Chapter Nineteen
The date snuckup on me. It hit me hard in the face the day before as I went to the calendar to see how many weeks were left until the end of the internship because my life had become a blur of working, Brock, sleep, repeat. October 23rdflashed at me, the numbers growing larger and spinning in my mind. “Shit.”
I gripped the edge of the desk, putting my hand behind me until I found the chair. I scooted onto it, clutching my chest right above my heart. It beat her blood, her love, her words, and I’d almost forgotten about her. Tears poured down my face, pooling on my chin and falling onto the desk making wet spots. I stared, trying to figure out how I almost got the worst date in my life? How selfish was I? My eyes stung, and my body became numb as I sat there, unmoving, for hours.
“Grace, God. Are you okay? I tried calling and—” Fritz walked up to me and put his warm arms around my middle. “Jesus, you’re ice cold. You’re freaking me out, G.”
I pointed to the date and let my head fall onto his shoulder. “The date, Fritz. I almost missed it.”
He grimaced and squeezed me tighter. “What do you need? Chocolate? Wine? Disney movies? Tell me.”
I shook my head. “What time is it?”
“Nine,” he said, continuing to rub my arms. “Let’s go to the couch. Gil should be home soon.”
I didn’t respond. He pulled me into the living room. He set me on the couch with a deep frown and handed me a blanket. I knew he was worried. I had never acted like this before, a blithering hot mess. Well, I had, but it had been a good while since I’d had a breakdown. My normal routine used to be walking around like a zombie and disappearing for hours at a time. The sobbing and numbness was new. I blamed my exhaustion.
Fritz came back with some water and sat on the couch next to me. I appreciated him, but I needed to deal with this myself. The guilt of enjoying my life too much to forget my mom? I swallowed the bile. It was an insult to her memory. A wave of self-loathing shot through me, and I gulped it down, welcoming the grief.
“You left your phone on the counter.” He handed it to me, but I just turned it off and set it on the table. “You know, I don’t think your mom would want her death to paralyze you.”
I let his words hit me, like small punches. Rationally, I knew he was trying to help. “I know that,” I snapped. “I forgot. Who does that?”
“G, you’ve been so busy having fun, working, and hanging out with Brock. It’s okay.” He spoke softly, putting his arm around me for one of his famous hugs. I leaned into him and laid head on his shoulder. “I personally think it’s healthier that you were busy and not moping weeks in advance.”
“You don’t understand— “
“Yes. Yes, I do. Because I love the shit out of you. I know how you work. You feel guilty, fine. We all have things that make us feel guilty on our own. I can’t blame you for that. But, Grace, you aren’t expected to be miserable year after year. I only know your mom through you, and I know for a damn fact she wouldn’t want you being this body-wracking sad. No one would.”
“I forgot her, Fritz. I’ve been in my own bubble.” My lip trembled and his arm tightened to support me. “What kind of daughter am I for that?”
“One who is living her damn life and enjoying it.Hello. Isn’t that the point? Why would we be put on this earth just to work and pay bills? We should be able to enjoy each moment. God, can you imagine life without food?”
I sob-laughed. “No.”
“Exactly. Life is made up of moments that are varying levels of flavor.”
“Are you comparing my grief to bad food?”
“Yes. Not all food is going to be as fantastic as chocolate or pizza or slow cooked ribs,” he paused, moaning at the thought of them. My stomach growled, too. “You’re going to get stale bagels and zucchini or poorly cooked chicken sometimes. Will that stop you from eating?”
“Uh, never.”
“Then, I rest my case,” he said, smugly. “I would’ve made a hell of a good lawyer.”
“Fritz, I love you, but I don’t think comparing life to food works.”
“It does. You’re going to have the best slow cooked ribs sometimes, and other times it’s going to be the salmonella chicken. It makes perfect sense, but you’re irrational right now. You can congratulate me tomorrow.”
I rolled my eyes, appreciating his ability to cheer me up. “I love you, you wacko. I think I’m going to try to go to bed.”
“Let me know if you need anything.” He patted my leg, watching me with worried eyes as I shut myself in my room. I needed to deal with myself. The guilt, the unwarranted feelings toward my boss. I was a flipping mess.
* * *
Time does not healall wounds. That is an utter, bullshit lie. I learned to live despite the wounds. It was what made humans so complex and troubled. I sat, cross-legged on the roof of my car. I couldn’t build up the courage to enter the graveyard just yet, and my pounding headache didn’t help. My crying jag had messed with me, majorly. Forgetting her even for a moment was unacceptable. I clenched my eyes shut and listened to the crinkle of the bouquet of roses I gripped.
My phone sat in the front of my car, turned off, and I needed it that way. Every year, on this day, I shut off from the world. Thankfully, it wasn’t a game day, and I could miss work. I thought nothing of texting Brock to say I wouldn’t be in. Today was my day of mourning. Fritz and Gilly left me two beautiful bouquets of flowers outside my room that morning, letters telling me how much they loved me. Fritz also wrote something that kept swirling around and around my head.
