I went to roll on my back, hoping to end this conversation, but she grabbed my hand and pulled me back on my side.
“Don’t pull away,” she said gently. “Talk to me.”
I stared at her face, illuminated from the light filtering in through the window. She waited patiently, hoping for me to say more, but I didn’t know if I could. I’d never actually said the words. Wilder had been with me when it had all happened, but we’d never talked about it. He’d just been there for me through my mom’s death and the aftermath.
Isla kept a hold of my hand, and her touch had a calming effect. I continued to look at her, wondering if I could actually tell her about what had happened. She wouldn’t be able to understand everything I’d gone through, but she would listen, giving me an opportunity to talk about it with someone I trusted. She provided a comforting presence that I hadn’t thought I’d ever find from someone.
Our hands were intertwined, lying in the space between us, and I moved them closer to me, closer against my chest, needing to have a part of her closer. “I don’t know if I know how.” The truth and vulnerability of those words surprised me. I hated admitting it, but I was scared. Not to talk to Isla, because I found myself actually wanting to tell her. But I was scared of saying the words, talking about my mom, about my dad, about how my life had changed.
“I was a sophomore in high school when my mom died,” I began, my voice sounding distant and far away. “I was at a party hanging out with friends after we’d already rung in the new year. My cell phone started buzzing, and I saw that it was my dad calling. But when I answered, it wasn’t my dad’s voice on the line, but a woman telling me that she was a nurse and that my parents had been in a car accident. She told me my dad was okay, just bruised and banged up. And then she told me that my mom…” I stopped, feeling like I was choking on the words, my chest tightening. “That my mom had died on impact.”
Isla gently squeezed my hand.
“My phone dropped through my hands, hitting the ground with a loud clatter. I must have looked white as a ghost, which had Wilder placing his hand on my shoulder and asking me what was wrong, but it sounded like someone speaking to me under water. My knees gave out, and I went down to the floor. I remember staring at the tiles on the floor, wondering if it was a horrible nightmare.
“I don’t remember too much after that. I barely remember going to the hospital to see my dad, and I couldn’t tell you what happened between the days of the accident and the funeral. The whole town came to my mom’s funeral, which wasn’t surprising since everyone loved her.
“The days after her funeral were some of the hardest. It really began to sink in that she was gone, forever. No more home-cooked meals and family dinners, no more asking me how my day at school had been, no more hugs, no more talks. She was just gone.
“My first football game my junior year was when it really hit me, how much things had changed—neither of my parents were there. I played terribly. I couldn’t stop thinking about how they weren’t there, how my mom wasn’t yelling and cheering for me in the stands. I found myself continually searching for her, only to remember she wasn’t there, that she’d never be there again.”
“Where was your dad? Was he not at the game?” she asked, curious to understand.
“My dad hasn’t been the same since my mom died,” I explained. “He never leaves the house, he barely talks, he just sits in his recliner every day watching TV. It’s like something shut down in his brain, like it’s impossible for him to function without her.”
“That’s heartbreaking,” she said softly.
“I wasn’t trying to be dramatic when I told you it ruined his life. He stopped living his life—he’s a shell of the person he once was. He’s not interested in my life anymore. Never comes to games, never calls. I’m not even sure he knows where I am or that I’m gone. I had to learn real quick how to do everything on my own after my mom died. I figured out that the only person I could count on was Wilder.”
“And so you keep everyone out,” she said quietly. “Because you don’t trust them. And you don’t trust yourself.”
Hold on, what? What did she mean I didn’t trust myself?
“I trust myself,” I argued.
“Only to a certain extent,” she countered. “You don’t trust yourself to love someone, to let yourself be vulnerable.”
Part of what she said made sense, but there was a part of me that couldn’t completely agree. What was wrong with keeping myself guarded?
“What happened to your dad is awful, but it’s also really sad,” she continued. “I didn’t know your mom, but I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted him to stop living, to live in almost a comatose state. She would have wanted him to work through his grief, to continue to live a full life, even if it was without her.”
“She would have hated to see him like this,” I agreed.
She slowly placed her other hand on my cheek. “And she also would have hated seeingyoulike this,” she said, her voice slow and hesitant.
My first instinct was to be angry at her words, but as they seeped in, I felt the prickly sensation of tears. How many times had I worried about what my mom would think of who I had become? She really would have hated how much I shut people out and how I had no desire to ever be in a committed relationship. But knowing that didn’t make any of this easier. I’d felt alone for the most part of six years, and this conversation didn’t change the fact that love messed with people’s minds and hearts.
“She really would,” I said, my voice thick. “But I don’t know how to be anything different. I need to keep my mind busy to stop thinking about her, to stop thinking about what my life used to be like before she died, to stop thinking about what my life would be like right now if she were still here.”
If I ever let my mind wander too far, I’d get caught up in what it would be like if my mom were still alive, about how she would be in the stands at all my games, and how maybe I could call her to talk about my life. And how my dad would be his old self, joking around with me, that we’d still pass the football together in the backyard when I would go back home to visit.
A tear slipped out, sliding sideways toward my pillow. I didn’t know if she could tell I was barely holding it together, but I couldn’t find it in me to be embarrassed. Although I was now a so-called big manly linebacker, there was still a broken fifteen-year-old boy inside of me. Another tear fell, sliding over the bridge of my nose and onto my pillowcase. I took a big breath, trying to calm down my emotions.
Isla scooted closer to me, moving down so she could lay her head under my chin and wrap her arms around me. My arms immediately went around her, and I pulled her into me, needing to feel her comfort. As small as she felt in my arms, she felt more than enough to hold on to, that she would never let me drown.
And then I did something that I’d never truly done in six years.
I cried.
