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Taking a deep breath, I begin telling my story that I’ve never said out loud to anyone else. Not really. I’ve given a few details to grief counselors. I’ve talked about her death in therapy. But never really with my father.
Never really with anyone.
“I was turning twelve, and I was going to have a party. I had some friends at the middle school I went to, and I was excited to have them over. I was getting ready with two of my friends in my bedroom. Kayla and Hallie. I lost touch with them after I started high school at Lancaster…”
My voice drifts and Arch remains quiet. I can tell he wants to prompt me. Push me to continue but he restrains himself.
Pushing me would only make me clam up more.
“Anyway.” I press the back of my head against the seat and stare out into the darkness. “We were in my room and I was trying on different outfits for them. I wanted to look good for my party, you know? Anyway, I heard a strange thud come from the dining room or kitchen, I couldn’t tell. I went running out there, thinking my cake fell off the table, which is just the most selfish thing, you know? But I was twelve and all I could focus on was my party. What I was getting. What we were doing.”
I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. Control my memories. “I actually found her in the living room, right behind the couch. It took me a minute to realize that my mom was lying on the floor on her back, her eyes wide and unseeing. She couldn’t see me. It’s like she couldn’t hear me either, because I kept sayingMomto her over and over. Then I said her name. It’s like I couldn’t stop saying it. Rose. Rosalie. Rose. She never answered me.”
More silence, the only noise the tires on the road. The steady hum of the engine.
“My dad came into the house at the same time I started screaming and he ran into the living room. So did Kayla and Hallie. They witnessed everything. My mom looked like she was dead. I thought she was. I couldn’t stop screaming and crying. It was—it was terrible.” A single tear falls down my cheek and I wipe it away viciously, annoyed that it made an appearance. “She had a brain aneurysm. She was pretty much brain dead by the time the ambulance took her to the hospital. She was on life support but when the doctors told my father there was no hope, he made the agonizing decision to take her off the machines. She died a day later. I know I said she died on my birthday when she actually didn’t, but it was close enough. I lost her that day, and she never came back.”
Without a word Arch reaches out and settles his big warm hand on my knee, giving it a squeeze. His touch is gentle. Reassuring, and I don’t know why, but the dam breaks.
And I cry like a baby.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ARCH
The soundof her sobs twists my insides into knots, and the moment I spot the darkened building up ahead with the giant parking lot surrounding it, I pull over, stopping in front of the breakfast house. I throw the car into park and undo my seat belt before I reach for hers and do the same thing.
When I haul her into my arms, she doesn’t protest. She goes willingly, somehow curling into my lap, her arms coming around my neck, her face buried against my chest. Her tears soak through the front of my shirt and I don’t even care. All I can do is stroke her hair and murmur reassuring noises, feeling helpless. Useless.
My family? We haven’t suffered much tragedy. We also don’t handle our emotions very well. As in, we don’t really show them at all. There weren’t a lot of ‘I love yous’ spread around my household and while we’re definitely not the coldest Lancaster branch that I know, we’re still pretty cold.
Emotionless.
Doesn’t help that my mother is British. Stiff upper lip and all the shit that comes with it. My father married a cold fish and man was he angry about it—enough to tell me all about his troubles last winter break, when he was drunk and they’d just gotten into a huge argument.
I was seventeen. The last thing I wanted to hear about was my father complaining how he never had sex with my mother anymore. That she felt the act was an obligatory duty and she gave him four children, so why is he protesting?
He’s had a few affairs—confessed to that too. Discreet indiscretions that didn’t amount to much, though he always made sure my mother found out. She never seemed to care, which infuriated him even more.
“All I want is acknowledgement,” said the very man who’s not very good at acknowledging any of his children. The irony.
Pretty sure my mother could’ve birthed him a dozen warrior sons and I don’t think he would’ve been pleased. Not fully. But we’re not the disappointment in his life.
Dear old mother is.
I don’t talk about that conversation, or our family troubles. Just like Daisy doesn’t talk about her mom or her emotions. She keeps them all stuffed deep inside, only letting them pour out this one singular day a year. When she can mourn the death of her mother that just so happened on her twelfth birthday.
That is some fucked-up shit. And so random. A brain aneurysm. One second you’re there, next second you’re gone, though I thought they at least got a warning sign with headaches and stuff. Not that I’m going to ask. If Daze wants to share any more details, I’m willing to listen, but she’s too busy crying currently to speak.
She’s still crying into my shirt and I tangle my fingers in her soft hair, resting my chin on top of her head as I stare out into the dark night. The clock on my dashboard says it’s almost eleven and I hope to hell Ralph doesn’t pitch a fit when he realizes his sweet, virginal daughter isn’t home yet. Though his night with Kathy might still be going on…
Wonder how he’d feel about me being with his daughter. Would he approve?
Probably not.
No one seems to approve of me being with her.
“Oh my God.” She moans as she tries to pull away from me. I keep my hold firm on her but she tilts her head back, her luminous gaze meeting mine. “Your shirt is soaked.”
