Then, I tell him how much I missed her when I went to college, about our videochat playdates. I tell him how she told me when boys went from having cooties to being cute, how devastated she was when her best friend got her first boyfriend, because she realized she was in love withher. He flinches when I say that, but doesn’t cast judgment, so a point for him.
I tell him about her second heartbreak, this one, a boyfriend I wanted to murder because he was older and cheated on her. I tell him about her playing volleyball and finding herself again. I tell him about her grades and how good she was at school.
I also tell him about her favorite color (blue like the sky right before sunset), her favorite meal (chicken tenders and mac and cheese from the box), and how I still eat exactly that when I miss her. I tell him about her favorite artist (Ed Sheeran) and how even though all her friends loved a different artist, she couldn’t care less. I tell him about how she loved wildflowers because they grow in adversity, and how every time I see them, I think of her and Mom.
Do you remember that? That Mom wanted a flower shop? That she was happiest around them?
The entire time, he blinks fast, fighting back tears and swallowing hard. He doesn’t ask any questions, as he occasionally nods and listens. I continue letting my memories fill the space, caressing my heart and soul, both aching so hard for her.
I miss her.
I knew I did. I miss her every day, but this, talking about her, makes it all suddenly more real.
I tell him about the first time she had a drink. She was only fifteen, and I lost my shit. I tell him about how I was so worried she wouldn’t be able to stop. I flew back home so I could snap some sense into her. She acted like a little spoiled brat, and then it hit me that she didn’t know. She didn’t know that her dad drank himself into oblivion.
He flinches at that memory.
I was so lost in remembering, I forgot the dad I didn’t want her to be anything like washim.
“Sorry,” I mutter, meaning it.
“No need. You’re right.”
“She was light. She was perfect.”
“Sounds like you two were really close.”
Now I’m the one fighting away tears. I don’t mind crying in front of people. I learned how healthy it is to actually let yourself feel it all. I also want others to see it’s okay not to be okay, to cry when needed, so I don’t usually hold back. But now, I don’t want to let them go, because I’m afraid if I do, they’ll never stop running.
“She never missed my games if we were playing ten hours or less from home, which was ridiculous, but she asked to come every time. I always took time to spend with them, as much as I could. Liz and I would go and get shakes and burgers, and Mom tagged along. It was the three of us against the world. Except that one time.”
He cocks his head to the side, and I open my mouth to say something, to continue, to recount the worst night of my life and how it was my fault they died, but the machine starts whirring and making noises, and the nurse comes in.
She starts working, getting him ready to go, but my feet are glued to the ground, slowly coming undone. The only thing keeping me together right now is the chair I’m sitting in and the fact that there’s someone else here.
I waved goodbye and never saw them again.
She asked to hang out, and I said no.
She asked to come with me, and I said no.
I put them in that car and sent them away, right to their deaths.
Me.
I did that.
Jerry may have abandoned us, choosing the bottle over us, but I killed them.
I did that.
Why am I even still mad at him? At least he didn’t cause anyone’s death.
My whole world wasn’t taken away by him.Idid that.
I get up, grabbing my bag and daring to face him again.
“Wait, don’t go. Do you, um, do you want to go back to the center with me?” he asks, pleading behind his brown and green eyes.
