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“Before she got sick, yeah.” I swallow hard. I don’t usually talk about this, with anyone, but I want it off my chest. And it’s incredibly unsexy. It’ll keep my thoughts in line. “At first, friends dropped off casseroles. Then Dad started buying ready meals. We had a freezer full of them.”
“What was that like?”
“Mushy,” I say. “Frozen food always tastes mushy.”
His eyes bore into mine. “What was it like, losing her?”
I don’t know what to say, how to explain it. There’s no way to understand without going through it. Not really. “Horrible.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I never thought about how hard it must have been.”
I swallow a sip of my water. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
There isn’t anything to say. I don’t have a logical response and I don’t do emotional responses well. I never react the way people want. With tears of sorrow orno, I’m sorry that this is awkward for you.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he says.
I finish the glass, but it doesn’t cool me off. The heat isn’t the flush of desire. It’s something else. A sense of vulnerability. As if I’m not wearing anything under my sheer black cover-up. “I didn’t really understand what was going on at the time. I knew about death. I knew about dying. But only as philosophical concepts and biological realities. The way it felt was different. Watching her fade, actually seeing her life force slip away one day at a time… She didn’t ask me to be strong for her, but I tried anyway.”
He studies me carefully.
As if I’m not wearing a cover-up, either.
But it’s not the stare of desire. It’s like he’s looking at my naked brain. My naked heart.
It feels strange, too much and just right at the same time.
“I didn’t want her to have to comfort me. I hate when that happens. When something hurts me, and it makes someone else uncomfortable. They expect me to say something to ease their awkwardness, but I can’t. I won’t.”
“You don’t have to say anything to me.”
“I know.”
“I am sorry,” he says. “About all of it. Watching her fade. Losing her. Having to grow up on your own.”
“I had my dad.”
“It’s not the same,” he says.
Right. His dad isn’t even in the picture. And his mom has been out of it for a long time. “You know what it’s like to grow up on your own.”
“I have Grandma.”
“Still.” My heart rate slows. My skin cools. It’s easier, throwing this back to him, but I’m not throwing it exactly. I’m passing the ball. I’m sharing. No. We’re sharing. “Was it hard, losing your mom? I know she’s alive, but she’s not around, right?” I don’t know the details, really. Only that Ida curses her daughter.
“It was a relief,” he says. “And an agonizing loss.” His eyes go to the sky. He stares at the expanse of blue, looking for something among the big, puffy clouds.
Because he’s uncomfortable with the subject of grief? Or because he doesn’t want to talk about his mom?
I don’t know. I always hate when I don’t know, but it’s different here. Not an intellectual frustration. An emotional one.
He brings his attention back to me. “I’d rather talk about something else.”
“Okay.” I want to stay on this, and I want to run a million miles away.
“You still owe me an answer.”
