mean, I just… Sorry again,” I finish lamely. You would think having a dead mother would make it easier to say the right things, but it doesn’t. Words don’t console. Words don’t fix.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
Everything happens for a reason.
We’re all here for you.
You have my deepest condolences.
Words don’t mean shit.
“It’s fine.” Sam shrugs as we start to walk again. “It happened a long time ago.”
Snow beings to fall from the sky in earnest, coating our hair and shoulders in a fine dusting of white just as we step into the wooded section of the walk way. I grimace and try to shake it all off while Sam just worries about his glasses. Eventually he gives up trying to keep them dry and slips them in his coat pocket.
“Can you see?” I ask.
“Kind of. If I start to veer off the paths towards a ravine or something stop me though, okay?”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and suppress a smile. Sam looks very different without his glasses. I can’t decide if it is different in a good way or in a bad way. He certainly looks more main stream. Handsome even, as opposed to bookishly cute. Not that it matters. My fingers curl up inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt and I look sharply away, focusing on the trail in front of us. Who cares if Sam wears no glasses or fluorescent orange ones with sparkles? Not this girl.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he observes after a few minutes.
I don’t know what to say, so I just say the first thing that pops into my head. “How did you know my mom died?” I ask. As soon as the words are out of my mouth my lips clamp down and pinch in a scowl. I didn’t want to ask Sam that. I hadn’t meant to. I wasn’t even thinking about it. Not really. This is what happens when your family and friends abandon you; you start talking to random strangers about private things.
And why not? A little voice asks. There is a reason that fat woman at the basketball game used to talk to you about her divorce when she couldn’t talk to her own ex-husband without a lawyer in the room. People need to talk about their private crap. It’s human nature. Why do you think autobiographies were invented? People have stuff they need to say. Maybe you have stuff to say. Stuff you can’t talk about with your dad or your brother.
“Uh, Winnie?”
“What?” I say sharply.
Sam is looking in the general direction of my face. I can tell he can’t see more than a blur by the way his eyes flick around, focusing on my nose then my mouth before settling on some spot in the middle of my forehead. “I didn’t know it was your mom for certain,” he says. “I just figured someone close to you had died because… well… you know.”
“No, I don’t know. Why don’t you enlighten me?” I’m being a jerk, but what else is new? Sharing my feelings isn’t something I am accustomed to. It’s like my body throws up an automatic defense when it senses someone is getting too close. Walls of sarcasm first, barricades of anger second and a moat of distrust to finish it all off. Sam would have to be some kind of super hero to get past all that. It’s almost too bad he is just a dorky kid with glasses who dresses like his dead cousin.
“You look like you’re at somebody’s funeral all the time,” he says bluntly. “Which would be fine if that’s how you looked, but I can see your roots and they’re not black. Plus your makeup has started to run and now you look more like a drowning raccoon than some bad ass Goth chick and everyone knows bad ass Goth chicks wear waterproof eyeliner and mascara. Obviously some tragic event has recently happened and judging by the way you talked about your dad’s new girlfriend I would guess your mom is dead. Am I wrong?”
I like the way he says ‘your mom is dead’. Not ‘she has passed on’ as if she went to the next state for a temporary visit or ‘she is in a better place’ like he knows it for a fact. Who knew sweater vest Sam
I’m so sorry for your loss.
Everything happens for a reason.
We’re all here for you.
You have my deepest condolences.
Words don’t mean shit.
“It’s fine.” Sam shrugs as we start to walk again. “It happened a long time ago.”
Snow beings to fall from the sky in earnest, coating our hair and shoulders in a fine dusting of white just as we step into the wooded section of the walk way. I grimace and try to shake it all off while Sam just worries about his glasses. Eventually he gives up trying to keep them dry and slips them in his coat pocket.
“Can you see?” I ask.
“Kind of. If I start to veer off the paths towards a ravine or something stop me though, okay?”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and suppress a smile. Sam looks very different without his glasses. I can’t decide if it is different in a good way or in a bad way. He certainly looks more main stream. Handsome even, as opposed to bookishly cute. Not that it matters. My fingers curl up inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt and I look sharply away, focusing on the trail in front of us. Who cares if Sam wears no glasses or fluorescent orange ones with sparkles? Not this girl.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he observes after a few minutes.
I don’t know what to say, so I just say the first thing that pops into my head. “How did you know my mom died?” I ask. As soon as the words are out of my mouth my lips clamp down and pinch in a scowl. I didn’t want to ask Sam that. I hadn’t meant to. I wasn’t even thinking about it. Not really. This is what happens when your family and friends abandon you; you start talking to random strangers about private things.
And why not? A little voice asks. There is a reason that fat woman at the basketball game used to talk to you about her divorce when she couldn’t talk to her own ex-husband without a lawyer in the room. People need to talk about their private crap. It’s human nature. Why do you think autobiographies were invented? People have stuff they need to say. Maybe you have stuff to say. Stuff you can’t talk about with your dad or your brother.
“Uh, Winnie?”
“What?” I say sharply.
Sam is looking in the general direction of my face. I can tell he can’t see more than a blur by the way his eyes flick around, focusing on my nose then my mouth before settling on some spot in the middle of my forehead. “I didn’t know it was your mom for certain,” he says. “I just figured someone close to you had died because… well… you know.”
“No, I don’t know. Why don’t you enlighten me?” I’m being a jerk, but what else is new? Sharing my feelings isn’t something I am accustomed to. It’s like my body throws up an automatic defense when it senses someone is getting too close. Walls of sarcasm first, barricades of anger second and a moat of distrust to finish it all off. Sam would have to be some kind of super hero to get past all that. It’s almost too bad he is just a dorky kid with glasses who dresses like his dead cousin.
“You look like you’re at somebody’s funeral all the time,” he says bluntly. “Which would be fine if that’s how you looked, but I can see your roots and they’re not black. Plus your makeup has started to run and now you look more like a drowning raccoon than some bad ass Goth chick and everyone knows bad ass Goth chicks wear waterproof eyeliner and mascara. Obviously some tragic event has recently happened and judging by the way you talked about your dad’s new girlfriend I would guess your mom is dead. Am I wrong?”
I like the way he says ‘your mom is dead’. Not ‘she has passed on’ as if she went to the next state for a temporary visit or ‘she is in a better place’ like he knows it for a fact. Who knew sweater vest Sam
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