“I'm sorry, Luna.I just… for a moment, I thought the accident never happened,” she admitted, her eyes dropping to the floor.I stayed quiet, taking out my phone to ask her where she'd like to order from.A smile returned to her face as she mentioned our favorite spot—the same one from that day Zane was here.
Forty minutes later, the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of our pizza.The table was already set with two plates, glasses, and a bottle of wine and coke waiting for us.
As we enjoyed our meal, we shared laughter over the absence of a car.In fact, she was contemplating buying one this weekend since she was heading back to work and needed a way to get around.Our conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving through various topics and memories; my mom recalled certain things vividly that I couldn't quite grasp.
It struck me as the perfect moment to delve into my childhood, as there were gaps in my memory that had been nagging at me.I felt an urge to uncover what had happened during those lost years, as if some pieces of my past had been wiped clean.
“Mom?”I began, catching her attention.
“Yes, Luna?”she replied.
“Could you tell me more about my childhood?I feel like there's so much I don't remember,” I asked, gauging her response.
“What would you like to know?”she inquired.I hesitated, unsure of where to start.I had fond memories of summers spent outdoors, vacations with my parents, my first day of school, and building snowmen with my dad in winter.I remembered my little wooden bed and the pink and white walls of my room.But beyond that, everything faded to black.I couldn't recall when my room had been painted purple or when I got a new bed.
“When did you get me the new bed?And why purple walls?Did I ask for that?”I was eager for her explanation.Her expression shifted slightly, and she seemed to search for the right words, the silence stretching between us.
“We painted it for your tenth birthday,” she said, watching me closely for a reaction.I had no memory of that; I thought it had been done earlier.
She noticed my silence and continued, “We also got you a new bed around that time, the one you still have.I chose the color.You… you weren't very talkative back then,” she added, her gaze drifting.
“What do you mean I wasn't talking?”I asked, bewildered, struggling to recall any memories from that time.
“You really don't remember?”Her tone rose, a hint of disbelief in her voice.
“I'm sorry, Mom.I genuinely don't.I can't explain why, but there's nothing in my mind during that period of time.I remember building a snowman with Dad when I was little and some other memories, family trips, but after that, there's a void,” I confessed, trying to dig deeper but finding nothing.
“I think it was my fault.I worked a lot and often traveled, leaving you alone.Then one day… you just stopped talking.It was as if your mind disconnected from your little body.I didn't know what to do.We even consulted doctors and even a psychiatrist, but nothing seemed to help.Are you sure you don't remember?Maybe you were just upset with me…” she said, her expression filled with distress.
“I really can't recall any of it.Can you tell me more?”I urged, hoping for some clues.
“You didn't speak for four months, not a single word.Not to me, Dad, or at school.Not even to Marco.You refused to play or go outside, preferring to sit at the kitchen table doing homework or spend hours on the couch in the living room.Your dad thought it was just a phase.I decided to change your room, get you a bigger bed and a new desk with shelves, and I
picked purple because it was the color you liked most when you were coloring.”She breathed out, looking at me with a mix of hope and concern, as if expecting me to remember something, but I shook my head, confused.
“And then what happened?”I asked, intrigued.
“Then you finally said 'thank you,' and I just burst into tears.It took you another month, but slowly you began to speak more each day.I don't know what was going on, but I was relieved when everything returned to normal.You petrified me back then,” she said, reaching for my hand.
“I'm so sorry.I wish I could remember.I truly don't know what happened,” I replied, genuinely perplexed.Just then, my dad unlocked the door.
“Good evening, everyone!Is there any pizza left for me?”he called out, a smile on his face as he walked toward us.We had saved him a few pieces, and Mom warmed them up as we continued our conversation at the table for another hour.
Feeling exhausted after saying our goodbyes, I headed to my room.It was dark and chilly, and my phone lay on the bed.I moved closer and picked it up, and found a single message.My heart raced as I opened it, hoping it was from Zane.Instead, it was from Jessica:
“My grandma died.”
Chapter 23
Funerals were undeniably one of life's most sorrowful occasions.It was a gathering of people weeping over a dead body.Death marked the conclusion of everything we held dear, leaving no room for hope or improvement.
Everyone wore black, myself included.But why this color?We often heard that the spirit ascended to a brighter realm, yet here we were, draped in darkness.Black symbolized the opposite: the end, despair, a void devoid of promise.Shouldn't we find joy in the belief that the soul embarks on a new, ethereal journey?
Perhaps my thoughts were sick or misguided.It was the way things were done, and who was I to challenge tradition?I thought I might do well to research this and broaden my understanding before voicing my thoughts.
Death had never been something I pondered much.I was still young; my life was just beginning.I envisioned myself in my later years, sitting on a porch with my husband, surrounded by children and grandchildren visiting during the holidays.I imagined passing away peacefully in my sleep.Yet, so far I had noted that life rarely aligned with our expectations; in fact, it often did the opposite.
I glanced around the Baroque church, I was struck by its beauty, with every detail crafted to perfection.I felt like people back then were much more talented than we were.
