I wipe my face and rub my temples, the inside of my head pounding louder than a jackhammer. My body aches, every muscle sore from the amount of crying I’ve done since I got home.
I don’t even know what day it is, or how long it’s been since Mom left this earth.
I roll to my side, my hand landing on a piece of paper, and I notice my phone with a broken screen next to it. I pick up the piece of paper and blink several times, allowing my eyes to focus.
I had to leave. I’m sorry. Call me if you need anything. –Hudson
I crumble up the note in my hand, letting it fall to the floor.
My eyes scan my room, taking in the drawings and photographs hanging on the walls.
This is all I have left–pictures.
In each photograph, I’m attached to my mom’s side like I never want to let her go.
There’s one of me clinging to her neck when I was five-years-old as she cradled me in her arms. I’m crying in the picture, tears rolling down my face. I had fallen off a stool in the kitchen and hit my chin on the hardwood floor. She picked me up off the ground and told me everything would be okay, and I hugged her neck, willing the stinging on my chin to subside.
I’m not entirely sure who took the picture, but the day I found it hidden away in a beat up cardboard box, I framed it and put it in my room.
I wanted it to remind me that she’s the one who has always been there–the one who can make everything infinitely better. But not anymore…because she’s gone.
She’s not here to pick up the pieces. I have to do it all on my own.
I throw my legs over my bed and stare at my room. Everything on the walls hurts. The photographs and drawings slice me open, reminding me of what I don’t have. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want the reminder when my body is fighting so hard to keep going.
I shove away from the bed and stomp to the wall across from me. I rip each drawing from the wall, tearing them in half and throwing them to floor. I claw at the wall, taking everything within reach down.
My body shakes as I rid the wall of my art, not caring what I’m destroying. I head toward the photograph of me crying in Mom’s arms and take the frame off the wall. My thumb runs over her face and down her rich brown hair.
Why didn’t she fight? Why did she give up when she had the chance to live?
I hate her.
I clutch the frame, my knuckles white.
I hate her for abandoning me.
I throw the picture across the room. It hits the opposite wall with a bang, and the glass shatters at the contact as the broken frame falls to the ground.
I sink to the floor, landing on my butt. I lay down on my side and curl into myself, gripping my knees to my chest, willing the ache ripping through me to stop.
As the sun sets, I drag my limp body out of my room and to the kitchen. I grab a glass out of one of the cabinets and fill it with tap water. I gulp it down, my dry throat thankful for the liquid.
Three days of crying. Three days of sleeping. Three days of solitude.
It feels so much longer than three days. I’ve been grasping on to every memory, tucking each one away and praying like hell I don’t forget a single one. But I know I will. I’ll forget the sound of Mom’s voice. I won’t be able to remember the way her eyes twinkled when she looked at me.
So I’m clinging to everything about her, keeping her close for as long as I can.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom’s bedroom door open. It’s begging me to enter, enticing me with memories of her.
I place the glass in the sink and head to her room. I walk slowly, each step feeling like ten years.
Her room is coated in darkness. I stop at the threshold, not daring to step over and let her invade my mind and break me down even more.
Her sweet smell invades my nose, and I inhale, letting her wash over me. She hasn’t slept here in weeks, but her smell is ingrained in the room, and I savor it.
Goosebumps coat my arms, feeling like she’s standing next to me when I know she isn’t. I lift my foot from the ground, wanting to step inside and sleep in her bed, but I stop myself, not wanting to contaminate the room, ridding it of her scent.
I stare in to the darkness, drowning in it as I hover in the doorway. My heart slams against my chest, my ears ringing as I clench my jaw.
My head is screaming at me not to enter, so I grab the doorknob and slam the door shut, cutting off my vision to her room.
I walk away from her room and back to the kitchen.
I halt next to the mini-fridge when someone knocks on the door.
“Jade?” Hudson says, his smooth voice, filling the silent trailer. “Jade, I know you’re home. Your bike’s outside.”
I don’t answer him. I just stand in the small kitchen, letting his voice float over me.
Thump. It sounds like his forehead hit the door as if he feels dejected from my lack of response. “I’m here for you,” he says. “If you want to talk, you know how to find me.”
I head to the door and place my hand on the cold metal, pretending I can feel his forehead on the palm of my hand.
“You’re not alone, Jade. You have me,” he whispers.
I let out a loud sigh, squeezing my eyes closed. I don’t want to be his downfall. If I let him in, I feel like I’ll drag him down with me. Or worse, I’ll lose myself in him completely and push my grief aside. And I won’t deal with the weight that has pushed me so far down in the ground I can barely see the sky.
His footsteps descend the steps, and once again, I’m left in the silence.
I choke on a sob as he slips further away–me pushing and him leaving. I drop my hand to the knob, wanting to run after him, but I don’t.
Just when I think I can’t bury myself any deeper, I do, the sky no longer visible as I dig further into the ground.
I make my way to the bathroom and turn on the shower to a scolding hot temperature.
I strip off my clothes, discarding them on the linoleum floor. Pushing the plastic shower curtain aside, I step in, letting the hot water and steam engulf.
I let the water beat down on my skin, turning it bright red, as my silent tears mix with the water.
I stand in the shower until I become numb, inside and outside.
A week and a half of drowning in my sorrow. A week and a half of feeling utterly destroyed. A week and a half of wanting nothing more than to make it all stop.
I hate feeling this way.
I hover over Mom’s casket, my hand resting on the polished wood as Hudson stands next to me. It’s weird knowing her cold body is in a casket, and she will be buried under ground for eternity.
She’s gone.
I’m here.
Everything is different, yet everything feels the same.
My world is darker than it was before, clouds hanging above me. They pour rain over me, crying as I cry, making everything feel so much bleaker.
Hudson, Kristy, Jason, and me. That’s it.
We’re here, and no one else is. I didn’t try to find my dad to tell him Mom died because he left us. He doesn’t deserve the chance to tell her goodbye.
Both sets of my grandparents passed away before I was ten. I don’t remember anything about them, and Mom and Dad never kept in touch with any of their family. So it’s just me, and the people I call friends.
It’s sad that this is it.
The sun beats down me, making me sweat in my black blouse and pants. My long brown hair falls over my shoulders, adding another layer to my scorching skin. I wish it was raining. I wish other people weren’t out having fun when I’m barely keeping myself in one piece.
Kristy walks up next to me, wrapping her arm around me, squeezing me close to her as I stare at my mom’s casket. “You want to grab something to eat?” she asks.
I shake my head no.
I haven’t said a single word to any of them since they showed up. The only reason they knew about the funeral today is because Kristy wouldn’t stop asking me about it. I told her
merely to shut her up. I assume she told Hudson because I’ve been avoiding him like the plague.
It’s almost like I’ve taken a vow of silence, refusing to say a word to anyone.
“Do you want someone to take you home?” she whispers.
I don’t miss how she says someone. I know she means Hudson, even though she doesn’t say it.
I shake my head no again, slipping away from her hold.
I shoulder around Hudson, hoping he doesn’t follow me, but he does, and I continue to ignore him.
Jason lets go of my bike when I wrap my hand around the handle bar. He doesn’t say anything. He just folds his arms around me, gripping me against him. I pat his back once, and he drops his hold on me.
Walls are caving in on me, and all I want to do is get away from all three of them. They’re overcrowding me, bombarding me with their sympathy and sad eyes. I don’t want any of it.
I hop on my red bike and pedal down the road. I leave them all standing near my dead mother–everyone I care about in one spot. I glance over my shoulder, and the pity on their faces causes my stomach to twist in knots.
I veer off the road, not wanting to feel their eyes on my back. I move slower, careful not to run over any gravestones that are hidden in the grass.
This day is too much. The crushing weight on my chest. The grief settling over me.
I press my lips together, grinding my teeth.
I haven’t cried all day. I wouldn’t let myself because I knew I wouldn’t be strong enough to go home alone if I did. I would let Kristy, Jason, and Hudson take care of me, but that’s not what I need…not right now.
I have to get through this. I can get through this.
At least I think I can.
I notice Joey five feet ahead of me, his hands in the pockets of his black slacks as he walks down the paved road.
I slam on the breaks, my brows pinching together.
When he spots me, his eyes soften as a small smile tugs at his mouth. “Did I miss the funeral?” he asks, his eyes scanning my face.
I nod.
“I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through his blond hair. “I went to your other job to check on you, and the chick with the shaved head told me when the funeral was.”
Damn Kristy and her fucking mouth.
I purse my lips.
“I can leave. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He takes a step back.
Before he can walk away, I jump off my bike, letting it hit the ground. I throw my arms around his neck, and I cry for the first time today.
He’s stiff at first, but his body relaxes and his arms wrap around me.
I fall apart in Joey’s arms for more reasons than one.
My mom is dead, and it feels like I lost a part of myself. It’s like someone took my right leg, deciding I didn’t need it anymore. But I do. I need her as much as I need my leg.
Joey helped me. He saw me falling apart and helped a girl who has only ever yelled at him.
He fixed my bike. He took me to the hospital, and now he’s here when he doesn’t owe me a single thing.
We hardly know each other, but he’s showing me a compassion I know I don’t deserve.
“You should be more careful with that bike. I don’t want to have to fix it again.” He laughs softly against my hair.
And I laugh-cry along with him.
I don’t know how long we stand there, but when I pull away from him, blood rushes back to my hands as I drop my arms.
I pick my bike up off the ground, holding it upright as I look at Joey.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods, his eyes kind, not full of pity.
I throw my leg over my bike and pedal away. The clouds that have been hanging over my head beginning to dry out.
It’s been four days since the funeral.
Hudson has called, sent me strings of texts, and showed up at my front door. Each time I ignored him, putting a barrier thicker than steel between us.
Shoving people away is my specialty. I’ve become a master at forcing everyone out when all they want to do is help.
My walls haven’t deterred Hudson though.
Like right now. I’m sitting on a swing at the park in our neighborhood, and he’s walking toward me, watching me cautiously, making sure I don’t run away before he reaches me.
He stops short, towering over me with his hands in his jean pockets. Jeans. It’s hot as Hades out here, why is he wearing jeans?
“Are you okay?” he asks, rolling back on his heels.
I grip the chains of the swing in my hands as I flatten my lips together.
I hate that question. I loathe it. I wish it was erased from everyone’s mind because most people don’t want the truth. They don’t want to know that you’re falling apart inside. They don’t want to hear about the sleepless nights you have. They don’t want the truth. They want the easy answer. I’m fine. Guess what? That’s almost never true. I’m fine means I’m broken, I’m pissed, I need someone, or go fuck yourself and leave me alone. It never means I’m fine.
“Yeah,” I say, not giving him any hints as to how much I’m decaying on the inside.
He occupies the swing next to me. “I won’t let you fall off the ledge.” It’s a little too late for that. “I won’t let you disappear on me, so don’t think you can ignore me until I go away.” He tugs on the chain of my swing, dragging my attention to him. “Because I won’t.” He sears me with his eyes, trapping me with an intensity I’m not ready for.
But I was. I was ready to jump with him, to plunge in to his world and embrace something new. I was standing there, teetering on the edge, trusting he would be there to catch me, but then everything changed.
The floor dropped out from under my feet, and I fell all on my own, crash-landing harder than I thought I would, but I got up. I got up on my own without his help, and now I’m surviving, but I wouldn’t say I’m living. I’m merely existing in a world that’s passing me by, so did I really get up on my own or am I still stuck on the ground, imagining I’m standing on my own two feet?
We sit in silence, moving back and forth on our swings. Him next to me, offering me what I can handle, just his presence. No talking. Nothing else besides existing next to each other. A million miles between us when we’re barely a foot apart.
I was getting used to having people, someone to talk to, someone to lean on, someone to laugh with. I was growing, improving, and now I’ve taken five thousand steps back, diverting to my old ways.
He stands to leave, and my mouth falls open, but I don’t say anything. I keep quiet–keeping myself in confinement, not daring to let anything in or anything out.
To my surprise, he kneels in front of me, holding my face captive in his hands. “Truth,” he says, my eyes roaming his face. “I miss you. I miss you more than I have ever missed anyone, and you might not be ready to hear this, but I’m ready to say it, and I need you to hear me.” He pauses, searching my eyes for something…anything. “I love you.”
Love.
It’s too much for me to handle–too much when I still feel torn to shreds by the woman who loved me.
I stand from the swing. “I can’t,” I whisper as I step around him, leaving him kneeling on the ground.
I glance over my shoulder and see him standing, his hands on the back of his head.
Before I can catch a good look at his face, I turn away, not wanting to know if I destroyed someone who only ever tried to help me.
I don’t let those three words he said in because the sad truth is if I do, I’m scared I’ll fall all over again, and next time, I won’t be able to survive the crash.
Breathing—easy, strained, lighter, harder.
Everything is different, brighter yet darker.
I hold the letter size envelope in my shaky hands as I sit on the couch. I’ve been avoiding opening it for too long. I’ve been avoiding everything and everyone.
Days have passed by, feeling like mere hours as I went through the motions o
f everyday life without really knowing what I was doing. I was on autopilot. I didn’t care about anything.
I started drowning myself in work, instead of giving myself time to be at home. I didn’t want to give myself the opportunity to think because when my brain started working, everything felt like it was collapsing in on me, burying me under a mountain of rubble.
I run a finger down the length of the seal, tempting myself to open the envelope. It feels heavier than it should, like it weighs five pounds instead of the ounces it actually weighs.
I blow out a breath, closing my eyes as I tear open the envelope.
My heart thunders in my chest, anxiety creeping in. I open my eyes, slipping my hand in the envelope, grasping the mountain of papers that have been concealed since Mom died.
I don’t want to waste another second wondering, thinking…what if. I need to stop avoiding.
I pull out the stack of papers and place them on my lap, discarding the envelope on the floor.
I flip through the documents, seeing information about Mom’s will and finances, but I skip over all of that when I see her handwriting scrawled across a set of papers, addressed to me.
My hands shake, seeing her familiar script.
Maybe I’ll finally have the answers I’ve been looking for.
I throw the other documents to the side and unfold the papers that Mom wrote my name across.
My Dearest Jade,
I’m sorry that you’re reading this, but I hope it helps you move on. I hope it helps you to realize it’s time you live your life, and maybe, just maybe, it gives you a semblance of peace.
I whimper, holding my hand over my mouth, keeping it together long enough to read her last words.
I want you to know that I love you. I have always loved you more than anything else in this world. When I heard you cry the day you were born, I knew nothing would ever be the same. I knew from that moment, I lived and breathed for you. Everyone has a purpose in life, and I didn’t know what mine was until you came into this world. My purpose was to give you life–to be your mother. I want you to know it was an honor. You are my greatest joy, and the one thing I am most proud of on this earth.
The Truth About Falling Page 23