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“Mia, how good to see you.” The woman standing on my porch steps in and wraps me up in a giant hug. “How are you, dear? You remember me, don’t you?” She lets out a chuckle. I’m not sure what’s so funny, but I’m relieved to say that yes, I do know her.
“Is your Dad home?” she asks.
I nod. “He’s in his office. Doing some work.”
Sandy gives me a smile and steps into the foyer. I’ve known her for years. Her husband’s the pastor at our church, and she ran one of the teen girls Bible studies I used to belong to.
“Well, I don’t know if you remember this,” Sandy says, “but I’ve been coming over here every Tuesday to pray with you and talk through anything you might want to chat about.”
Good. This is better than some emergency number written out on the fridge. Sandy can actually help me. Can actually fill in the three months I’ve lost.
I follow Sandy into our sitting room, and she makes herself at home. I have to wonder how many times we’ve done this. Every Tuesday?
“How’s your head today?” Sandy looks perfectly comfortable and content sitting there, as if she were a queen residing over her adoring followers.
“Hurts,” I answer truthfully.
“So you talked to your father this morning?” Sandy asks.
I nod. “Yeah. A little bit. There was a detective here too.”
“Officer Drisklay?” I can’t tell by Sandy’s voice what she thinks of him, but given how unpleasant my own experience was, I wonder if she dislikes him as much as I do. “How did that go?” she asks kindly.
I shrug. “I don’t really know.”
I’m not sure what to expect. Even though I was in Sandy’s Bible study for a few years, this is the first time we’ve talked one-on-one. At least, this is the first time that I remember us talking one-on-one. It feels weird. Like maybe the pastor’s wife at such a big church has other things to be doing. Our family isn’t even all that active there.
Sandy clears her throat. “Did your dad show you the photo album?”
I nod, wondering how many times Sandy and I have had this exact same conversation in the past three months.
“I’m guessing you still don’t remember what happened?” There’s something in the way Sandy says it. Something gentle in her voice. I find myself getting more comfortable, if only just a little.
“It’s hard to ...” I raise my hand to the back of my skull, not sure if my head hurts worse than it did before or if I’m just focused on the pain now that we’re talking about my memory.
“I know it’s disorienting.” Sandy’s voice is so soft. Her features so maternal. “If there’s anything I can do ...”
I don’t know how much longer Dad’s going to be up in his office, but I’m not about to let this opportunity pass me up. I lean forward, stare intently into Sandy’s kind eyes, and blurt out, “Can you tell me where my mom is?”
Sandy shifts in her seat on the couch. She doesn’t look uncomfortable. Not exactly. And if my question caught her off guard, she doesn’t show it. Still, there’s something in her expression I can’t quite place.
“Your dad hasn’t told you yet?”
I shake my head, and for a split second I wonder if I really want to know.
Sandy has my hand in hers. We’re sitting so close our knees almost touch. She presses her lips together. “Are you sure you’re ready for me to tell you?”
“Please,” I beg. “I need to know.”
This seems to be the answer she was waiting for. Sandy sighs. Gives my hand a squeeze. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry that I have to be the one to tell you this. No matter how many times you hear it, I know it never gets any easier.”
This is torture. Like being a little kid watching the nurse prepare your injection, where waiting is worse than the pain itself.
Sandy shakes her head. Clucks her tongue. “Pumpkin,” she says, “I want you to listen to me very carefully. This isn’t going to be easy for you to hear.”
Just tell me, I want to shout, but somehow, with everything else I’ve forgotten how to do, I can’t remember how to talk. Not right now. It’s taking all of my energy just to breathe.
“Mia.” Sandy’s voice is pained. Full of compassion. “Your mother passed away, sweetie. She’s with Jesus now.”