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They’re probably in bed sleeping.
But I keep driving, ignoring my conscience that tells me I should call first.
I pull off the road and into their driveway. There are several lights still on, so I know I haven’t woken them up. As I shut off the car and open the door, a petite figure steps out through the front door and onto the porch. “Meghan?” she asks, her voice exactly the same as I remember.
Shutting the car door, I take a step toward the woman I once considered my other mom. “Hi, Mrs. Harrison,” I whisper, my voice suddenly shaky and filled with emotions.
Josh’s mom takes a step forward, and then another. She comes down the stairs and stands before me, tears welling in the eyes that look so much like her son’s. Her late son’s. Without saying a word, she wraps her arms around me, enveloping me in warmth and familiarity. As soon as she does, it’s like the dam breaks. The tears and the pain just burst from my soul.
“Come inside,” she offers soothingly, placing her hand on my lower back and guiding me up the stairs.
When I step inside the house I haven’t been to for more than two years, I’m assaulted with memories. Christmas dinners, birthday celebrations, random afternoon visits. I glance at the couch that Josh and I used to sit on together and notice it’s different. The brown leather one that was so worn and comfortable is now replaced with a brighter blue piece that fits the ambiance of the room. The recliner that Josh’s dad used to sit in to watch the Sunday afternoon football game is now beige and on the opposite side of the room.
“You changed the room,” I say aloud, mostly to myself.
“I did. It was time. That old stuff was the furniture we bought when Josh was little. The chair would recline well enough, but it took an act of Congress to get the stupid thing back down again,” she replies with a smile.
The old photograph on the mantle catches my attention. I’ve seen it before. So many times. Josh’s photo from graduation. He’s smiling brightly that same smile that I remember so well, wearing a black cap and gown with a green and yellow sash around his neck. I don’t even realize I’ve approached the photo until I’m there, touching it. I run a finger down his face, remembering how familiar that particular face once was.
But when I close my eyes, it’s not Josh’s face I see.
And that makes me feel like the worst person on the planet. I should be locked up with the murderers on death row. Instead of picturing Josh, I picture…Nick.
Guilt riddles my entire body, weighing it down with a thousand bags of sand.
I glance over at the other photos. There’s one of Josh and his parents at their anniversary dinner a few years back. I took that photo. There’s one of a young Josh riding his bike and offering a big toothless grin for the camera.
There’s one of him and me. I remember the day so vividly. We were at Lucky’s after a sisters’ night. My eyes are bright (probably from too much alcohol) and our arms wrapped around each other. I’m smiling for the camera, but not Josh. He’s looking and smiling at me. I reach out and touch that photo too, as if somehow it’ll help me touch the memory. Touch him.
“He sent me that picture the day after you took it.”
“He did?” I ask, turning back to the woman behind me. She’s smiling, but there’s so much sadness in the gesture. It’s that reminder that I’m not the only one who lost him on that cold, rainy February night.
Mrs. Harrison nods and looks at the photo. “He did. It was one of the last ones taken before…” her words drop off, but I know what she was about to say. Before the accident. Before he died.
Slowly nodding my head, I turn away from the photo, away from the painful memories, and face her. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by to see you much.” Guilt fills my soul once more as I think about this wonderful couple who lost their son, but essentially lost me too. I came over a couple of times after the accident, but stopped because it was too painful to be here without him.
“Oh, don’t be sorry, sweet girl. I know it was probably very difficult for you,” she says, pointing to the couch, while she takes a seat next to me. “Why do you think I don’t come over to the house?”
Her question rings loudly with me. “I had a hard time going home those first few nights,” I confess. “But when I did, I just felt…closer to him. Then, for a while, I stayed there because I was waiting for him to come home. Like he’d walk through the door and laugh, telling me he wasn’t really gone.”
The tears are falling in earnest before I realize it. “After the first few months…” It’s hard to swallow. “I realized he wasn’t coming home, and it made it hard to be there. So I started joining groups and doing activities that would keep me busy. Things that would keep me away from the house. I haven’t cleaned it out yet,” I confess, my voice barely over a whisper. “It’s all still there, waiting for him to come home. But he’s not coming home.”
It was the first time I really spoke that aloud, even though everyone probably already knew it.
“I slept in his room for the first six months after he passed,” Mrs. Harrison admits, taking my hand in hers. “So I understand, probably better than most.”
Nodding, I look down at our hands. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, dear?” she asks.
“It was my fault. Everything. The accident. His…you know, it was my fault,” I state, sagging into the couch.
“What on earth are you talking about? Nothing that happened to Josh was your fault,” she insists, her pretty features seeming genuinely perplexed.
“But he was coming to see me. I was the reason he was out on the road that night,” I recall.
“Josh was on that road because he wanted to be. He wanted to be with you. He would have followed you anywhere,” she assures with a soft voice, void of any anger.
