up a Christmas tree in December. Balloons and streamers for birthdays. She made herself go through the motions until it became the new normal. But, yeah, it’ll never be the same.”
The honesty helps, it really does. Grant Blakely just gave me permission to accept that nothing will ever be the same. I’m not ready for a new normal, though; I might never be ready. This is one of those times for baby steps. The best I can muster is a whisper. “Maybe a movie.”
Their bodies relax in unison.
Grant Blakely pats me on the shoulder. “It’s worth a shot.”
Jill leads us into the living room. Gretchen saves the smaller couch—the one Mom referred to as a love seat—for us. Jill rushes back to the kitchen for Oreos and we round-robin veto movies before settling on a stupid Ben Stiller comedy.
Tucker reaches for an Oreo and Jill snatches it back. “Get your own.”
Twenty minutes into the film, Grant Blakely turns off the lights and Gretchen rests her head on my shoulder. A moment later, she lifts her mouth to my ear and whispers, “I’ve missed you.”
I can’t say anything to that. I haven’t exactly been focused on Gretchen for the last two weeks. I wish I could go back to that place where my only concern was shrinking a playlist to a suitable size.
Something flickers outside the sliding glass doors, and I hop off the couch to close the curtains.
I can’t sit back down with Gretchen. I can’t just pick up where we left off. The thought of wrapping my arms around Gretchen seems sacrilegious when I will never again wrap my arms around my mom.
I retreat to the bathroom and close the door.
I usually avoid mirrors because, come on, my hair does what it wants anyway. But I can’t help looking now. Scratching my hair, I try to move it around into something presentable. Probably, if I let it grow, it would be curly. It has the course texture of a curly-haired person’s hair. Like Mom’s. Mom’s hair was wavy.
It’s gone.
Mom’s eyes are gone, too, and with them the sorrow and fear that lived there. I’ll never be judged by them again. I won’t see disappointment or pride in them. Never again. Mom had the palest blue eyes.
Mine are Gary’s eyes—a deep, dark brown. Looking into them now, a huge sob rises from my gut and I reach for a towel.
Dropping to my knees, I heave sobs into the stupid, pink, embroidered towel. Why is this happening to me? Why am I alone in the world?
I want to lie curled up on this floor forever and create a world in my mind. A world where Mom is outside the door and everything is fine and graduation is still ahead of me. And I will have a date with Gretchen tomorrow, and everything will be fine. If I could wind back the clock and live in that moment, I would never leave this bathroom, I swear. I promise.
Sobbing, I promise a thousand times that I would give anything—anything!—for everything to go back to normal.
After a million promises and a forever of relentless sobbing, I’m done, apparently. And, as much as I want my old life—my life before Mom died—on the other side of the door, I know I can’t have it. I know I have to make something of this new normal.
I wash my face and study my reflection again. I can’t stay in this bathroom, no matter how much I wish I could.
I turn the knob and crack the door. Thank god Grant Blakely turned off the lights; if I return to the movie with more food, maybe no one will realize how long I’ve been gone. When I grab a Coke and a bag of Cheetos from the counter, Gretchen joins me in the kitchen.
She’s very quiet. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine! Just hungry, I think?”
“I’m so sorry about all of this.” She wraps her arms around my neck, and her warmth radiates through our clothes again. Closing my eyes, I conjure our mini-forest in my mind. I just want to go backward. Just seventeen days back to that forest.
Gretchen is staring at me when I open my eyes. We stare for a long time, but there’s no silent
The honesty helps, it really does. Grant Blakely just gave me permission to accept that nothing will ever be the same. I’m not ready for a new normal, though; I might never be ready. This is one of those times for baby steps. The best I can muster is a whisper. “Maybe a movie.”
Their bodies relax in unison.
Grant Blakely pats me on the shoulder. “It’s worth a shot.”
Jill leads us into the living room. Gretchen saves the smaller couch—the one Mom referred to as a love seat—for us. Jill rushes back to the kitchen for Oreos and we round-robin veto movies before settling on a stupid Ben Stiller comedy.
Tucker reaches for an Oreo and Jill snatches it back. “Get your own.”
Twenty minutes into the film, Grant Blakely turns off the lights and Gretchen rests her head on my shoulder. A moment later, she lifts her mouth to my ear and whispers, “I’ve missed you.”
I can’t say anything to that. I haven’t exactly been focused on Gretchen for the last two weeks. I wish I could go back to that place where my only concern was shrinking a playlist to a suitable size.
Something flickers outside the sliding glass doors, and I hop off the couch to close the curtains.
I can’t sit back down with Gretchen. I can’t just pick up where we left off. The thought of wrapping my arms around Gretchen seems sacrilegious when I will never again wrap my arms around my mom.
I retreat to the bathroom and close the door.
I usually avoid mirrors because, come on, my hair does what it wants anyway. But I can’t help looking now. Scratching my hair, I try to move it around into something presentable. Probably, if I let it grow, it would be curly. It has the course texture of a curly-haired person’s hair. Like Mom’s. Mom’s hair was wavy.
It’s gone.
Mom’s eyes are gone, too, and with them the sorrow and fear that lived there. I’ll never be judged by them again. I won’t see disappointment or pride in them. Never again. Mom had the palest blue eyes.
Mine are Gary’s eyes—a deep, dark brown. Looking into them now, a huge sob rises from my gut and I reach for a towel.
Dropping to my knees, I heave sobs into the stupid, pink, embroidered towel. Why is this happening to me? Why am I alone in the world?
I want to lie curled up on this floor forever and create a world in my mind. A world where Mom is outside the door and everything is fine and graduation is still ahead of me. And I will have a date with Gretchen tomorrow, and everything will be fine. If I could wind back the clock and live in that moment, I would never leave this bathroom, I swear. I promise.
Sobbing, I promise a thousand times that I would give anything—anything!—for everything to go back to normal.
After a million promises and a forever of relentless sobbing, I’m done, apparently. And, as much as I want my old life—my life before Mom died—on the other side of the door, I know I can’t have it. I know I have to make something of this new normal.
I wash my face and study my reflection again. I can’t stay in this bathroom, no matter how much I wish I could.
I turn the knob and crack the door. Thank god Grant Blakely turned off the lights; if I return to the movie with more food, maybe no one will realize how long I’ve been gone. When I grab a Coke and a bag of Cheetos from the counter, Gretchen joins me in the kitchen.
She’s very quiet. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine! Just hungry, I think?”
“I’m so sorry about all of this.” She wraps her arms around my neck, and her warmth radiates through our clothes again. Closing my eyes, I conjure our mini-forest in my mind. I just want to go backward. Just seventeen days back to that forest.
Gretchen is staring at me when I open my eyes. We stare for a long time, but there’s no silent
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