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Mostly.
Do you ever truly get over your first? I suppose I should be grateful it was a “nice” first. From the horror stories of my friends, it could have been so much worse.
Usually, after work, I go for a run to clear my head. Outside around my neighborhood if the weather’s decent, or on the treadmill at the gym. Tonight, I’m not doing shit. I’m still numb from my mother’s sudden heart attack and I don’t want to do anything but drink wine and pass out in front of Netflix.
***
“Why are you back sosoon?” my boss, lead Attorney Melinda Mills, asks as I enter the office of Mills & Graves, Attorneys at Law, a piping hot coffee in one hand and handbag in the other.
I shrug and head to my desk. “I don’t need two weeks of bereavement leave. It’s not doing me any good. I need to work.”
I’d been moping around my condo for the past week, taking care of all the technical stuff and dwelling on my life. I’m sad about my mom dying and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, but I was starting to drop into a depression that I did not like or think is healthy. I don’t want to spiral. I have to get back into my routine.
She places a hand on my arm and looks down at me with motherly concern. Melinda’s in her fifties and complains nonstop about her unruly and smelly teen boys and how she and her husband can’t wait to retire early and buy a boat to sail in the Keys. “It’s not even been a week. Are you sure?”
I nod and set my coffee down. “Yes, I’m sure. I was going crazy at home. I’ve gotten most of everything taken care of. Mom didn’t have much. The funeral’s done. I have to cope in my own way and working will help.”
“Well, if you need anything, you know I’m here. We all are.”
I look behind her to see people popping their heads out of cubicles and waving to me. I smile weakly and give my boss my thanks.
“Melinda, phone!” her secretary calls out from the door of her office.
She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes before walking away.
I sip my coffee as I wait for the computer to boot up.
Movement to my right catches my attention. My coworker-turned-best friend Christa Alvarez stands there looking smart in her fitted purple pencil skirt and tight black V-neck tee. I don’t know how she puts such odd combinations together but they always work when paired with eclectic jewelry and her colorful sleeve of tattoos.
“How are you?” she asks, pulling up a chair and setting a bagel down on my desk. “Really?”
“I’m okay,” I reply, lifting the pink bagel, Strawberry, my favorite. “Thanks.”
“You know I got you. Comfort carbs.”
I rip off a piece and put it in my mouth. “So good.”
She chuckles. “I’m glad you like it. So, what can I help you with today?”
I glance at my computer to see 46 new help tickets. Geez, how much shit broke while I was gone? “Nothing you can help with. Just a bunch of IT stuff.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Print them all out and I’ll organize them by priority.”
“Christa, you’re a paralegal, not a secretary. It’s okay, really.”
“I insist. I’m here to make your job easier and keep your mind off of things.”
I take a sip of coffee to wash the dense bread down. “I’m good, I promise. If I organize these, then it’ll keep my mind busy. Preoccupied.”
“If you insist,” she replies, standing. “I’ll be in my office, hon.”
“Appreciate you,” I reply.
Christa hadn’t come to Mom’s funeral. She’d offered but I knew I had to do it alone. Without Eric around, it was up to me. I love Christa but she definitely likes to take charge and take over. Which isn’t a bad trait when it comes to things like girls’ night out, or weekend trips, but I knew I had to do the funeral myself.
I just wasn’t prepared for the grief. It hit me so hard. I’d never lost anyone close to me before. When our childhood dog, Sam, died, I was seventeen and I thought I would never recover. That was nothing compared to this deep, soul-crushing grief of losing the woman who gave me life. I wonder if I would be this sad at losing my father, but alas, I never knew him.
Well, I met him a few times, apparently when I was young. After divorcing Eric’s dad, Mom had hooked up with my father—albeit, briefly. Mom said he didn’t want to be a father and she never got anything from him.
