“You’re smothering me,” I say into her onesie.
“Shut up; no I’m not.”
“I’m inhaling rainbow fur.”
“Ugh.” She loosens her grip on me, and I readjust to lay my head on her shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. You’re my person. I’m here for you, always.”
“I know. And I’m grateful. Everything just feels so empty without Belle. I know I’m not alone, but Ifeelcompletely alone.” I exhale, puffing out my cheeks while staring at the rainbow zipper on Skye’s unicorn onesie. I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes, feeling slightly guilty for feeling so alone when I’m so clearly not.
“I kind of remember feeling that way when mom died, but I was eight and I’m an only child so I have no idea what it feels like to lose a sister,” Skye whispers, running her fingers through my loose hair. “I remember feeling safe when you and Tori climbed into my bed after the funeral and stayed for the next three nights. I felt alone, but I didn’t completely lose it because you guys held me together.”
I squeeze her tightly, and she echoes the gesture, holding me together when all I want to do is fall apart. “I’m glad we’re still together.”
“Me, too, babe. Me, too.” Skye’s fingers against my scalp are slowly but surely lulling me toward unconsciousness, and I welcome the becoming oblivion of sleep. “I don’t think Tori’s big butt would fit in this bed with us so it’s a good thing she’s in boss mode downstairs.”
I chuckle, grateful for the reprieve of laughter, though still longing to not feel anything for the night. “You’re probably right. If she tried to climb in here with us I’d suffocate in your rainbow fluff.”
“Whatever. You’re about to have the best sleep of your life cuddled up to this heavenly unicorn.”
“Or the sweatiest.”
We both chuckle. “Or that. Yeah.”
We’re quiet after that. Skye continues running her fingers through my hair and I stare blankly at the bathroom door across the room. We lay there in the quiet room, her steady breathing a calming backdrop to the whirlpool of emotions spiraling in my chest. The tight knot of grief, of loss, of heart-shattering sadness twists tighter with each passing moment. I feel tears well up again, spilling down my cheeks, soaking into the pillow beneath my head.
Skye holds me tighter, her arms a firm, comforting presence around me. She doesn't say anything, doesn't distract from my pain. She just holds me, allowing me space to grieve, to feel the sharp sting of loss.
At some point, exhaustion takes over, and my tears dry up, replaced by a heavy, oppressive numbness. My body feels heavy, my limbs like lead, a strange detachment setting in as I drift on the edge of consciousness. Skye’s warmth, her presence, slowly soothes the chaotic storm in my heart as I fall into dreamless sleep.
After a night of solid,albeit overheated, sleep, I head downstairs for coffee. I can already hear Skye talking to Sunny, and I assume she’s bribing the baby to get her to eat. I don’t hear anyone else in the kitchen, so now I’m confused about where my parents could be at 7 a.m. on a Sunday. It’s not like they’re going to church the day after their daughter and son-in-law’s funeral.
“Open up big, Sunny-bunny.” Skye is airplaning eggs near Sunny’s face, and that sweet baby smile convinces Skye that she’ll actually open for the food. Just as she goes in for the feed, Sunny slaps the fork and giggles as scrambled eggs fall to the floor.
“Having fun?” I ask, standing with my hip propped against the entryway to the kitchen. Skye looks at me, deadpan. “So much. You have no idea.” She stabs another piece of egg and once again attempts to entice Sunny to eat it. “Your parents refilled the Keurigbasket with that dark roast you like. Beware of the hazelnut — it’s gross.”
“Noted.” I walk to the counter and reach up into the mug cupboard, trying and failing to find the mug I always use when I stay with my parents. I look around and spot it, currently in use, sitting on the table next to Skye.
Great, just my luck. Now I'm relegated to using one of those oversized mugs from my parents' collection — the kind that's so roomy the coffee turns lukewarm before I can even take a second sip. Aren't these designed for soup? If I ever felt like chugging a bowl of coffee, I'd at least be practical and use a thermos to keep it hot.
With my coffee made, I snatch an apple from the fruit basket and settle at the table. "Where's Mom?" I ask, attempting — and miserably failing — to prevent apple juice from trickling down my chin.
“I think she and your dad are in the study. When I brought Sunny downstairs they were in the kitchen drinking coffee, and after saying good morning and assuring them I’ve got the kid they stood and walked off down the hall. I think I walked in on a private conversation. They looked super serious.”
Super serious? Can’t we get a break from serious, heavy, depressing, etc. for just one day? “Hm. Okay. Mind if I go find them?”
“No prob. I’ll just sit here and pretend to feed this kid her breakfast.” Sunny is using her highchair tray as a drum, knocking fruit and eggs to the floor and smashing bananas in the process.
“You have fun with that. I’ll be right back.” I stand, coffee bowl in hand, and head toward my dad’s study, hoping to figure out what my parents are working through. I thought they had everything sorted now that the funeral was over, but I stand corrected.
The door isn’t closed all the way, so I don’t feel bad about intruding. “Dad? Mom? You guys in here?” I ask, pushing the door the rest of the way open. They’re sitting on either side of the desk, which is strangely formal for an early-morning conversation.
“Hey, honey, come on in.” Dad gestures for me to sit next to Mom, and the ambiance suddenly feels as though I've walked into an attorney’s office.
“You guys okay?” I venture, sipping my coffee as a shield against the mounting wave of anxiety.
