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And Pop standing in socks with no shoes.
He holds our gazes and communicates what none of us want to hear. And as if we trained for this, we move silently, falling in line behind him, heading to their room.
It’s warm and stale in here, and I fight not to think of the smell. It’s off, like sickness, and… and, death.
Mom opens her eyes. They’re glassy and dull.
She lifts a hand from the mattress, just enough, as if beckoning us to come closer. We do, almost mechanically, and circle her bed.
She drags in a rough breath. “You are the best gifts I’ve ever been given. I wouldn’t leave you—” Her voice is forced and airy. It’s taking a huge effort from her. She’s pulling deep on her reserves.
“If I could stay, I would.” She draws in another ragged breath, visibly wracking in doing so. Her hand wiggles against the sheets, and Pop walks to her side, taking her hand in his, looking down on her. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen.
“Emilia, my love,” he whispers and kisses her forehead. “You do what you need to do. We’ll be okay.”
Layton’s hitching breath and hiccupping sob behind me is my undoing. The dam breaks. The warm tears spill over my cheeks and flow, not one at a time, but in a stream. My older brothers sniffle, and the silence is broken by those watery sounds and those of Mom struggling to drag oxygen into her lungs.
“I love you,” Mom says and looks at each of us in turn. When she looks into Pop’s eyes, a small smile flits across her mouth. It’s hers only for him. I’ve seen it a million times and can’t imagine never seeing it ever again. “Thank you for a wonderful life,” she whispers to him and closes her eyes, exhaling everything she has left to give. He kisses her gently, and his tears spill onto her face.
On her own terms—because she’d have it no other way—Mom takes three ragged last breaths and lets go.
I want to scream.
I want to ask her to wait.
I want to tell her I need her.
I want to beg her to keep fighting.
I want to wail and plead and bargain with God, the universe… hell, anyone who will listen.
I’m twenty-nine-years old. I need my mom. I’ve always needed my mom. Even when I was a teenager, pushing boundaries, and being a bitch, I needed her.
Make peace with yourself. Then give that away to someone you find worthy.
Her last words to me—her last private words to me—rattle around my head and chest and fight to find a place to land. The walls inside me keep them ping-ponging back and forth.
My brothers turn into robots. There are things to do, people to call, and arrangements to be made, even though Mom had many outlined since she knew this was coming. Regardless, those plans need to be set in motion.
But not by me.
Exton and Braxton step in for Pop where they can, since he won’t leave Mom’s body. When Layton takes off for Brax’s house to hit the weights, I do what I need to do.
I head to the barn, saddle my three-year-old stallion, Strait, climb on, and turn him loose.
We run.
As fast as we can.
As hard as he’ll go.
For as far as our land takes us.
The wind blows my hair and dries away the tears that flow. It’s rare for me to do it, much less let them show. Being raised with brothers, crying showed weakness. I ride. I cry and wail until the numbness in my chest takes over. I let the afternoon sun burn my face and the wind kiss my cheeks.
Being in the saddle on a beautiful beast like this fellow is my best therapy. I want to run away, but the specter of today will follow, so I might as well stand my ground, look that ghost in the eye, and deal. Even though what I really want is to buckle.
I fight to stand, but instead brush down Strait after we return and finish my daily tasks. If this is my new normal, I might as well embrace it. No amount of bargaining can bring her back.
