteenth birthday.
“It’s time you took your life seriously. We all loved your mother”—I scoffed at his lie while he continued like nothing happened—“but her death is no excuse to throw your life away. It’s been six months—”
“And while that might be an appropriate amount of time to grieve for a coldhearted bastard like yourself, some of us need a little bit more,” I bit out.
Again, he continued as if I hadn’t made a sound. “It’s been six months, and you’ve made too many drastic changes. You broke up with Miranda, dropped out of your master’s program, quit your job, and those are just the things you’ve made me aware of. You need to grow up and accept death is a part of life. The world isn’t going to wait for you to get back on your feet, and I certainly wouldn’t be doing you any favors by tolerating this childish fantasy.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back against the counter. “I know you think you own the world, but this isn’t your decision. This is my life and that means I decide what the hell I do with it.”
His mouth flattened into a line and his eyes narrowed as they raked over me thoughtfully. “You’re not ready.” He spoke quietly, as if he were talking more to himself than to me. After a disgruntled sigh, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose before refocusing his attention on me. “You have until the New Year. It’s only the second week of March, so that should be plenty of time to sort out whatever it is that’s going on up there.” He waved his hand toward my head. “Then you will come back and do what’s right by this family. You will get your master’s, come work for me at the company, and refocus your attention back on Miranda. Do you understand?” He eyed me expectantly and let out an annoyed sigh when I didn’t answer. “Gabriel, this is the only arrangement I will allow. Take it or leave it.”
Sam’s cries had softened, and when I looked over at her, I saw her staring down at her hands resting in her lap. “Samantha, will you be all right if I leave for a little while?”
“She’ll be fine,” my father answered for her. “She’s sixteen years old. Besides, she has Brody.”
I was still looking at her and saw her stiffen at the mention of her boyfriend. She looked up at me and gave me a smile before speaking for the first time since we started arguing. “Of course, Gabe. You need some time away from this place,” she said as she pointedly looked at our father.
My plan to travel around Europe for a few months was impulsive, and even though I didn’t have a lot of money (not by dear old Dad’s standards anyway), I did have enough to get by until I figured out a more long-term plan.
I had followed the rules my whole life, and what did I have to show for it? Not a damn thing. For as long as I could remember, I’d been groomed to follow in my father’s footsteps, and to the outside world, it seemed like a lifestyle I wanted. But in reality, it was just a ten-year-old boy’s pathetic attempt at getting his father’s respect and love. And somewhere in the middle of seeking my father’s approval, I started believing it was what I’d wanted, too. But it wasn’t. It only took my mother dying of cancer for me to realize it.
But I had let it go on for so long that I didn’t know who I was anymore or what I wanted. I couldn’t go back, but I didn’t know how to move forward either. So instead, I existed in a kind of limbo, and the plan became simple—do whatever I wanted and not worry about the consequences. I was no longer Mr. Punctual, Mr. Do-the-responsible-thing, or Mr. Proactive. Because those things didn’t matter much in the face of everything that was important. Those things couldn’t save my mother any more than they could help pull my sister from her despair. So what was the point of any of it?
I shook my head, and as I stared at his impatient expression, I realized I didn’t have to give him the truth. What would be the point in having this completely useless argument with my father now when I could deal with it later? When I could deal with it without Sam in the room or three shots of vodka in my system? I nodded in what he no doubt thought was submission. “Fine. Deal.”
He gave a curt nod in return before leaving my sister and me alone in the kitchen.
I’d barely heard his office door close before Sam ran over and hugged me. “Are you sure you’re okay if I leave for a little while?” I asked. But I didn’t know if I’d be able to stay even if she begged me.
“Yeah,” she mumbled into my shirt.
I knew she was lying, but I took the life raft she was offering and held on for dear life. Swallowing my shame and guilt, I quickly kissed the side of her head before turning around and taking the stairs two at a time until I reached the top.
When I reached my old bedroom, I opened the door to the mostly bare room and moved toward the closet. Most of my stuff would stay in my—well, I guess now it was just Miranda’s—apartment until I returned. But here was where I kept all I had left of my mother. I carefully removed the back from one of the frames until I had the worn picture in my hand. After staring at it for several seconds, I folded it until it fit in the plastic frame of my wallet. The air began to feel heavy as I closed the box and shoved it back with all the others before I jumped up and headed toward the door.
My father’s car was gone when I got to the garage only twenty minutes later. I slowly pulled out of the driveway and gave my mother’s house one last look. Movement in an upstairs window caught my eye, but when I looked up to what I knew was Sam’s window, all I saw were the fluttering curtains where her face must have been. A face I could barely look at because of how much it reminded me of our mother.
I drove away as I felt tears roll down my face and a painful thought took residence. If I had trouble looking at my sister, how the hell did she look in the mirror?
Maybe she was simply stronger than me. Maybe she wouldn’t be haunted by our mother’s death like I was. But as much as I tried to convince myself of those maybes, I couldn’t. All the maybes in the world couldn’t erase what I saw in her eyes that day—that she was suffering just as much as me, and I was too selfish and weak to do anything about it.
But how could you save someone who was sinking, if you were drowning right there with them?
I left the house before he could see me. Confronting him without any kind of plan would be a suicide mission. I hadn’t spoken to my father in over three months, and our last conversation wasn’t one I was eager to repeat. It ended with my fist in the wall of a cheap motel room.
What would your mother think? You think she’d be proud of the man you’ve become?
His words had been on repeat in my mind ever since I hung up on him. Not just because they were vicious, but also because they were most likely true. My mother would not be proud of who I’d become. But not for the reasons he thought.
He wasn’t proud because all he saw was a college dropout (even though I still had a bachelor’s degree) with no job and little to no aspirations or plans beyond the next ten minutes. He’d expected me to be married to Miranda with the first of our two point five kids on the way by now. And for a while, I wanted that, too. I wanted the wife, the kids, and the white picket fence. I was ready to settle into that average life.
But what I realized when my mother died was I would have hated it all. I would have graduated with my expected business degree and entered into an accounting job at my father’s firm, all with a genuine smile. But I would have woken up in forty years dissatisfied, resentful, and filled with regret. Because I’d never done what my mother was always pushing me to do, and that was to find my passion. For so long, I stuck with the status quo and what I w
as good at, despite whether or not I really loved it.
It was the same thing with Miranda. I didn’t love her, at least not in the way you’re supposed to love a wife. I guess growing up in my household, I never got to see that, but in the six months since I’d been gone, I saw a lot. I saw passion and love and spirit in ways I never would have dreamed possible. All the things my mother had always pushed us toward. So while my father was sure I was a disappointment because I quit my job and broke up with my girlfriend, I knew my mother wouldn’t have felt the same way.
What would gut my mother the most was what I did to Samantha. How I abandoned her. I’m sure she would have understood the first month, maybe even the next two. But leaving for six months? Not even my saint of a mother could justify that.
I guess the only defense I had left was I didn’t feel like myself anymore. As my mother withered away, so did the pieces of my life. Things that seemed important before suddenly didn’t matter at all. Once those things were gone, it felt like I had no idea how to do anything anymore, and I convinced myself even if I had stayed, I would have been worthless. Everyone else seemed to still know how to live, and all those things I lost still mattered to other people. And while I hated my father, I couldn’t deny he was very right about one thing: the world doesn’t wait for you to grieve.
My head was throbbing by the time I pulled into the parking lot of the cheap motel I was going to stay at tonight, and I couldn’t wait to lock myself inside my room and not have to deal with anything or anyone for the rest of the day.
I had been lounging on the bed for three hours, and it was just past 7:00 p.m. when my phone rang. Glancing at it, I saw the incoming name: Samantha. I stared at it until it went silent, and I blew out a breath of relief. Unfortunately, my relief only lasted a minute before the ringing started again. Samantha. When was the last time Sam called me twice in a row? My stomach felt heavy and my vision grew blurry at the thought of the last time that had happened. Exactly a year ago. Snatching my phone up, I breathlessly answered, “Hello? Sam? What’s wrong?”
Pure Hearts Page 29