“I wish it wasn’t true. I’d give anything,anything,to have her back.” My hand trembles in hers as I rub my thumb across her hand, attempting to soothe a fraction of her pain.
After a few minutes of silence, my mom wipes the tears from her face and turns back in my direction, her gaze fixed on me. “Has anyone told Jake? Where is he?” she asks, looking around like he’ll pop out of hiding any second.
“No one can reach him. The hospital tried. I’ve called and texted, but he’s not responding. I don’t think… He doesn’t know yet.”
“He can’t hear about it from anyone but us. We’re the only family he has left. I just… I can’t believe she’s gone. He losthis dad, now his mom. Oh my God.” Her hand moves to her mouth, pressing against her lips as she squeezes her eyes shut. “You have to… You have to call him again. Keep calling until he answers.”
“I will, but I can’t make him pick up his phone,” I say, so exhausted that exasperation colors my tone. I’m doing my best, yet she doesn’t see it. She never does.
“Keep trying, Katherine. He has to hear this from you,” she repeats adamantly before closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep.
After taking a moment to breathe, I send another text to Jake, not like it’s going to matter since he hasn’t responded to the previous dozen. I let out a soft groan, frustrated by the situation and my extremely limited options. There’s no other way to get hold of him. He could be traveling or out of the country. He needs to answer his goddamn phone like a fucking adult for once. My head drops into my hands as I ponder how this day could possibly get any worse.
The next few hours are a blur of nurses and doctors coming in and out of my mom’s room. She becomes coherent when someone enters the room and quickly falls back to sleep after they leave. Meanwhile, I’m running on fumes, wearing the same clothes from yesterday, minus the heels after I convinced one of the nurses to give me a pair of the heinous beige grippy socks the hospital forces patients to wear. I definitely look like a hot mess express, and for once, I don’t give a shit about it. Lack of sleep and living on a few stale granola bars from my purse, combined with bitter hospital coffee, has me on the brink of collapse.
The only good news in the past twenty-four hours is my mom became stable enough around 8 p.m. to move to a regular room, hopefully providing her with fewer interruptions and better rest. No one can get any quality sleep in the ICU. Weirdly, the move gives her a burst of energy, and she begins barking out a list of things for me to bring her from home.
“Make sure you get my cozy pants in my third drawer. My phone charger, Kindle—you’ll need to get that charger, too. I want my toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash. My teeth feel like they have fur on them. Completely unacceptable,” she rattles off without taking a breath.
“Okay. Anything else?” I ask, compiling a list in my notes app. I can’t forget anything, or she’ll be impossible to deal with.
“Go home and take a shower. You look horrible. I’m sure you haven’t eaten or slept much. Come back tomorrow with my things,” she says matter-of-factly, like she didn’t insult me and ask for help at the same time.
I’d love to pretend her behavior is a result of her injuries, but this is just who she is. She’s direct and doesn’t care if it bothers you or causes significant self-esteem issues and anxiety. In her mind, constant criticism toughens you up. Allows you to become the best version of yourself, or at least that’s what I’ve told myself over the years. It’s the only way to survive the never-ending comments she makes about every aspect of my life.
“We also should talk about your wedding plans. I’m sure you’re already behind. Can’t let this derail the wedding. I won’t let you do that to Brian.”
My head snaps in her direction, unable to believe what I just heard. “Mom, you almostdied. My wedding should be the least of our concerns,” I reply, attempting to control the utter shock on my face. She can’t be serious. Her recovery is going to take months. Judydied. How does she expect me to focus onplanning the wedding? Why would she even think it’s a priority right now?
“I’m well aware of what happened. None of it changes the fact that you’re getting married in a year. We can’t let Brian slip through your fingers. Men like him don’t grow on trees, and I refuse to let you give him one reason to change his mind,” she states firmly, her lips pressed together in a tight line.
That didn’t take long. I was naive to assume the accident might give me a few days of reprieve from hearing how fickle relationships are. In her eyes, Brian is absolute perfection. Handsome. Successful. Close to his family. Meanwhile, I’m the girl who can never do anything right. The one who always falls short. Constantly disappointing her. One wrong move away from ending up alonelike her.
“You’ll also need to call the funeral home to get the ball rolling for Judy’s funeral. I expect you to lead the organizing until Jake shows up. Probably once he’s here, too. That boy has never been reliable or good with details.”
“Oh…okay. I’ll add that to my list.” Never thought I’d be planning a weddinganda funeral at the same time from my childhood bedroom. “Anything else?” I ask, hoping she’s done because I can’t handle adding anything else to my plate.
“Go home and don’t come back until the morning with everything we discussed. Can you do that?” she says, devoid of any real emotion.
Although I’m thirty-four, her words and tone make me feel like a young child being scolded by their parent, causing my remaining energy to drain out of me. The relief I felt at seeing her alive is replaced by the gnawing sensation that’s present whenever I talk to her. Deep down, I know she doesn’t treat me well. Never has. But she’s the only family I have. Maybe things would’ve been different if my dad hadn’t left us years ago.
“Yes, I can do all of that,” I confirm, resigned, grabbing my phone charger and putting it in my bag.
“Don’t forget to keep calling Jake. I don’t care how many times you’ve already tried. You can’t stop until you get hold of him. He needs to hear the news from you. It’s unacceptable you haven’t reached him already.”
Of course it’smyfault Jake isn’t answering his phone. It doesn’t matter that she knows I haven’t spoken to him in years. “Okay, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, gently kissing her cheek, then walking out of her room.
Exhausting is the only way to describe the past twenty-four hours. The last ten minutes may have aged me five years.
six
Standing outside my childhood home,chilled by the brisk winter air, an avalanche of memories flies at me. Some good, others not so much. Opening up my first Holiday Barbie on Christmas morning when I was six, shocked to get my top gift on my list. Seeing my parents fight on the front porch as Dad’s suitcase sat beside his feet, then he hugged me and promised to see me soon. I stood in the yard as he drove away, wondering what I could have possibly done wrong for him to leave. The countless times running back and forth between my house and Jake’s. Sprawling out on his couch, watching action movies, while we consumed our weight in popcorn. And the last time I saw him—when he came home for a couple of days about a year after he moved away. It had become harder to talk to him at that point because of his schedule, but he promised it would change. Another disappointment. It ended up being the last time we spoke. He stopped returning my calls and texts, cutting me out of his life completely without ever telling me why.
These two quaint, almost identical houses are where the best and worst moments of my life have occurred. It feels fitting to be back here while I’m experiencing another devastating blow.This town makes it nearly impossible to keep my emotions in a box, hidden from the world. It brings out my biggest insecurities about being unlovable. Unwanted. Unworthy. How could it not, considering two of the most important men in my life said goodbye to me here without any remorse? Never to speak to me again.
After shaking my head, I force myself to climb the front porch stairs and attempt to compartmentalize what I’m feeling. Separate what happened in the past from my current reality.
Inside, everything looks the same as it did during my childhood, like walking through a portal back into the 1990s. My room remains practically untouched, a museum of my life before college, with academic awards on the shelves, photos from high school tacked on my bulletin board, and my bright pink comforter adorning my neatly made bed. Not a single thing looks out of place from when I moved out more than fifteen years ago. My bathroom even has the same Bath & Body Works lotions that I was obsessed with in high school under the sink. Can lotion go bad? I wouldn’t mind smelling like cucumber melon again.
