Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

<><> Miriam <><>

 

“Okay, friends, I’ll take it from here. You can go home now,” I hear Aunt Rhonda say upon entering our house for the first time in two years.

Something about her comment, whether it’s the tone or the content, really burns me up. “Jacinta, Bailey, can you come here please,” I shout.

A second later, they both peer around the doorframe. They walk over and sit on the edge of the bed.

“Thanks so much for helping me and coming over. I don’t know what I would have done without you. You both mean so much to me and I love you.”

“We love you too,” they say in unison, bringing me into a group hug.

“Do you mind sending Chris in?”

“Sure. I’ll call you later, okay?” Jacinta says softly.

“Me too,” Bailey assures.

I hear the girls say goodbye and the front door open and shut. A minute later, Chris comes into my mom’s room and I hop out of bed and run toward him, grabbing on and hugging him like my life depends on it. I don’t want him to leave me. I don’t want to let him go for anything.

“You need some time alone with your aunt to sort things out and talk about your mom. I’ll be at the funeral tomorrow, promise.”

I nod, wanting so much to ask him to stay, to hold me all night, but my aunt is here now and that would be awkward. Part of me wishes she was staying at a hotel, but that would be rude of me to assume. She’s family, even if my mom and her haven’t been on good terms for years now. Still, it’s family. Chris kisses me gently and tells me everything is going to be okay without even saying a word.

And just like that, he leaves and I crawl back into bed, not quite ready to face my aunt’s company. Closing my eyes, I drift off easily.

 

 

“Miriam.”

Emerging from my foggy sleep, I hear my name and my eyes flutter open. Aunt Rhonda is perched on the edge of the bed leaning over me.

“Miriam, we should talk.”

I rub my eyes and sit up a little. “Thank you for coming. Mom would have wanted it.” Although in reality, I know Mom would have appreciated a visit while she was still alive.

“I know this is difficult for you, losing your mom and me being here, especially since we haven’t seen each other for two years. I owe it to my sister to help you.” Great, I’m a charity case, an obligation fulfilled. “I hated the way things ended between your mom and your dad. There was a time when he was as close as a real brother to me. He’s a good person, Miriam. And your mom and I…we grew apart over the years. I think distance will do that.”

“It happens.” Considering you accused her of not trying hard enough to save the marriage. Considering you’ve always accused her of being too easy-going and flighty.

Aunt Rhonda hesitates before giving me her two-cents on my own situation. “You know that will happen to you and your dad if you don’t make an effort. Living far apart, you’re bound to grow distant.”

Little does she realize that my dad and I are distant already. I stay quiet, not having the energy to start an argument. Internally, I’m thankful she’s only here for two days. With all I’m dealing with, I can’t even function right now.

“Where will you go, Miriam? You have to consider that.”

“I’ll stay here.”

Aunt Rhonda shakes her head. “No, that can’t happen. You’ll have to move in with your dad.”

“He asked me to move there, but I don’t know if I should.”

“It’s the only way. Your dad can help and he’d love to have you in Connecticut, I know it. You’re eighteen, Miriam, you can’t handle a house and all the expenses on your own.”

Clearly Aunt Rhonda and Dad have spoken about this and she’s championing his side. Again I stay quiet. Maybe she’s right, but maybe she’s wrong. How will I ever know I’m ready unless I try?

“Your dad cares about you and wants what’s best.”

“If he cares so much, then why isn’t he coming to Mom’s funeral? Why isn’t he here instead of you?”

“He does care, but he has another family now and other responsibilities. You get some more rest. I’ll make us an early dinner and we’ll discuss this later.”

I turn away from her and lay on my side, bringing my legs up into the fetal position. She shuts the door and I’m left feeling more alone than ever before…and more confused about what to do.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The morning light floods through the blinds, illuminating the room in a pink hue. The color indicates a day of uncertainty ahead. Before he died, my grandpa would say, 'Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight', on days like this. The sky is warning me to prepare for a storm ahead. Is this a metaphor for my life?

Aunt Rhonda and I arrive just before Mom’s funeral service begins. Walking into the building, we pass row upon row of friends and family and take our seats in the front. A large black and white photograph of Mom smiling with her natural hair blowing in the wind is framed and on display beside her closed casket. Flowers overflow the casket lid, the stands beside it, and the space below. She was loved by so many, yet we lived a quiet simple life without much company. Seeing all the flowers signifies the impact one person can have on others without even realizing it.

The service is meaningful and special, with people saying thoughtful things about Mom and sharing memories at the podium. I read one of her favorite poems, having difficulty holding myself together to get through it. By the last stanza, the word 'eternity' triggers my tears and I find it hard to catch my breath. The room is deathly silent with all eyes on me. Looking out on the sea of faces, I lock eyes with Bailey who is blubbering like a baby and I’m about to lose it even more. I glance to her right and see Chris’s mom, Jackie, dabbing the tears streaming down her cheeks with a tissue. And then I see Chris. His face is stony and serious, and then he smiles this sad half smile and it puts me at ease. I finally manage to gasp out the last sentence between sobs.

In a trail of endless cars, we follow the hearse to the cemetery. My mom’s body will enter the ground today. She is never coming home. Perhaps the red sky represented the internal storm now brewing in my heart. I feel as if it has broken into a million pieces; like I have broken into a million pieces.

When all has been said and earth has been thrown and flowers laid at her newly carved stone, Nunny and Holly ask that friends and family gather at our place to mingle, talk about Sandra, and pay their respects.

 

 

As people flood into the home I once shared with Mom, the living room and dining room fill with faces I don’t recognize. Claustrophobia overpowers me quickly and a furious heat finds the back of my neck. I yank at the collar of my black dress but that’s not helping. I need to get out of here. I need to be alone, away from the pitying eyes and empty words of people I don’t know. Everyone means well and they have to say something to fill the silence and fill in the gaps. I feel sick and angry one minute, numb another, and relieved the next. This last emotion morphs into guilt since I know the feeling of relief is because I don’t have to watch Mom suffering anymore. It has nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.

It’s like I’m in some long dark tunnel I can’t emerge from, an endless tunnel of sadness. I already miss her more than anything and I’m shocked at the permanence of her absence even though we said a proper goodbye – even though I saw her death coming from a mile away. How horrible it must be to lose someone in the blink of an eye, like in a sudden car crash, never getting the chance to have closure. At least we had that time together.

People keep telling me that it will get better, that I will eventually have a kind of normal back, but most of the unsolicited advice comes from those who have never lost a parent at eighteen. How can they possibly know that answer? How can they give that advice? Maybe they just need to say something. Having a friendly conversation is practically impossible. Everyone who comes up to shake my hand or hug me must know this, don’t they? They have to know how hard it is for me to wear a smile for their benefit. I don’t even know half of them. When I die, I want someone to scatter my ashes in a huge field of flowers without a fussy funeral. When I die, I want to stay anonymous.

“If there’s anything you need, Miriam, just call,” says my mom’s boss, Mr. Romel, as his wife nods thoughtfully beside him.

“Thank you.”

They walk away, instantly replaced by another well-wisher.

“I’m so sorry, Miriam,” stammers a lady I’ve never met, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m here for you. Anything you need, just call me. I’m here.”

“Thank you.” Who are you?

A seemingly endless line of people greet me, console me, attempt to comfort me, and I appreciate their efforts. Though deep down, I want to disappear. And then I see Chris standing at a distance. He’s watching me, as if guarding me with his eyes. I hold his stare as he skirts around strangers and comes toward me, but he doesn’t stop. He walks passed me and gently grabs my elbow to guide me with him. Opening the sliding door, he ushers me outside and then closes it behind us. With a firm hand on the small of my back, he leads me down the patio stairs, down the flagstone path and up the steps of the gazebo where he brings me into his arms for a close hug. Chris has rescued me from the pitying stares, comments, and condolences and I am forever grateful. And then he says something that, for a moment, makes me feel alive again.

“I love you, Miriam.”

His words are a whisper and seem significant, like it’s taking all of his courage to say them to me. Maybe this is the first time he’s ever said anything like this to a girl. I want to believe his words more than anything, but maybe he’s saying what he thinks I need to hear right now.

“Chris, you don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

He brings me out so we’re face to face. “I mean it, I love you. I’m not just saying it. You have to know that, right?”

I nod, wanting to believe it. I’m so fragile right now, so numb, all I can do is hold on tight.

 

 

After everyone is gone and the mess of food donations cleared away, I kindly assure my sparse sprinkling of relatives that I’m fine and want to be alone. This includes Aunt Rhonda. Yes, she is staying one more night, but when she offers to go out to dinner with her cousins, I fully support and encourage the idea, knowing my present and future situation will be the hot topic around the table.

I shut the door behind them and turn, pressing my back to it. The air is still in the falling darkness; the house so quiet I can hear the hum of the fridge all the way from the kitchen. I take a step forward into the emptiness. I’m a teenager and I have no mother. I’ve been forced to say goodbye, forced into my solitude without a choice. As I walk through the house, I turn off all the lights. I pour a glass of iced tea and head for the patio doors. The cool night breeze finds me as I step outside and sprawl in the lounge chair my mom spent so much time in watching the landscaping crew. The lights along the gazebo and pergola sparkle like stars, rallying with the real stars above in the now inky black sky. The trickle of water finds my ears from the pond. It’s tranquil, soothing. The oasis surrounds me, calming down my fears and allowing me to take a full breath for the first time in days.

I am alone.

Everything inside me aches at the thought of never talking to my mom again, never getting her advice. I’ll even miss her long lectures – which really weren’t so bad. She was, after all, just doing her job. And she was great at it too. The best mom a girl could ever ask for. I take a deep breath and let the reality wash over me – really feeling it. Part of me thinks I should call someone to talk about this, a counselor or psychologist, but it’s too easy to avoid all that drama.

The visual of my last moment with her comes racing back to me, so I close my eyes and slip back under again, grateful for darkness. Grateful for slumber as sleep comes easily in the fresh night air. Time disappears like an optical illusion. It’s there and then gone, hours feeling like minutes. Sleep can do that – fragment time until it gets away from you. I wake up surrounded by darkness feeling more alone than I ever have. An impulse to get up and check on my mom’s breathing makes my stomach lurch when I realize she’s gone. An acid ache takes residence in my throat as tears burn my face. In the haze of my living nightmare, I stumble back into the house and down the hall to my mom’s room. Crawling into her bed fully clothed, I drift away once more. Sleep is my sweet escape.

 

 

The next morning, Aunt Rhonda wakes me for breakfast. When I enter the kitchen still wearing the dress I wore at the funeral, Aunt Rhonda tries to hide her scoffs unsuccessfully. I slide into a chair, ignoring her disapproval. I can tell it’s taking everything in her power to hold her tongue about my need to change and freshen up. She has prepared a huge feast of French toast, fruit salad, turkey bacon, and strong espresso, probably afraid that I won’t eat anything after she leaves. Her flight is in three hours and although it’s terrible to think this, I’m secretly counting down the minutes. Her company is wearing on me and we’ve hardly spent any time together. Maybe because my defenses have been up since before she even arrived. Although Mom and her were close in age, they were light years apart personality-wise. Aunt Rhonda is the type of person you walk on eggshells around, like my dad. No wonder they got along so well. They must see themselves in each other. Maybe they should have gotten married all those years ago. Maybe Aunt Rhonda secretly pined after dad and that’s why there was so much resentment and tension between Mom and her. Who knows? It really doesn’t matter anymore.

Our goodbye is cordial and quick, with reassurances that she will call in a day or two to find out what my plans are. Again, she suggests that selling this house and moving in with my dad is for the best. Again, I thank her but don’t commit to an answer. She says that if it weren’t for Nunny and Holly picking up the pieces, she would stay. I tell her she shouldn’t worry so much, that yes, Nunny and Holly have everything under control. The airport limo arrives to remove her from my life.

Again, I am alone.

I peel off yesterday’s black dress, my underwear, my bra, and walk toward the living room naked. Slumping down into the couch cushions, I pull a blanket over me and aimlessly channel-surf, anxious to watch anything that will take my mind off my mom. Despite the warm day outside, I’m chilled to the bone. Grief is exhausting and I want to sleep until this pain in my heart goes away – if that’s even possible. I wonder if anyone else at my school has dealt with what I’m currently dealing with. If so, how many of them are only children of divorced parents with the sole living parent living in another city? Another State?

Hours pass. I ignore the ringing phone, a knock at the door, and the pings from texts. After taking a long cold shower and brushing my teeth, I throw on an old tee shirt and fresh undies and crawl back under the blanket on the couch and watch Gregory Peck in To Kill A Mockingbird. After Mom and I watched Roman Holiday, she recommended that we watch this movie next since I’d read the book in the tenth grade. We never got around to it, so I figure now is as good a time as any. It makes me feel close to her. The clock on the wall ticks down until I’m overcome with fatigue and fall asleep.

The sound of clashing thunder pulls me from my lazy slumber. Opening my eyes, the movie is over and the credits are rolling. I flick off the television and notice how the bright sunlight from earlier is now replaced by grey darkness and the rain is beating down horizontally against the window. A jolt of lightening illuminates the living room followed closely by a sudden clap of thunder that sounds like it’s right above the house. The violent weather forces me to my feet. Heading straight for my own bedroom this time, abandoning my mom’s because it’s farther away, I pull back the curtain and take a peek. Outside looks how I feel, so I climb under my covers and pull them up snuggly. I abandon the idea of eating dinner, defying my nagging hunger. I hunker down further and watch the flashes of lightening streak across the ceiling like a neon strobe casting eerie shadows across my room in its wake. Another thunderclap has me questioning my senses. Was that a knock at the door?

Again, the thunder competes with what is unmistakably a knock. I ignore it. A second later, my phone rings to life and a picture of Chris flashes across the screen.

“Hello.”

“I’m here. Can I come in?”

Instead of answering, I click off my phone and race to the front door. Chris isn’t there. I hear another knock coming from the back patio door. Each window showcases grey billowing clouds and swaying trees as the storm rages around the house. I stumble to the door and pull it open. He’s soaking wet from head to toe.

“You weren’t answering your phone before and I got worried,” he says as I reach out and bring him in, closing the door behind him.

“I’m okay.”

Aside from the rumble of thunder and the sound of rain, we stand silently facing each other in the darkness. Any reservation I may have had with Chris before is a distant memory. All pretense and nervous barriers are burned away the instant I see him. I need him now more than ever before. As Chris comes closer, I don’t wait for him to reach for me. I step in and wrap my arms around him as if holding on for dear life. Looking up, I devour every detail of his face, not wanting to ever forget him. Not wanting him to ever leave.

“I’m here now.”

His words break through my thoughts and I notice his apologetic smile during a filtered flash of lightening. I take his hand and lead him down the hall as another clash of thunder and lightening lights our way. Once we’re in my room, I turn to face him, holding the hem of his wet tee shirt and lifting it up over his head. I run my hands down his damp skin, feeling the goose bumps as he shudders. I fumble with his belt-buckle until it comes loose. I’m about to unbutton his wet jeans when he places his hands on mine.

“Wait, Miriam, slow down.” He closes the space between us, putting a hand on the back of my neck and bringing our mouths together. My mouth is greedy and hungry for him and I can’t get enough. Before I know what’s happening, a sob rises from my throat and breaks the kiss. Chris pulls me into a hug, comforting me and holding me.

“Shh, I’m here, Miriam. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I didn’t come here looking for anything.” He strokes my back with a gentle hand as I cry.

“Make me forget everything, just for a little while.”

Chris nods and kisses my forehead, then my eyelids before his lips find my mouth in one long, deep kiss. There is no one in the entire universe but Chris and I at this moment; no one else that matters. I kiss him again and again, never wanting this moment to end. I love how this feeling is transporting me away from my pain to a place I’ve already imagined in my head time and again. A place I’ve dreamed about since the first time I saw Chris on my birthday.

Chris takes me by the hand and leads me to the bed. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.” He does and then proceeds to strip off his wet jeans, leaving on his boxers.

Thunder booms again as he pulls the covers back and settles down beside me. He plays with a lock of my hair as I run a hand over his smooth chest, appreciating the muscles and contours in the dim light. His strong arms come around me then, holding me, protecting me.

I break his hug and sit up, peeling off my tee shirt in one motion and then shimmy off my underwear. I’m so vulnerable right now, I might as well be bare all the way, getting as close as humanly possible. I want to feel sensations all over my entire body because I’m so numb that it scares me. I need to feel something to the maximum.

Chris tightens his grip around my body and little tingles explode all over me. There’s a line of electricity flowing from him to me, energized and pulsing between us like a blazing buffer. It’s palpable, off the charts, like a calm before the storm. I need a release for these pent up feelings, a release from my stress. I need Chris Loman. Chris reaches down and pulls off his boxers before shifting his weight forward until my backside rests against his thighs and fire traces between my legs. That fire I’m feeling – it’s need, and that good-girl façade I’ve been living? I want to smash it to smithereens. I want to be loved with reckless abandon by a boy who knows how to make it happen. Chris Loman more than qualifies, yet he’s way more than a warm body. We share an emotional connection I can’t even describe. I push myself into him and he groans a little. I can feel his breath hot against my neck and his responsive body against me from behind. Chris’s grip gets stronger as he pulls me toward him. I gently turn to face him, our lips so close we’re breathing the same air, in and out, in and out. Our eyes are locked on each other as flashes of lightening flicker across my bedroom ceiling.

His fingers dig into my back as he pulls me close. I feel his need through his fingertips, as if they’re talking to me, each movement saying so much. Our hipbones align and I fight the urge to sling my leg over him, instead bringing a finger up to trace his nose, his cheekbone, his jaw. His lips find my mouth and the sweet, delicate kiss soon turns deep and passionate. It sounds so grown up, so epic love story, so something beyond what I’ve experienced.

His breath is short and quick, his heart thudding at an intense speed against my chest. I feel bigger than my own body, like I’m outside myself. Chris shifts his body on top of me, the weight of him thrilling me unexpectedly. Our bodies are naked and smooth and warm — and together. “Do you have protection?” I whisper, hoping to God he does.

“Yes.” He kisses a trail between my breasts all the way to my bellybutton, the act making me convulse in need and desire, before he leans off the bed and reaches for his jeans. I admire his physique in the dim light, the way his stomach muscles flex as he sits back and unwraps the condom. Should I help him? Instead, I watch, captivated and anxious for good things to come. I’m suddenly nervous and excited and more ready than ever. Chris leans over me, kissing me as I guide him down on top of me again. This is really happening and I’ve never wanted anything so badly. Our eyes lock with intensity. “I want to feel something. I don’t want to be numb anymore,” I whisper. And Chris does his best to make me feel, and his best is the best I’ve ever had.

 

 

I’m resting next to him afterwards. Neither of us has anywhere to go, so we stay, riding out the lulling aftermath of our time together as the storm thunders outside. I snuggle closer to Chris. I’ve never felt so alive as my entire body pulses with energy. I’ve never felt so close to someone like this, never let anyone into my heart before. Sex has never been this special and meaningful. I’m scared that he won’t reciprocate my feelings so I stay quiet. The tender kiss he lays on my temple as he brings me close reassures me more than he knows.

“Did I hurt you?”

I smile and bury my face in his neck. “No. It was really nice. Thank you.”

“Thank you? You’re thanking me? Are you kidding me right now? I owe you all the thanks in the world.” He kisses me again and I can’t help smiling wider. “I'd love to do that with you all the time, forever.”

A little rush ripples through my body at the thought. I know he can’t be serious, but the feeling is mutual. Even with his rough edges, I know his heart now. I’ve felt it beating at warp speed against my own, skin to skin. And aside from the obvious bravado he displays with his guy friends, deep down Chris is sensitive and caring and capable of loving me the right way. Even at eighteen, I know that much.

Chris holds me through the storm, holds me through my grief. We haven’t left the bed since he got here three hours ago. He’s just what I need right now, but I don’t say this, I stay quiet. But he knows I want him here – need him here – without having to mention it.

“Can you sleep?”

“No. I don’t want to,” I whisper, running my hand down the length of him.

Chris knows instinctively what I mean, and he takes me to places I’ve only dreamt about again and again. His touch reminds me that I’m still alive.

 

 

The next morning, Chris gets ready to leave for work. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

I lean up and kiss him, letting the sheet fall away and not caring. “Yes. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“Sorry. Can’t help it. It’s just what I do now.”

I smile, trying to put him at ease. I don’t want him worrying about me. I worry enough for the both of us.

I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, hearing his Bronco come to life in the driveway and then trailing away. I’ve never felt this close to anyone while simultaneously sensing that it’s going to end. Maybe I’m paranoid or just plain pessimistic, but I can’t deny the nagging suspicion. I can’t stay here, in this house, in Buffalo. Something has to change. Will Chris be part of the change or will I have to say goodbye?

I brush my doubts aside and momentarily erase the urgent sentiment, not willing to face it head on. Naked, I climb out from the tousled sheets and walk down the hall to the bathroom. I turn on the shower, but before getting in, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. I scrutinize, self-assessing. I see my mother staring back at me, my mother in her youth and in the prime of health: long straight dark hair, high cheekbones, long neck, and wide shoulders on a long lanky frame. I am her spitting image. I am left behind. My bottom lip quivers and I want to look away, but I hold my own gaze, forcing myself to really see this person and acknowledge her. I am all that my mom left behind. I am her legacy and I am alive!

Scrubbed and refreshed, I pull on fresh clothes and slide open the bathroom window. The smell of roasting onions and bacon wafts in from the neighbors and my stomach grumbles. It’s been days since I’ve eaten anything substantial, my appetite up until now almost non-existent. For some reason, all I want is what they’re making and I swear, I would break in and elbow the cook out of the way to get it. Instead, I shuffle to the kitchen and rummage through the cupboards in search of sustenance. In my frantic need to find something satisfying, I stumble across a drawer with my mom’s favorite treats. As I’m about to close it, I notice a piece of folded pink paper tucked in beside the granola bars. Pulling it out, my breath catches when I see my name scrawled across the front in Mom’s handwriting. I slowly open it, afraid of what she’s written, afraid it will be heartbreaking and I don’t know if I can handle that right now.

“My beautiful daughter, because I can’t be there to give you advice about such things anymore, may these poems be a substitute for my words. This poem by Ezra Pound reminds me of when you were born. Whenever you read it, think of me and know that I’ll be watching over you. When I was alive, I loved you with all of my heart and body. And now, I love you with all of my soul.”

I read the poem and smile through my tears. The gesture is so special and perfect…so Mom. She mentioned 'these poems’, so I race around the house looking for others. I find one in her jewelry box and read it aloud.

“This poem by Maya Angelou is the very definition of Miriam Pritchard. May you read it again and again and never forget how spectacular you are. I love you.”

I find another poem by Walt Whitman in Mom’s make-up drawer, a poem by Sara Teasdale in the pocket of her favorite sweater, and another by William Butler Yeats in the medicine cabinet. All are written on the same pink paper, all with significant poems that relate to love, loss, being strong, and having courage. I am so inspired by the words written in hidden places and transformed by my sudden clarity. I know it’s finally time to make some decisions about going forward.