“So you’re back for good?” Her voice grows in volume, and anger. “Or until something bad happens and you need to run away again?”
“That’s not fair,” I grit out, my palms clenching into fists. “I didn’t run away, I?—”
“You ran away, Jack. Just like Grandpa, just like Dad. You ran.”
“I did not run.”
Emerson lets out a humorless laugh. “When Grandma died, Grandpa hid in that cabin until he croaked. Dad left and never came back when Mom got sick. And now you? Your best friend dies, and you run.”
I bang my fist against the dining table causing my beer and Emerson’s plate and fork to rattle.
“Jacky? Emmy?” I hear from the kitchen. “No fighting at the dinner table,” my mom reprimands in her calm yet firm tone. The same one she’s used since we were kids. The same one she used when she told us about her ovarian cancer. The same one she used when she said Dad was gone and wasn’t coming back.
“Sorry,” we both say in unison, but our eyes are still on each other.
“You might be back, but you’re not fine. You can tell everyone how fine you are, but until you actually deal with losing Bennett, you might as well have stayed up in that cabin.” She grabs her plate and stands, walking toward the kitchen, leaving me with her words, ripping all that fresh air I got today straight from my lungs.
I unclench my fists, tension spreading through my fingers, and lower my head into my hands. Stay at the cabin? Drown myself in my grief? Let it completely destroy me?
Doesn’t she see that isn’t an option?
I sit up, taking the last swig of my beer, and get up to head into the kitchen.
Emerson is leaning on the counter across from where my mom is loading the dishwasher. The yellow walls still glow with warmth, and the familiar hum of the old fridge and the running sink fill the silence. The wooden cabinets, now slightly dulled, still hold the same sturdy charm, and the crisp, citrus scent of all-purpose cleaner lingers in the air.
“Oh, Jacky,” my mom starts as she closes the dishwasher and shuts off the sink. “Mr. Lenard from down the street mentioneda property he’s looking to sell. It’s not too far from the station. It’s newly renovated too. I could tell him you’re interested?”
She turns to face me, leaning against where the sink meets the counter, and I feel both hers and Emerson’s eyes on me. My mom’s dark, silver-streaked hair is pulled back loosely. Laugh lines frame her eyes like gentle reminders of all the happy memories of her, Emerson, and me.
She looks smaller than I remembered, but still unmistakably solid—like someone who’d held up the whole world without ever asking for thanks, even as a single mom with a cancer diagnosis and years in a constant state of apprehension on whether or not she’ll stay in remission.
It’s been the three of us since my mom got diagnosed with ovarian cancer when Emerson was two, and I haven’t seen or heard from my dad since—not that he was even around much before that.
I clear my throat, walking over to the corner of the kitchen with the garbage bins, tossing my beer bottle into the recycling. “Yeah, Ma. That would be great. You can give Mr. Lenard my number.”
She gives me a soft smile and a nod before asking, “How is it being home without him?”
My mom is no stranger to my friendship with Bennett, having watched it bloom and grow since we were kids. “It’s fine,” I answer, the word feeling more like a lie on my lips when I say it to my mother. “I think he’d want me to move on.”
“I think he’d want you to be happy,” she counters. “You mentioned Chief Sanders said you had to see a therapist?”
I nod.
“Good,” she says. “That’ll be good.”
She steps toward me, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me in. I rest my chin on the top of her head as I wrapmy arms around her shoulders, her body feeling so small and fragile against mine. I sense Emerson’s eyes on us.
I don’t tell my mom how I think the therapy sessions are a joke, that they’ll be a waste of time. The last thing anyone can expect me to do is bring up all the memories or emotions that come with talking about Bennett or what happened the night he died.
I don’t tell her that I will never talk about that night, no matter who asks.
“Well,” my mom says, tapping me on the back twice before stepping out of my embrace. I pretend not to notice the tear she wipes away with the back of her hand. “It’s getting late, and you two both have places to be.”
“Mom, it’s eight o’clock,” my sister says, from where she’s still leaning against the counter. Her voice has her usual no-bullshit tone, but there is a layer of worry in her voice. “You’re tired?”
Emerson, more so than me, has always had a front-row seat to my mom’s cancer, having lived with it since she was two years old, up until my mom went into remission when she was 15. Then there was the recurrence, and she wasn’t back in remission until Emerson was 21.
She’s been fine ever since, thankfully.
