53. Soon, My Friend

February seems to be a forgotten month, like a stepchild who nobody really talks to. Its cold and snow come in bits and pieces, but nothing big enough to get excited about. Everything is just cold and gray and endless.

It dawns on me soon after Mom’s arrival that the timing was no accident. Marsh wanted me to do something, and I did it. I went down underneath the dreary bridge and got the baby/doll and brought it to him. Without hesitation. Without telling anybody else.

Maybe he thinks that means I’ll do more for him and Staunch. And yeah, I’ll play along. I’ll go for the ride until we reach the end and I open my door and jump out.

Mom’s mood doesn’t really change. She seems shell-shocked, like someone who just got back from something terrifying.

Every night is the same—leading her to bed and tucking her in like a child. One night it gets me really down, and I go upstairs and cry like a big baby. I get it out of my system. That’s what I tell myself. Just get rid of the tears once and for all. And as I’m crying, I open my Bible up and find some psalms.

They really do the trick.

So the next night I ask Mom if I can read to her.

A year or even six months ago, my mom would have said “Yeah, right” and laughed. But she’s different now.

So am I.

I read one psalm to her at night. I guess if they made me feel better, they might make Mom feel better too.

This is sorta like being in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night stuck in the middle of a tent with only one little flashlight.

A light in the darkness.

This doesn’t feel normal to me. What feels normal is sitting in a room by myself listening to music and trying to forget about life outside that door. But that particular kind of thing isn’t working.

Not anymore.

And the guy who sat on that train in Chicago did something. Or maybe it’s more like God did something to that boy sitting on the train, the one asking for help and forgiveness and hope.

Hope.

These parts of the Bible I’m reading are the only kind of hope I know.

Kelsey remains the bright spot in my day.

I try and figure out where her happiness comes from. Are her parents mixing it in with her cereal in the morning? Is it because she knows she’s getting out of here in a few months?

Or maybe it’s you, Chris.

But it’s not me. It’s something deeper, something more meaningful.

Even in the drab month of February, the promise of springtime is there every time I see her.

Things are back to normal, but the normal that was when Kelsey and I were just friends.

For some reason, it’s suddenly become less, well, intense.

Less hot and heavy.

Which is good. And safe.

I don’t want to blow things with her again.

Not with everything that’s coming up in my near future.

A future that doesn’t look as shiny and sweet as hers.

An outcome that will be here sooner than I think.