Now, here we are again, and I’m faced with new understandings. I came here to deal with the insomnia that made me a potential threat to myself and others. Sitting passively in Sam’s class won’t help me do that. Playing theas ifgame won’t help me. Even spending more time with Sam—in his kitchen, his bed, his arms—won’t help me. Not in the long-term.
The only way to truly relieve my insomnia is to deal with the pain that keeps me awake in the first place. The pain I’ve spent nearly eight years drowning in every time I close my eyes, every time I climb a staircase and pause three steps from the top.
All these years, I’ve been so scared of looking too closely at the mess inside my head, terrified of what I will find. But it’s time to stop hiding from the guilt and the pain.
It’s time to look.
Closing my eyes, I follow Sam’s lead. There’s no need for me to choose my memory. I only have one deepest pain. The one I brought on myself. No other pain has ever mattered.
I go through the motions that begin the meditation. I’m better at these than I used to be. My focus is deeper and less prone to distraction. When Sam instructs us to bring forth the memory we’ve chosen, I concentrate on my breathing as I wait for Claire.
She doesn’t come.
Instead, a different memory visualises around me. I’m sitting on the bed in my childhood bedroom. Daylight streams through a window that slides into focus on my left. I don’t understand. Claire died at night.
The room is neater than I remember. There’s no sign of dirty clothing or schoolbooks. Even the bed is made. My gaze rests on my shoes, the shiny black leather unfamiliar. But the suit I’m wearing, I’ll never forget. The day of Claire’s funeral. I’m at her wake.
Bile fills my throat and I lean forwards to lower my head between my parted knees, taking one deep breath after another until the nausea settles.
“Tristan?”
My eyes close briefly, and then I force myself to lift my head. Mum stands in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly together. Dark hair the same shade as mine is pulled into a tight bun and her eyes look bruised from crying. Her skin is shockingly pale above the neckline of her black dress. “What are you doing up here by yourself?”
I rub my palms together, trying to dispel the sensation of Claire’s thin arm clutched in my hand. A week later, I still feel like I’m falling. My muscles spasm at odd times. My stomach drops at the slightest unexpected movement. Her bones still crunch beneath me and I hear the crack of her head hitting the wood.
“I needed a minute,” I manage in a hoarse whisper.
I never understood how anyone could feel alone in a crowded room until today. The house is brimming. People are crammed into the living room. They’re bumping into each other in the kitchen. Even the back deck is groaning under the sheer number of guests. We’re all here to grieve Claire’s death, so it’s not like I don’t have anything in common with the horde. But I’m the only one responsible for putting Claire in the ground in the first place. And everyone here knows it.
“Did someone say something to you?” Mum demands.
“No.” Not to my face, but the whispers have followed me all day.He’s always been a reckless boy. They never got along, you know. I’ve heard he was always yelling at his sister about something.
“It should have been me who died,” I rasp, my head hanging once more. “I wish it had been me.”
“Then I’d be burying my son instead of my daughter. Tell me how that’s better.” She crosses the room to sit beside me on the bed. “It was an accident.” Her voice is sharp and insistent. “A stupid, tragic accident that could have happened to anyone. I know it and so do you.”
“What about Dad?” I ask, my own eyes filling. “He can’t even look at me.”
“He knows,” she assures me. “It’s going to take some time.”
I nod, leaning in to her side the way I did when I was little. I wish she’d put her arms around me so I can take comfort in her warmth, but instead she reaches for my hand, holding it between both of hers.
Mum is the one person who has been by my side through this whole nightmare. She held tight to my hand, like she’s doing now, while we sat in the hospital and waited for news about Claire. She stayed at the police station for hours while they questioned me, and then she drove me home after they let me go. She’s my mother and she loves me. It’s the one thing I still know for sure. But she’s Claire’s mother, too, and I’m the reason Claire is gone.
“How can you still love me after what I did?” My gaze lifts to hers, searching for an answer. I need her to tell me it’s going to be okay, even if nothing will ever be okay again. “How can you forgive me for what I’ve taken away from you?”
There’s a subtle shift in her expression. Her pupils dilate and the creases in her brow deepen. Her lips twist before she pulls them between her teeth. She lets out a panicked sob. “I don’t know.” Her chest heaves as she struggles to breathe. “But I’m trying, Tristan. Can’t you see I’m trying? I can’t—”
My hand hurts and I look down to see she’s still holding on to me, but her fingers are clawed and her long nails dig at my skin.
“You’re my son, Tristan.” Her voice is steel and sorrow. “I want to forgive you. Iwillforgive you. But you killed my baby girl and I don’t know how—” There are no more words, and I can only watch on in horror as my mother begins to break apart right in front of me. She continues to hold on to me, but she doesn’t draw me closer and I realise for the first time, it’s because she doesn’t want to.
Pulling my hand from her grip, I stare at the crescents of blood on my palm where her fingernails cut into my skin. All those times she held so tight to my hand, I thought she was supporting me and showing her love for me. In truth, she was clinging to me as hard as she could… to stop herself from pushing me away.
Tentatively, I lift my arms and wrap them around her, trying to gather up all the parts of her I’ve broken. She stiffens, her eyes closing as she curls in on herself. Her body shakes so hard I think perhaps she’s fighting to get rid of me, but I only hold her tighter. “It’s okay,” I whisper in her ear, so no one can hear but us. “You don’t have to love me anymore. I understand and it’s okay.” She lets out a wail, collapsing against my chest, and the part of me that wants her to deny my words cringes. “I’ll do whatever you need me to.”
We stay there for a long time. Eventually, my mother’s tears ease and the shaking subsides. We don’t talk, there’s nothing left to say. Some mistakes can’t be forgiven, and the guilty don’t deserve to be loved.
