I’m still awake when the clock ticks over to midnight. As if on cue my chest cinches tight and the pressure behind my eyes spikes until it spills over.
Today is the anniversary of my accident.
Today is the anniversary of my dad’s death.
I dig my teeth hard into my lower lip, rolling my eyes up to stare at the ceiling and pleading with my body to stop, to let this feeling be added to all the other parts of me that don’t feel anymore.
Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse, mourning the past or the future I’ll never get to have.
I woke up the other day and forgot how it feels to run.
Two years.
730 days since I took my last step, since I saw my dad’s face, heard his voice.
Two years since I fell down drunk in some stranger’s house and he had to come to rescue me.
My tears turn hot.
I’d been crying that night too, angry that I was being yelled at, controlled. Upset over the loss of freedom I knew was coming for me.
My hands reach up to press over my mouth, to smother the increasingly loud sounds escaping from my lips.
Mom heard me last year. She even got up and I heard the floor creaking outside my door. I cried harder thinking she’d come in and that we’d pool our grief together, sink under it but still find our way back to the surface afterward because we’d be together.
But she hadn’t.
The floor creaked again and she was gone, back in her half-empty bedroom, left to cry alone because of what I took from her.
My hands press harder, my lips squeezing together to the point of pain.
I hear her when she gets up the next morning and I rub the sandy-feeling grit from my eyes. I’m in my chair in less than a minute, out of the room and down the hall, catching her by surprise as she pours her morning coffee.
“Rebecca!” She presses a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, sorry.”
She goes back to pouring her coffee and I finally notice that, unlike me, she’s dressed, and in a skirt and blouse.
“You’re going to work? Today?”
The hand pouring the coffee wobbles, sending a small splash onto the counter.
“I’ll get it!” I practically charge her, bending dangerously far to the left to grab the paper towel roll as I pass it. But she moves just as I reach her, and instead of stopping beside her, I run into her leg.
She cries out first from my impact and then from the hot coffee that splatters all over her chest. “Rebecca!”
“Sorry, sorry! Mom, I’m so sorry. Here.” I start shoving pieces of paper towel at her, tearing them off and trying to pat her dry myself.
“Stop it!” Her bark makes me freeze. She takes the paper towel roll from me and sops up her blouse as best she can before squatting down to clean up the dribbles that splashed on the floor.
“Mom, I can—”
“It’s easier if I do it.”
Fresh tears spring to eyes already swollen from the night before. I know she’s right, but I need to help, to do something. I reach for her mug, intending to rinse off the outside so she can pour a new cup.
“Just leave it,” she says in a voice that hints at a night as sleepless as my own. When she stands, I glimpse red-rimmed eyes and know I’m right.
For some reason the thought is soothing. I know she misses Dad but she doesn’t show it in obvious ways all the time. I’ve never come home to find her choked up over her wedding rings or misty-eyed while wrapped up in one of his old shirts, and she’s never cried in front of me, not even in the hospital.
I’ve never even caught her going through old photo albums. We never had many framed family pictures around—Mom used to frequently stage and photograph different rooms in our house when she was trying to build up her portfolio, and personal items were strictly forbidden—and the few with Dad were all gone when I came home from the hospital. I’d hoped she’d taken them to her office with the Disneyland photos Ethan and I tried to get, but now that I know she moved, they could be anywhere.
That briefly soothing thought fades. She may have been crying over him last night, same as me, but right now she’s planning to leave me alone for an office building she’s never even mentioned.
I can’t find actual anger inside me for that, just heavier sadness. It’s further proof of how much distance there is between us, and if there was ever a day for us to start turning to each other, this is it.
She takes her mug to the sink and turns on the faucet.
“Mom?”
“It’s fine, Rebecca. Why don’t you go get dressed?”
“No, that’s not—” I swallow my suddenly parched throat. “I was hoping you wouldn’t go to work today.” She doesn’t immediately cut me off so I continue. “Maybe you could stay home, with me?” My eyes threaten to fill with tears. “It’s just that today is hard, for both of us, and I think maybe it could be less hard if we didn’t have to spend it alone.”
My heart starts slamming in my chest as soon as I finish, and I watch the back of her silk-clad shoulders, looking for signs that she’s trembling as much as I am.
“I don’t know that that’s a good idea.” Her voice is thin, choked. “But I still have that therapist’s number if you want me to call and make you an appointment.”
“No, I don’t want—Mom, no one loved him like we did. We should be together.” I blink away fresh tears. “I miss talking about him. Don’t you?”
Her hand has wrapped around the edge of the counter and she’s staring down at the sink. “Please don’t ask me to do that. This day is hard enough without—”
She doesn’t say you but the unspoken word ricochets like a bullet inside my skull.
She finally turns to face me. “I think it’s best if we stay busy like we normally do. I’m going to work and you should too.” She tugs at the wet spot on her blouse. “I—uh, I’ll probably be late tonight so don’t wait up.” Then she’s striding past me, hesitating for the briefest moment when she reaches me. “We just have to get through it. Tomorrow will be better.” Her hand twitches at her side and I think maybe she’s going to touch me but she doesn’t.
My arms steal around myself when she’s gone, trying to hold the breath that will shudder out of me.
I haven’t tried with her in so long, and never actually asked her to grieve with me over Dad. My fingers dig into my arms thinking about how I’d all but begged her to stay with me and she couldn’t do it.
I need—
I need something—
Somebody—
I can’t be alone in this house today.
I can’t—
I’m unsteady as I push my wheels to get back to my room, weaving too close to each wall as I shove. Everything I have is holding back that breath, keeping it locked inside.
My phone is on my nightstand and I grab for it, thumbing frantically for Amelia’s name only to see an unread message already waiting for me.
Amelia:
I’m here if you want to talk about anything. Say the word if you want to come by later and I’ll pick you up. Just know I love you lots and I’m thanking God for you and the amazingly beautiful life you have ahead of you.
My face crumbles as I read the first lie she’s ever told me.
And I can’t look at it.
Ethan’s name is right below hers in my messages and I tap without even thinking.
And the breath tears free.
Ethan:
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