When I look back up, Simon is watching me with understanding. He knocks his knuckles against the doorframe. “We’re going to have a good time tonight,” he says, with a pleased look on his face like it’s a promise.
I avoided people like him when I was growing up. I had too much baggage. I was afraid they would see where I came from and how bad my home life really was. However, no one here is aware of it. I can be anyone. And right now? Who I want to be is someone numb and detached from any emotion. I pick up the bottle and take another swig. Then I grab my own towel and follow Simon to the showers. Tonight, for the first time since I arrived at the school, I’m going out. And maybe it’s long overdue.
We arrive at the party. Music thumps around us as bodies sway to the rhythmic beats streaming from the speakers haphazardly set up along the townhome. It may be fall, but you’d never know from the scantily dressed women in this place and the number of people here acting as a human furnace. Condensation forms along the windows, and I see a few alreadypushed slightly open, letting the cool autumn night air provide some needed ventilation through the house.
“Vic. Simon.” Someone calls out our name, and we see Hudson, another one from our group of friends, beckoning us over with the wave of his hand. We move, single file, through the gyrating bodies in the middle of the living room to the back of the townhouse, where the small kitchen island is set up with a mixture of alcohol bottles and red solo cups. “Hey!” He shouts over the music. “What do you guys want to drink?” I shrug, not really caring what it is. Truth be told, I’ve already had enough before we even arrived, and I know I shouldn’t have any more. But tonight, I throw caution to the wind and set myself on a path of self-destruction.
“I’ll take whatever,” Simon says, and then looks over at me. “Him, too.” He thumbs over at me. Shrugging, I let Hudson know to make one up, and I take a minute to look around. A woman is staring at me, sizing me up. She’s pretty with a cute button nose, long blonde hair, and big, full tits. She sees me returning her stare, which causes her to perk up. She leans over to tell her friends something, and they both turn my way, looking at me and smiling. She waves, but I get distracted by a hand extended my way.
“Here you go.” Hudson hands me a drink, and I bring it to my lips, taking a long sip. It’s strong, and I second-guess my thoughts about coming to this party. Simon hits my arm, and my drink sloshes over my shirt.
“Oh, shit,” Simon says as he nudges his head to the side of Hudson. “Bro, those girls are coming over here, and Chloe’s with them.” I turn to see the women walking this way, confidence exuding in their movements, but as Chloe walks up to me, smiling, it’s all wrong. Her lips are thin, unlike Dani’s full lips. Her hair is blonde and straight instead of the wavy, dark chocolate curls that ran to Dani’s mid-back. The woman movescloser and starts talking to me, but I can’t make out a word she’s saying. She puts her hand on my arm, and I feel hot all over. Just the thought of Dani left me hard and aching. All the alcohol did was allow me to let my guard down and expose how much I still want her.
Chloe’s friend pushes her from behind, and she rocks into me, her hand on my chest and her body flush against mine. She gasps, and I know then that she feels it. My cock, that was hard at the thought of Dani, is pressing into this petite girl’s frame, and I see her eyes widen in recognition. Little does she know that it isn’t for her. It never will be.
I push her back because she isn’t Dani, and because I feel like I might throw up. Suddenly, the music is too loud, the people are too close, and this girl is just all wrong. I refused to think about Dani, pushing her to the back of my mind, where she is tucked neatly into a little box with hearts and bows. Now the thoughts of her flood my mind, and especially those that I never want to think of. Of her hugging Brandon and how he kissed my girl’s head. I push through the crowd in search of a bathroom, looking back to see my friends engaged in a heated debate, no doubt about some New England sports team.
I run up the stairs in search of a bathroom. I need to wash my face and maybe get rid of the contents of my stomach at the moment. Hoping this feeling will subside, I see a few people in line for the bathroom in the hallway, but just then someone closes the door from one of the rooms. He must see how bad I look because he hits me on the shoulder. He leans in. “There’s a bathroom in there if you need it, bro,” he says, then walks off. I don’t waste a second in that other line as I enter the darkened bedroom. I tug off my jacket and place my phone on top of it as I head for the dim light in the corner of the room.
FOURTEEN
DANI
Today had already been unbearable, but everything imploded when I came home from work to find my mom face-down on her bedroom carpet. We've just moved in, and some things are still in boxes, awaiting their final resting spot. I’d placed this task on my list for today. But this…This isn’t something I thought I’d be doing today. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. I didn’t know how long she had been lying there alone. My hand shook as I rolled her over, bracing myself for the worst, but then relief flooded me when her body still felt warm, her eyelids fluttering open.
“Dani?” Her thin, broken voice cuts straight through me, splintering my heart, hearing her say my name, like a plea on her lips sounding just oh-so-fucking sad. I drop my head in defeat, placing it closer to hers.
“Mom, are you okay?” I ask hesitantly, not really wanting to know anything else that could devastate me so cruelly. Cradling her in my arms, she manages the slightest nod, almost too weak to answer. “What happened?” I whisper. Her tongue swipes over her dry lips, ready to answer, but I place my hand gently against her arm, causing her to pause.
“Don’t. Not yet.” I pull her up as she stands weakly against me. Her frail body is weightless in my arms as I steady her before guiding her to the recliner. Once she’s settled, I rush to the nightstand, refill her water glass, and place it in her shaking hands. Only then do I let myself breathe.
Every morning before work, I make sure she has everything she needs. After I leave, the visiting nurse comes to watch over her and stays until just before I get home. Which means she couldn’t have been lying on that carpet for long. I know this, yet the thought still destroys me. Her helplessness, the fear she must have felt with no one there to answer her call, singes my soul, branding me with a shame I’m sure the world can see—the mark of what a terrible daughter I am.
I guide her delicate, paper-thin fingers around the sippy cup, steadying the straw at her lips. She tries to lift it, but even that small act proves to be too much. With my hand over hers, I coax it to her lips for her to sip.
“That’s it, Mom,” I say encouragingly. Her chest rises with a slow, steady breath, the effort draining what little reserve she had. Her hand slips away, almost too heavy to hold, so I keep the cup steady for her, pressing the straw to her mouth so she doesn’t have to lift it again. She drinks slowly, in small sips, pausing in between, as I continue to hold the cup up to her lips. She’s too weak, and the sight of it breaks me.
“Now,” I whisper, my throat constricting with emotion, “tell me what happened, Mom?”
She looks at me sadly. “I just wanted to pick up my Chapstick.” Her gaze flicks to the floor, where the little black tube lies abandoned. I set the water aside and cross the room, placing it gently in her hand, which rests limp upon her lap.
“It fell,” she continues, her voice cracking at the last word. A sharp breath escapes, laced with anger, as her feeble finger tips attempt to flex around the offending chapstick as thoughshe might strangle it. “I leaned over just a little to grab it…” She trails off as silence fills the void. She swallows. “But I guess I am too weak to hold myself up. I lost my balance. My arms couldn’t catch me. And I fell.”
She turns away, ashamed, and I can’t bear the sight of it. I twist the cap from the tube and lift it, applying the balm against her dry, cracked lips. A single, traitorous tear escapes down her cheek, and I know in that moment, this hurts her more than the fall. The humiliation of needing me for something so small hurts her more than broken bones could.
“I’m sorry, “ she whispers. The words knock me over as I look at her, stunned.
“Whatever for, Mom?” I ask, shaking my head.
“For being a burden on you.” Her voice cracks, and tears form in her eyes. Her words hang between us, threatening to suffocate me as I try to take a breath in and fail. My chest caves in protest as I force the air in as my vision begins to blur from the tears rising in my eyes. I reach for her hand, gripping it as gently as I possibly can, anchoring her to me if I could to this life and the next.
“You could never be that,” I tell her, even though my throat threatens to tighten around the words. I hold her gaze, imploring her to see what I see. A strong warrior. A fighter. Unbroken, still now, despite the fragility of her body left ravaged by this terminal illness. She isn’t a burden. She couldn’t be. How could love be a burden? And I love her fiercely, through the good, the bad, and the ugly. Every day I have left with her is a gift. I clutch tightly because she has already exceeded the initial time frame the doctors gave us, measured out by cold facts and clinical statistics. They warned us that every case is different, not to get our hopes up, but to make the most of the time left. Yet they still provide us with numbers, ranges, and expectations, but she defied them all.
“All those times you took care of me when I was little,” I murmur, “you left a loveless marriage and started over, building us a new life.” I swallow hard, watching the tears stream down her hollowed cheeks. “You are the strongest person I know. And if I can be half the person, be half the mother you are to me…” I struggle to get the final words out. “I’d have done something right.” I wrap my arms around her, holding her the way she once cuddled me as a child. For a moment, I wonder what a person could have done in their life to deserve so much suffering. The thought strikes right through me, but it also sparks something inside. It sparks a fight. A fight to advocate for people like my mom. To ease their pain. To end their suffering.
After tucking Mom into bed, I wander aimlessly through our small apartment, picking up what I can. I wash the few dishes in our sink, robotically fold the towels, and lose myself in thought. I sink into the worn chair at the kitchenette, the tiny space doubling as the living and dining area. I pull out my schoolbooks, trying to focus, but my mind drifts back to her and the events of the day. And then it drifts to him, the man I should’ve confided in, and the weight of the secret presses heavier with every passing second I sit there.
I step away from the cluttered table full of books and almost-dreams to enter my bedroom and reach for the box tucked into the far corner of the closet. Cradling it carefully to my chest, I carry what could have been my future, placing it onto the dining table. I gently set it down, clearing the books I most definitely won’t be touching tonight to make some room. My hands linger on the box, wondering if I am ready to do this. I breathe deeply before ripping off the top, unleashing the memories I’ve kept contained and tucked in so neatly since he left.
