Page 25 of Catcher

Not my skin.

Not the space somewhere deep in my chest, but I don’t let myself look at it too closely.

I don’t think about her all the time.

I’m not that far gone.

But in the quiet moments, she’s there. Slipping in without permission.

I take another drag, my jaw tight. What I feel isn’t real, but she lingers, unfinished and unnamed.

My phone buzzes in my hand before the thought can go any further. I glance down, and something in my chest shifts. “Ma.” The word leaves me under my breath before I even hit accept.

FaceTime.

Of course it is.

I swipe and lift the phone, and her face fills the screen. And just like that, everything else fades.

She’s sitting on the porch swing, as she always does in the morning. Small frame, wrapped in one of Dad’s old flannels, long gray hair pulled loose over one shoulder. The early light catches it, softening the silver into something warm.

Her eyes—those same blue eyes I’ve had my whole life—crinkle at the corners when she smiles. Soft lines, soft everything, but strong. “Morning, sweetheart.” Her voice hits me the same way it always does. Grounding.

I lean back against the railing, cigarette between my fingers, coffee in the other hand, and let myself breathe a little easier. “Morning, Ma.”

“You’re up early,” she says, though we both know I always am.

“So are you.”

She smiles like that’s obvious. “Best part of the day.”

I glance past her through the screen, catching a glimpse of the yard. The porch I grew up on. The same swing she’s sat on every morning for years.

“How you doin’?” I ask.

“I’m well,” she says, and I believe her.

A loud clang echoes somewhere behind her, followed by…

“Goddammit!”

Mom turns her head slightly, eyes lighting with something amused. “Your father is fixing the hinge on the screen door.”

Another loud bang is followed by more cussing.

Mom presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, but it slips out anyway, soft, warm, and familiar. “Want me to help you?” she calls over her shoulder.

“I don’t need help!” he grumbles back, followed by, “Where’s the other damn screw?”

A second later, he steps into view behind her, holding a screwdriver and leaning in close to Mom. “You just sittin’ there lookin’ pretty is distractin’ me,” he mutters.

I snort quietly, watching as he presses a kiss to her temple.

Something in my chest flips, quick and unexpected, a pang sharp enough to cut. I don’t know what to do with it, so I let it settle, quiet but persistent.

It’s sharp.

Unwelcome.