“Nonsense. Well, I was just making some lunch. Do you want to join me?”
“Okay, but I don’t have a ton of time before work. I’d like to, uh, talk about some things.” I fidget with my fingers in my pockets as we walk into the kitchen.
“Sure, honey. What’s going on? Everything okay with you and Bodie?” There goes that intuition again.
“Yes and no.” I sit down opposite her at the table. “He got called up. To Raleigh.”
She tilts her head, offering me her soft “mom look,” sucking in her lips while she encases my hands in hers. “And when does he leave?”
“A little over a month.”
“Are you thinking of going with him?”
“How can I? My life has always been here. Work, friends,you. How could I leave you all behind?”
“But how could you leave the man you were always meant to be with?”
Our eyes meet and stay connected while I try to process what she’s telling me.
“Mom, why didn’t you tell me you were on the phone with Dad during the accident?”
Her smile fades, her hand covering her mouth as she tucks her chin to her chest. We sit in silence until she regains her composure.
“I always knew you’d ask me. I still wasn’t prepared.”
“What do you have to prepare for, Mom? You knew what I went through, but you were going through it too. You lost the manyouwere always meant to be with. Why would I be upset? You at least had Aunt Lisa come stay to help take care of me.”
“Bryce…” She pauses as the first tear falls down her cheek. “Please don’t.”
“Talk to me, please. We’ve never talked about Dad together. Why? I know you went through the worst period of your life afterward, but what are you so afraid of?”
“I don’t want you to hate me, Bryce. Please.”
“Mom, I could never hate you.” I swallow hard before I say the dreaded words I never thought I could say to her. “The accident was my fault. I’m sorry I took him from you.”
“What?” I lift my gaze and see her wide eyes. “Bryce, how could you think that?”
“How could I not? If I wasn’t screaming for my ball, he would still be here today.”
“Oh, Bryce, honey. The accident wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”
“What?”
“I truly never wanted to have this conversation with you, and I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t forgive me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Bryce, I told your father to pull over and take off his seatbelt to get the ball. He insisted on leaving it on. When he started to get frustrated, I kept telling him to take it off, and we started to argue. It was only for a minute or two, but it upset your father enough to hang up on me. And when the police officers told me he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, I knew it was because I told him to take it off.”
I hate to see my mother in tears, but her condition after the accident makes more sense now. She’s blamed herself all these years—like I’ve blamed myself.
“Why don’t I remember the argument?” My question makes me think back to something my therapist said.
Our memories work in mysterious ways when it comes to trauma. Sometimes memories are wiped out like they never existed. It’s possibly our mind’s way of protecting us from something that could traumatize us further.
“I remember not understanding why he was talking to himself, but I never heard him arguing with anyone.”
“Bryce, he didn’t want to upset you. He kept his voice low but stern, and you were crying for your ball.” She ends in a whisper.
