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She sobbed harder, almost unable to stop. Was she losing her mind? Was this what it felt like to have a nervous breakdown? She didn’t know but she was nearly paralyzed with fear that there was no fixing what was broken inside of her. What kind of mother could she possibly be to her own son if she was so terribly broken inside? How many decent guys had she disregarded because of her inability to commit? Why couldn’t she love Otter? Why wasn’t she normal?
After a long moment Miranda managed to catch her breath and slow her tears. When she could focus again she started the car and pulled onto the highway. She felt wrung out and empty from her conversation with her mother. She needed help. Miranda could only hope that Trace would respond.
Frankly, Miranda didn’t know what she was going to do next.
* * *
JEREMIAH WAS SURPRISED by the sound of an urgent pounding on his door, but he was even more surprised to see Miranda standing there, wearing an oddly fragile smile. “I’m sorry.... I should’ve called.... I just...”
Jeremiah sensed Miranda was on the verge of crumbling and holding it together by a string. He knew that look; he’d seen it in the mirror too many times after Tyler had died. “Is everything okay? Is your son...?”
“He’s fine. He’s with his grandmother for a few hours. I just needed to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”
“Of course. Sure.” He led her into his tiny living room, which also served as a kitchen, and gestured for her to take a seat on the love seat beside him. “I know it’s close quarters but...”
“It’s okay. I don’t care,” she said. “I just needed to talk to you and I don’t know why exactly because we shouldn’t be this familiar with each other but you’re the only person I feel can listen to my problems without judging me because of my past. When my sister died, suddenly I was the sister of that girl who died, instead of being simply Miranda Sinclair. The whispers, the sad looks, the pity...it drove me crazy and that’s not even counting what I was going through on the inside of myself. Do you know it’s my fault she’s dead?”
“I’m sure it’s not,” he murmured. “I know it can feel that way but deep down you have to know that it’s not.”
Miranda shook her head hysterically. “No. It’s my fault. We fought over a sweater. A damn sweater. Simone had taken it without permission and she had a tendency to ruin anything she touched and I’d just bought it. I hadn’t even had a chance to wear it yet. In fact, I think the tags were still on it when she took it. I was so mad.” Miranda paced as she shared, unable to sit still, and Jeremiah gave her the space she needed, though he desperately wanted to pull her into his arms and chase away the demons. “I was supposed to be her ride after work but I told her to find her own way home. She was staying with me while she was on Christmas break from college and I thought it would be fun to be roommates for a short while but she was a terrible pain in the ass! She always took my clothes without asking, she was a slob, and she never took anything seriously! So, yeah, I was really mad when she took that sweater, but in hindsight, it wasn’t really about the sweater at all. It was all that pent-up frustration and anger over her thoughtlessness and the fact that everyone always made allowances for Simone but I was never cut any slack!” She paused to draw a deep breath. “But because I let my anger get the best of me, my baby sister was killed,” she finished with a sad cry that nearly broke his heart.
She squeezed her eyes shut and then covered her face with her hands, embarrassed even as she continued to cry. Unable to resist, he pulled her into his arms. She needed someone to comfort her and he wanted to be the one to do it. She went willingly and clung to him almost desperately. “I loved my sister. I didn’t want her to die. And I hate that sweater. I hate it!”
“Shh,” he crooned, pressing a small kiss against the top of her head. “It wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t because of a sweater.”
She pulled away, her eyes red. “Then why’d it happen? Why’d she have to die?” she asked almost angrily, but he knew her anger wasn’t directed at him. How many times had he railed at the injustice of his son dying?
“I don’t know. I wish I had the answers but none of us do. Sometimes bad things happen—” his voice caught and he had to look away and take a breath before he could continue again “—to good people and there’s no rhyme or reason to it.”
“My mom blames me. She doesn’t come out and say it directly but I can see it in her eyes.”
