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My mother was just like them. She said Sam was trouble, and I should never have turned my back on Sam. I should never have acted so rashly.
That was the last text I sent to Sam. And the last one she read before she killed herself.
“Admit it,” I demand with a note of finality in my voice. “Admit it, Mother!”
“It’s not—” she starts to say but I cut her off, refusing to listen to her denial after all this time. Her shoulders shake with a sob she tries to silence.
“Why avoid me then? Why walk around like you’re guilty? So quiet and afraid to say anything to me like your words will break me? Why!” I scream at her. I was quiet for too long. All of this waiting to come out and instead it only festered inside.
Both of us were so aware of how our words had killed, that neither of us spoke. I hate her for it. So quiet, I became dead inside. She’s the one I blame because I’d rather blame her than myself.
“For years, you hardly spoke to me. You let me get away with anything and everything. You avoided me. You know how much you meant to her. You knew how it would hurt her. And you didn’t care! You didn’t care about her and now she’s dead!”
My voice is hoarse and the words echo in my head. I didn’t care about Sam when I sent that to her. I was just angry at my mom for not believing me. I didn’t think about how it would destroy Sam. It was my fault for telling her. It’s always been my fault.
“I’m sorry!” my mother wails. “I wish I could take it back, Allison, but I can’t and I’m sorry.” Her face is bright red, and she struggles to swallow as she waits for my response. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt her. I never wanted to hurt her. I just wanted to save you.”
It’s the first time she’s ever told me she regrets it. It’s so late. Too late for what really matters but still, it’s something I desperately want to cling to.
How could I ever be saved in a world that allowed this to happen? In a world that makes a victim feel like they could have stopped it when there wasn’t a damn thing they could have done to prevent the inevitable. There’s nothing that can save me.
“Please stop hating me,” she begs, her bottom lip wobbling and her frail shoulders shaking. I always thought she was so strong. I thought I was the weak one. Maybe we’re both weak.
“I never hated you,” I tell her but I can’t be sure that it’s honest. Pain turns to hate so easily. “I wasn’t okay, though. It’s not okay. It never will be.”
“Please forgive me.”
I nod my head although I flinch when she tries to hug me, and it breaks her. I can’t help it. There’s so much more. And the truth begs me to speak it.
My voice is eerily calm and my mother just nods her head once, staring at the pot of withered violets and avoiding my gaze. Or maybe my judgment.
“Mom, I have to tell you something.”
My mother’s eyes whip to mine. Maybe because the tone of my voice has changed. From pained to haunted.
“When Grandmom died, that very week, there was an article.”
My mom wipes her face with the sleeve of her shirt, but I know she’s listening.
“There was a name I recognized.” My hands clench at my side as I remember seeing it. “The name of the boy who hurt Sam.” The words hurt as they leave me and the article flashes in my memory.
“You don’t need to tell me this.” There’s hesitation in her voice like she’s scared to know.
I hear her and I know she already assumes, but she should know. I want the world to know what I did. “Just about alumni, about tradition. It wasn’t anything that should have made me angry, but it did. I was the angriest I’ve ever been.” I admit to her something I’ve never said out loud. Jack and Kevin Henderson, the proud alumni nephew. Smiling in an article.
The boy whose uncle was friends with a judge.
The boy who said she’d made him think it was what she wanted.
The boy who went back home and kissed other girls and smiled, knowing he’d get what he wanted.No matter what.
That boy never paid for what he did. He smiled at me. “Sam could never smile again, but there he was, smiling.”
“Allison?” she says, and my mother’s tone holds a warning. Like she knows what’s coming. Like she’s followed my train of thought.
“I’m not done,” I tell her and her expression changes. I force my clammy hands to unclench.
“I came here because of that article. I came here because I wanted him to do to me, what he did to Sam.”
