Page 87 of True Blue

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to live with that.”

Fear flooded my entire body, and I stepped toward my mother slowly, like I’m trying not to spook her. Her gaze stayed fixed on the knife, running it under the water long after the suds were gone.

Gently, I reached out to take the knife from her, and she let me.

Then she looked at me and smiled.

“Never mind,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “Forget it, I’m just being dramatic. You’re just growing up so fast, it startles me sometimes…”

She laughed loudly.

I didn’t.

She took the rubber glove off and reached out to my cheek, patting it.

I flinched, but she didn't notice, just smiled serenely.

“Am I still your number one girl, Theodore?”

16

TEDDY

JULY

Indie’s contact is open on my phone.

I’ve tried to call fifteen times now, each going right to voicemail. I thought maybe her phone was off, a hopeful delusion to soothe the fact that Indie blocked me.

The fallout of my choices is finally happening.

It’s like that movie Final Destination. Seeing what’s going to happen, desperately trying to warn people, and I was one of the idiots who didn’t listen to her.

But my mother scared me that night in June.

For weeks after, I saw violent images of my mother dead by her own hand, in a car accident, from sickness, or simply going to sleep and never waking up.

I don’t know why I didn’t tell Indie about it.

I knew she would know what to do. How to help. How to get her help. I know my mother isn’t well, but she refuses to even entertain the idea of grief counseling.

When I told her that Indie had some resources she could use, she shut that down hard. She says she doesn’t need help; she just needs time and family.

Since that night, I haven’t slept well. My stomach hurts so much I can barely eat. I couldn’t reconcile what I’d seen and began questioning my memory.

Did I actually see that?

When Indie would ask me what was wrong, I would tell her nothing. Always nothing. Because nothing technically was. Mom was back to normal at the following Sunday dinners, like that night never happened.

But my mind wouldn’t let me forget.

Then I started thinking more and more about Europe.

The distance and the time I’d spend away from home became overwhelming. I would stay up late while Indie slept next to me, or I would wake in the middle of the night from a nightmare, worrying that my Mom was dead.

Anytime I allowed myself to get excited about Europe, I felt like I was on the verge of a panic attack. What if I’m in Paris and something happens to my Mom? What if I’m enjoying the food in Italy, and she falls asleep and doesn’t wake up like Nana?

Will I be able to live with that?