“Seventeen,” I say, dragging the word out like I was reduced to that age again. “But don’t you think if he wanted to contact me all these years he would have? We were best friends since we were literally five years old. Who just ghosts someone like that when you live in the same town?” My voice rises regardless of how much I’ve said that line.
“What that boy went through was very traumatic, sweetie. You can’t assume you would do anything different if you were in his position. You don’t know what it’s like,” she says, hard as steel and somehow the gentlest woman in the world.
I sigh through my nose, realizing my great-aunt is speaking from experience, to have your health come into question suddenly and without warning. She hasn’t invited any family members or friends to visit her since starting at-home hospice care. Even her sisters or women she’s been best friends with her whole life. When I plead with her to tell me why she doesn’t want to see them, she gives clipped responses.
“I don’t need them to see me like this, baby!” Her accent peaks when she says “baby.” “Let their memory of me be healthy. That is who I was. I don’t want them to remember me like this.”
Her words tighten my chest like a bodice being sewn through my lungs. I’m convinced the only reason she allows me to be here is because my mom “forgot” to tell her I was coming home for the summer. And even so, she’s forced me toleave after I visit her in the morning and doesn’t let me sit by her side until the sun is setting. But I still notice each time she grimaces in pain and tries to hide it.
Last night, her hospice nurse was giving her a shower when I overheard her whimpering in pain. Within seconds of her first cry, Lottie’s hushed voice pleaded with the nurse through the thin bathroom door: “Can you tell my Blair to leave? I don’t want her to hear this.” Then, I heard the nurse protest, worried for Lottie’s safety alone in the shower. But Lottie didn’t relent. “Please. Leave me. I will be fine. Tell her to go.” My throat constricted. I didn’t know what was worse. Hearing her cry for the first time or her weak voice as she begged the nurse to make me leave. I wasn’t supposed to hear that. It was heart-wrenching that her prevailing concern amid her groans of pain was about my experience. Even if she was suffering, she’d do anything in her power to make sure I wouldn’t. Especially on her behalf.
I understand wanting to be strong for the ones you love. I even understand that Lottie thinks it’s more loving of her to protect me from seeing her decline. But doesn’t love go both ways? What is love if not the desire to be there during someone’s lowest moments? What use does it have if we refuse to let the people closest to us share in our suffering when it matters most?
It goes to show I have no idea what being in her position is like. Lying on this mechanical bed all day and night. Knowing your healthy body and all you enjoyed with it is behind you.
We move past the topic of Declan and onto our usual non-talk, which has become everything to me. I’m overly aware that every casual conversation is from a diminishing handful. As usual, her advice has left me with no defenses and much to ponder.
When I unlock the door to the guesthouse, I find myself unable to shake the memories that come flooding back. Looking into Declan’s eyes for the first time in years, if only for a brief moment, reignited emotions I thought I had successfully reasoned my way out of. Lottie’s refusal to let her family see her in this condition reminded me of the door separating Declan and me four years ago. I wanted to be by his side, but he didn’t want the same. I always wanted to give him more than he wanted of me.
“Don’t put too much stock in people, con. They can disappoint you.” My mom’s offhand advice burrowed into my hardwiring. Funny how it was never the life lessons they spent hours lecturing you on that stuck. It was her split-second reactions that formed how I viewed people. It was our circumstances, even. Absent father. Tired, single mother. The conclusion, naturally: Sharing wasn’t safe. Opening up was a risk the emotionally unintelligent made. And, of course, people always leave eventually. If they haven’t yet, it’s because you just haven’t gotten to that part of the story.
Eight Years Ago: Freshman Year
Declan and I escape the bustle of students leaving school and start along our well-worn path toward our homes. It takes us along the town’s cobblestone streets, past the local stores and coffee shops, and ends with a stroll near the ocean’s edge. Close enough to hear the sound of waves crashing on the shore.
“—but I don’t know if Coach will approve my idea. It would be risky, but I think it would be really worth it.” Declan’s voice is the melody we walk side by side to. “Just picturing the look on my dad’s face if we won the game and I got to tell him those routes were my idea?” He shakes his head with a wistful look. “It would be priceless.”
I chuckle at his boyishness. It’s refreshing after a long day of school.
Declan’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out. Looking at the screen he says, “Oh. Speaking of my father. He must have heard a ringing in his ears.”
His previously light demeanor seems to fade as he reads the text on his phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. I just—” He runs his hand down his face, blowing out a breath. “Sorry. It’s just—classic Randall stuff. Nothing is ever enough for the man.” He uses his father’s first name like they’re less close than they are.
“What happened? What did he say?”
“It’s nothing new. He’s just lecturing me on the chores I didn’t do to his liking, and then there’s a list of items I need to help my mom with, and on top of all that, he’s sending paragraphs about how we need to have a serious chat tonight about the importance of every game leading to championships. As if I’m not already spending every waking hour stressing about that while trying to keep my grades high too.”
I go quiet at his frustration. Despite my efforts to fight it, I feel a twinge of jealousy that his father cares enough to bother him so much.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “He only asks so much of you because he believes in you, though. Right?”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Declan scoffs. “It just never ends with him. Right when I think I’ve finally done enough to earn his approval, he gives me a list of critiques instead.”
“Maybe he seems harsh, but I think he’s proud of you. Even getting a long text like that shows he spends tons of time thinking about you. I wish I had that.” I add the last part without thinking.
Declan pauses and turns to look at me. “Is this about something else?”
He looks into my eyes like he’s noticing my fragility for the first time. It catches me off guard and I find myself unable to respond.
“I know we never talk about your dad, but we can,” he offers.
I’d avoided discussing my dad with Declan for years now. Early on in our friendship, he came over to my house and asked if my dad was at work. I told him, “No. I haven’t seen him in a while.” And that was that. He never brought it up again, and neither did I. The longer we went without discussing it, the harder it seemed to start.
At my silence, Declan steps toward me.
