Grief can turn even the sanest into unstable hoarders. I have voicemails and videos, moth-eaten shirts and dumb birthday cards. Random movie ticket stubs and fortune cookie papers. When I come across something of my mom’s or something that makes me think of her, I feel compelled to keep it, treasure it. There won’t be any new memories with her or new knickknacks. No new voicemails or videos.
No new anything.
I’m never going to hear my mom’s voice or eat her apple pie ever again. Isn’t that the stupidest, most heartbreaking thing you’ve ever heard?
All because some people decided to get drunk and then drive. Consequences be damned.
I try to hold on to the anger that flashes at the thought, but it’s fleeting and drastically overshadowed by the agony that is grief and her attention-whoring ways. It was easier at first, when things were still raw, to let the rage take over for periods of time. The anger was uncomplicated and simple. Distracting.
And I could really go for a distraction.
I roll onto my back and pull the covers away from my face to stare at the ceiling. I’m still not sure what time it is, but I don’t think I care.
I don’t think I care about anything right now.
One of myfavorite things in the world is when my mom plays with my hair. I think I have it logged as some core memory—something she started doing when I was so little I can’t remember a time before. Sometimes she did it absentmindedly when I was watching TV with her. Other times I knew she did it to help me fall asleep faster, the gentle movement stronger than even any medication with “drowsiness” listed as a side effect. My clearest memories are when she did it to make me feel better though. Like when I had a fever that wouldn’t go away for four days or when I cried after breaking up with Chase Griffin so I wouldn’t go to college “tied down.”
She hasn’t combed her fingers through my hair in so long. I wonder why she’s doing it now? Maybe I fell asleep on her lap and she’s watching a show or reading a book? Whatever the reason, I fight to stay asleep so she doesn’t stop.
Unfortunately, there’s just something about trying to stay asleep that immediately triggers your brain towake up wake up wake up. And my sudden awareness causes my breath to catch and a fresh set of tears to build behind my eyes. I peek them open as the tears slip out and see Matt’s long legs, crossed at the ankles, extending out under me. He must be back from practice. I blink a few times to try to clear the tears, an involuntary sniff coming out louder than a bomb in the otherwise silent room. The hand in my hair stills.
“Ellie?”
I sniff again and then rearrange myself, rolling to face the other direction on Matt’s thigh and look up at him. He doesn’t have a hat today and his hair is unkempt on top. I’d call it bed head if I thought it had gotten that way from sleep. His gray T-shirt looks like it should be retired soon with its fading Bears logo and tiny hole near the collar. It’s probably really soft. My fingers twitch thinking about touching it.
Matt’s hand comes to my wet face, thumb catching the tears that steadily leak out. I focus on his eyes the best I can. They look sad.
“Hey, baby,” he says gently.
“My mom used to do that…” I sniff. “With my hair.” Matt’s face crumples a bit at my words and his thumb stills. “I’m having a bit of a bad day. Called out of work a little ago.”
Matt’s eyes move around my face and he nods slowly. “I’m happy sitting here with you, but I can leave if that would be easier,” he says as he grabs my hand and brings it to his mouth for a soft kiss.
I don’t feel any different—any less sad—but there’s something to be said for not being alone.
“You can stay.”
Matt exhales and kisses my hand again before setting it back down. “Is there anything I can do?” he says.
I hear a desperation in his voice I haven’t before. I wish there was somethingIcould do to makehimfeel better, but I don’t think I’m capable. I shake my head and scoot forward, burying my face in that gray shirt that smells like Matt. I knew it would be this soft. I make a mental note to steal it.
He hesitantly puts his hand in my hair, probably unsure if he should continue something that caused tears only a few moments ago. I hum against his stomach and let the memories flood my mind, accepting the simultaneous torture and bliss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MATT
I’m tryingto pick which suits to take on this trip, but all I can think about is how long ten fucking days is going to feel. Occasionally a string of away games line up perfectly so that it makes more sense to just stay on the road instead of coming back home in between any. So now I’ll be gone for a week and a half at arguably the worst possible time.
Ellie reassured me when I left this morning that she was feeling better. She said she was planning to go to work and would make sure to text me the name of a podcast she heard about before my flight, in case I wanted to listen. Something about sci-fi movie reviews, I think. My heart swells at her thoughtfulness and then thumps so heavily I feel sick. My sweet, sunshine-y girl was so sad yesterday she couldn’t get out of bed.
When I came back over after practice to drop off some hangover food before her shift started, I thought she was just oversleeping. Then I heard her delicate sniff and nearly dropped the takeout bags in my hands. She didn’t even hear me open the door.
The memory of her tearstained face and vacant eyes is going to haunt me every moment of this damn trip. I’m not sure if being there was helpful, but the idea of not being there if shegoes through that again is just…unthinkable. I had to semi-force her to eat and drink.
Does one bad day mean she’s more likely to have another one soon? Or does it kind of reset? Did something trigger it? Are there even rules around this kind of thing? The questions are never-ending.
I feel so far out of my depth it’s almost laughable, except nothing about this is remotely funny. I’m trying to think of what I can do while I’m gone to not feel so damn useless. And to not worry myself sick.
