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My stomach feels like lead as the whisper of a memory grows louder.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Ellie.” She sounds desperate. “I want you to see the therapist,” B finishes as shame colors my cheeks. It isn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to make her life hard. It was supposed to be me and mom. It was supposed to be us now–forever.
B was supposed to be the fun aunt I got to visit once a week. She was never supposed to look this defeated.
“I’m sorry,” the words are out before I can reel them back in, and her shoulders tense.
“Christ.” The word comes out like a curse–dirty. It’s as if the man who inspired it hadn’t lived up to his name–like he let us down.
I can see how it would happen though–I’m letting B down.
“Don’t be upset,” I whisper.
“I’m not upset, Ellis!”
I flinch. I’ve never heard her yell before, and it sounds an awful lot like I might be the reason she’s losing her grip on her emotions.
Don’t cry. I cannot cry. It will only make things worse.
“I’ll go,” I say. “To therapy, I mean.”
Trailing my finger over one of the coffee rings on the table, I think about all the scars slashed across our hearts. The least I can do is keep myself from adding any more.
I stand up. If I cry in front of B, then it will really be my fault. Whatever she needs. I’ll be or do whatever she needs. Mom would have wanted it that way.
The lid to the shoebox opens with a gentle flick of my thumb, and there she is.
Bright like sunshine, my mother is smiling beneath a canopy of trees. I can remember taking the photo when I was seven on an old film camera. When we got it developed , I saw how happy it made my mom to see herself the way I saw her. Nobody took pictures of her. I didn’t have a dad like the other kids, and so I promised myself I would keep taking pictures.
I run my finger along the photo before gently removing it to reveal another. In this one, I’m younger–four years old in my grandmother’s kitchen with flour on my face. My mom’s sleeves are rolled up as she presses her palm firmly into the dough on the counter. She’d always loved making bread, and I loved that I got to play with the extra. It made me feel special.
There’s another photo and another. I’m crying in earnest, letting the night wash over me as I continue my journey through the forbidden.
There’s a fine line between allowing yourself to feel, and allowing your feelings to swallow you whole–taking those you love right down with them, but if I keep this all to myself, then maybe I will be the only one in the pit.
After talking to Griffin, I felt better, but I could still hear the worry in his tone. It was in the way he said he’d fly home. He’d give up his dreams for me when they were barely just beginning.
I already had someone give up their dream for me–or at least, postpone it.
I pick up another picture. Me and mom dancing in the living room.
A baby photo where B is holding me and my mom is smiling at her.
There’s a picture of my grandfather teaching me how to shoot a bow. Mom smiling. Mom cooking. Mom looking thinner. Mom’s smile turning sadder.
My tears drip into the box, filling it as I empty all the emotions returning from so long ago. Maybe they will never leave.
When the sea of photos surrounds me, and I get to the last one at the bottom of the box, my heart clenches. It’s a picture of my mom in the hospital–a shadow of who she was before. I can barely recognize myself in the photo–like sadness morphed me into someone I couldn’t possibly know.
Simon purrs at the end of the bed, curled in a ball and undisturbed by the disaster I’ve created. When my phone buzzes, his eyes peek open.
Griffin’s name pops up and read the worried text. I can’t help but feel ridiculous for wallowing in my sorrow. I’ve let a stranger cause me to become completely unglued.
So, my dad is an asshole. I knew that from the beginning. The problem is, when he showed up, I startedwanting. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted until that dangerous hope bloomed in my chest. Then I realized what was happening at that damn restaurant and the weeds killed whatever goodness had become of the meeting.
I text Griffin back, letting him know that I’m fine. I tell him our talk really helped, which is the truth, and that I have work today.
Iwillbe fine. When the morning comes, I’ll put my head down and keep going.
