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After my shower, I tie a towel around my waist, not bothering to change first before checking my phone.
A sinking feels forms in my chest, and a buzzing fills my ears.
What did I do? What the fuck did I do?
Because for the first time ever, that I can recall…
He left me on read.
After a night of tossing and turning until I finally caved and popped an Ambien—something I save for only extreme situations—I sleep well into the morning.
When I come downstairs for lunch, Mom and Dad ask me if everything’s okay, and I nod and smile and tell them I just drank a little too much Saturday night, and am still recovering.
Dad just chuckles and shakes his head.
Mom tells me to be careful, and I roll my eyes.
At one point she asks if I brought up the benefit concert to Mason and Waylon. I told them it was likely not going to happen.
I don’t miss the way her mouth trembles when she smiles, nods, and says she understands. I know it’s because she hates this. She misses them. Waylon especially. She practically raised him from the moment he was born, and it kills her—and Dad—that they failed to protect him. They don’t want to push him before he’s ready—content to let him call the shots…
But I can’t help but wonder these days, if perhaps that was the opposite of how they should’ve handled it.
And of course there’s also the Izzy of it all to consider too.
I can’t escape the memories of this house—the ones that come with being around my parents—but Waylon can. He’s lucky like that. I don’t blame him for wanting distance from all the memories—the reminders.
As for Mason’s relationship with my parents…
Well, obviously it all comes down to my sister. Except his distance stems from resentment, rather than a place of grief. In his eyes, they gave up on her.
Not that that’s what they did…
Sure about that?
Wincing, I ignore that little voice in my head like I always do, and take my plate to the sink.
They would’ve never given up if there was still hope. Mason just refuses to accept facts.
That annoying voice pops up again, Hmmm, but what are facts without solid proof?
As always, I’m torn.
I scoot from the table, and head for the hall. Mom’s loading the dishwasher, as Dad gathers the trash. Just as I exit the kitchen, he says, “We’ve gotta run some errands soon. We’ll be back later tonight.”
Nodding, I leave them to it and head for the stairs, lost in my thoughts.
What else were they supposed to do? What else are any of us supposed to do? Wait around until we die off ourselves for a body that will never be found? Answers that will never come?
As always when my thoughts veer off in this direction, I can’t help but wonder if the same could be said if it were Izzy still here instead of me.
Would they have held on longer? Given up sooner?
Who knows?
Would Waylon still avoid this house? My parents?
Doubtful.
