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“That’s sweet,” Mom says quietly, her eyes doing that thing where she seems to take in everything with a single glance. “Is this all hers?”
“Yeah.” I’m still sitting on the bed, my elbows on my knees, holding onto paper anguish.
“Her house is all fixed?” Mom asks, sitting down next to me.
I nod.
She shoves my side with hers. “You okay, kiddo?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, blink hard to regain some form of normalcy. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I look over at her. “How was it? How’s Mia?”
“She’s… not well, but she will be…” Her shoulders drop. “I don’t know how much my being there helped.”
“I’m sure it did, Ma. She loves you, so…”
Mom’s nod is slow, her gaze dropping to the sketch I can’t seem to let go of. “What’s that?”
“It’s uh…”It’s everything all at once. And then… “It’s nothing at all.”
27
Jamie
Suckage.
It’s the only way I can describe the anticipation leading up to this very moment: being alone with Holden.
And sure, I could have come up with some generic illness that would sideline my attendance for the day, but what would be the point? There would still be next Wednesday, and the following Wednesday, and all the sucky Wednesdays after.
I haven’t done the research, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure that there isn’t a disease in the world that pops up every seven days and hangs around for twenty-four hours before disappearing.
Besides, I’d still have to see him at school, most mornings at our lockers, and I really wish I hadn’t listened to the stupid counselor in the emancipation program because regular high school blows. I’ve considered leaving, just dropping out and getting my diploma via homeschooling, but there’s no way I’m going to let some guy, or two of them, be the reason I fail to achieve the only substantial thing I’ve set out to do with my life.
One night,after cleaning up my mom’s vomit mixed with blood off the kitchen linoleum, I sat down on the floor beside her bed with a sketchpad and marker and attempted to draw. I closed my eyes and tried to envision being anywhere but there. Nothing came to me. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was the emptiness that lived and breathed and grew inside me. I remember looking up at her, seeing the sweat form across her forehead and the dark circles around her sunken eyes. Her face had changed over the years. The cuts and bruises that were once prominent had healed over time, replaced with the scars of addiction. It was at that moment, looking at my mother, I knew we were close to the end.
We only had weeks left together.
Months if we were lucky.
Without even a hint of a prognosis, I could sense it.
I tried to wake her, just so I could tell her that I loved her. That no matter what I thought of her in the state she was in, I’d stillmissher. That I wish I could’ve gotten to know her—who she was as a person before her life and her love and her need and her want took hold of her and squeezed and squeezed until all life left her eyes. Her body. Herfight.
I wanted to ask her so many questions. I wanted to know what she was like at my age. What she aspired to be. What impossible dreams she kept tucked away, hidden from the world. I wanted to know who her first kiss was and what… what the hell happened in her life to tear it all apart.
But more than any of that, I wanted to ask her what she wantedmeto be. What dreams she had forme. Because I sure as fuck didn’t have any for myself besides making sure she didn’t die.
She never woke up that night.
By the time she came to, the sun had already been up for hours, and I’d created my own list of dreams and aspirations. As pathetic as it is, on top of that list was to graduate and move on with my life—a life without her. It was more a challenge than an ambition, but I felt like if I could just do this one thing once she was gone, then at least I’d give her a reason to be proud.
Iwould be proud.
Over the next couple of days, I went through all the stages of grieving as if she was already dead: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. And then I found myself back to the beginning: denial.
I went through all the paperwork her doctors had given her, the same ones I found in her purse when I was thirteen. The ones that led to my begging her to escape the wrath of Satan’s hold.
I read over the pages one by one, every word, every footnote, and I came to terms with what I already knew: there was no denying her final breath. And so I quickly moved on to the next stage: anger.
