Nowhe wants to see me? After I spent weeks trying to be there for him? How many times do we have to play this game of cat and mouse with each other until it’s enough?
I scrub my hands over my face and push the few flyaways back with the rest of my hair. I sink my hands into the now room temperature water, cup a handful, and splash it over my face. I let a little bit of water drain and top off the tub with more scalding water before sinking down until my ears are covered.
Am I supposed to respond?
Am I supposed to agree to meet up with him after we both know what happened the last time we saw one another? He doesn’t want to change. He wants to be a broken, hurtful version of the man he is.
My heart clenches with the idea of being in the same room as him again. Between his mom dying and everything he found out afterward, I know he’s reeling from the pressure and weight of it. But what about me? Am I supposed to constantly allow my feelings to be dragged through the mud?
No, my inner voice tells me.You’re not.
If I put my foot down with Webber, it’s only right that I put it down with Colson, too, isn’t it?God.I wish there was a guide with answers telling me what to do. Nothing feels like it’s the right response. Agreeing to see him makes my heart stumble over itself. Telling him no makes my stomach cramp with guilt.
Rather than doing either, I let the water lull me into a near meditative state and ignore his message altogether.
Colson and I are over, and it's time I move on.
FIFTY-TWO
COLSON
A soft whooshingof water rams into my legs. Like a wave rolling onto shore, it wraps around me, wetting my shins and calves. When I look down, there’s a bandage over my left leg from the knee down. It’s submerged in the water but miraculously hasn’t absorbed a drop of it. I reach down and smooth my hand over the scratchy material to see a hole in my hand healed over by marred, reddish skin. It’s the size of a quarter and as much as I want to freak out over it, my body remains calm.
I take a step back. The water reaches for me all over again, stretching to claim my legs. My feet are bare below it, catching on a surface I can’t make out until I look up and see myself in Mom’s house.
Why is there water inside?
I glance around, my eyes climbing the walls and checking the ceiling for a leak. Perhaps a pipe burst, and it’s letting out water. Only, I don’t come across the culprit.
I don’t come across anything.
The house is spotless. The yellow tinge to the wallpaper has even cleared. The futon in the living room is gone. Outside ofthe cookie jar, there’s no dishes or random trash on the kitchen counters. The sink shines back at me.
And yet there are two feet of water bypassing the floor and trim.
A hushed voice travels down the hallway, and I swivel toward it, calling out, “Hello?” My face scrunches in confusion as I try to pinpoint where it comes from. “Is someone here?”
A laugh comes next, and I dart in the direction of the rooms. I check my bedroom, the bathroom, and push open Mom’s bedroom door last.
A silhouette of a person stands in the far corner. “Hello?” I pause. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?” I glance down to find that there’s no water in the bedroom. An invisible barrier is set up at the door frame, keeping it confined to the hall and open living space. I swallow down the uncertainty suddenly coursing through me. “Do you know why the place is flooded?” I ask, needing answers.
The person spins, brown hair sweeping off their shoulder when a clear, beautiful face regards me. “I don’t see any water,” comments the silhouette, stepping away from the corner and closer to the middle of the room. The only piece of furniture inside is the bed, where this person sits down.
I look down to my feet again, not understanding how she doesn’t see it. It’s right fucking there, and by the looks of it, it’s another inch or two higher than it was initially. Wherever the leak is, it’s gotten worse in the small amount of time I’ve been standing here.
“How?” I question, pointing down. “It’s right there. You couldn’t miss it if you tried.”
I catch the end of her shrugging when I glance back up. Her body is small, but she looks strong and healthy. I squint, trying to get a better look at her, but it’s not as bright in the bedrooms as it was in the living room.
“The only thing I see is my son,” she simply says, her lips twisting up into the most genuine smile. A rush of emotion works through my heart and body. I look closer, noting the color of her eyes, how the hazel is so much more vivid than I remember it. How her teeth are as white as the bandage on my leg. How her face is clear from wrinkles and blemishes. There are no bags under her eyes, and her clothes are clean.
It can’t be.
“Mom? Is that you?”
She chuckles, and it takes me back to some of my first memories as a toddler. Before her sickness got in the driver’s seat and took control of the direction of her life. It’s airy and light. The chirp of a baby chick on a Spring day. The smidge of dew coating the grass early in the morning. A kite soaring in the wind with no possibilities of it freefalling to its death.
“Of course it’s me,” she says. “Who else would it be?”
