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I grab the portable charger out of my bag, plug my phone in and excuse myself. Finding a quiet place in the venue where I actually have service.
The phone rings longer than expected, and when she picks up, I can hear it in her voice.
She’s been crying.
“What happened?” I ask. “I’ll fly home right now. What the fuck happened, Ellie?”
Regret slices through me as I question my selfishness. I shouldn’t have left her. I should have stayed behind–been there when she needed me. I should have–
“Don’t,” she says, and though her voice shakes, she sounds anything but weak. “I just want to talk for a minute. Do you have time?”
There’s no question.
“Of course I have time.”
Thirty-Four
Ellis
When I was fourteen, B put me into therapy.
I don’t like talking about it. At the time, I’d been embarrassed and frustrated–ashamed even.
To be perfectly honest, I was just a kid. B was just a kid, too. Our days were riddled with hopeless fumbling and trying to make sense of the new normal while grieving the loss of my mother–her sister.
It had been a complete year since the death of my mom. I’d been okay for a while after she died. It was like the adrenaline rush of tragedy numbed my emotions and held me together when I needed it most. Shock can sometimes feel like that.
Days went by with her being sick, but I clung to the hope of it all the entire time without even realizing what I was doing, and at the end of that first year with her gone, the sorrow hit me like an oncoming train.
I’d been old enough to see the toll my mother’s death had taken on my aunt. At the start of my freshman year of high school, I realized just how muchstrugglewas happening, and I didn’t want to add to it. So, when B sat me down at our dinky kitchen table, the one with coffee rings that seemed engraved into the wood like permanent scars, I couldn’t help but feel like I was making her life harder.
B didn’t need harder.
A lot of time was spent keeping B from that difficulty. Maybe that’s the real reason I never asked about my dad.No. Adam. It took that man all of two seconds to show his real colors. I suppose he wasn’t worth asking about to begin with.
As I watch the ceiling fan spin above my bed, I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing the same thing to Griffin when it comes to my dad. Feelings and memories haunt me, and they’re relentless. It’s like the pain of those memories grew roots. Memories are like weeds in the garden, the same ones starting to crop up in front of my house. I can pull the plant out, but for some reason I can never be rid of the thing–not truly. It’s like every season, I have to keep digging–fixing up the plot of earth I desperately wanted to be beautiful.
My memories of my mom are like that. The therapy helped. The years have helped, but every once in a while, something triggers it all to start again.
My father planted weeds in the garden.
I glance at the clock beside my bed, the glowing blue numbers telling me it’s way too late for me to still be awake considering it’s a work night. Four AM is the hour for sadness, I suppose. The feelings have already taken shape–so I might as well feel them while I’m here. I can be fine tomorrow.
Dragging myself out of bed, I give up on sleep entirely as I pad to the closet and flick the light on. With brightness stinging my eyes, I rummage around until I find the old shoe box shoved toward the back. There’s a thread tied around my heart that tugs me to its contents–an invisible thread, but a thread all the same.
Simon winds between my legs as I shuffle back to the bed, trying to dodge him. When I flick on the dim lamp seated on top of the nightstand, I crawl to the center of the bed, and Simon quickly hops up to join me.
I run my finger across the lid, and images start to take shape in my mind.
“It will be good for you, Ellis.”
B’s voice echoes like a faint whisper. I can still see her sitting across from me, concern carving a line between her brows and dark circles painting the blue color beneath her eyes.
A tear trails down my cheek, and I wipe it away. Chiding myself for my weakness.
Somewhere between the art show and dinner, I had started to hope–just like I did with mom when she was in the hospital. I hadn’t even realized I’d done it. At least, not to this extent.
“You’re wandering around like a ghost. You’ve shut down, and my therapist told me I need to tell you it’s okay because it is. It’s a normal part of grief, but I’m worried. I wasn’tsupposed to say that part. At least I don’t think. Maybe I just wasn’t supposed to say it like that.”
