He scraps his foot in the sand, considering. “We need to cheer you up buttercup, there’s a thing on Wednesday at the pier. Nothing special. a few people. You should come.”
I laugh, sharp and mean.Damn it, I can’t help it. “Why?”
“Why not?” He crosses his arm asking genuinely curious, a bit of shock too.
“I don’t know, sorry. I’ve been going through a lot lately.”
“Yeah… I know, if there's anything I can do Sara. Are you okay?” He takes a few steps closer, and I’m not entirely comfortable with his proximity. He actually looks concerned. Either he’s good at faking it, or maybe he’s a decent guy.
“I… It's okay Tyler, we barely know each other… you don't owe me anything.”
“I know I don't, but I'm allowed to remind you, you're not alone, no?” He tilts his head in an endearing way.
“Of course.” I pause, his words sending warmth where I've been left frozen. “Listen Tyler, I’m not good company right now but…” I continue not believing what comes out of my mouth “Wednesday is actually my birthday dinner at La Plage restaurant at eight… You can stop by on your way to the pier.”
“Oh? … How old?” he asks, smiling, and I’m actually taken aback by his unexpected charm.
“Nineteen…” I say, feeling my cheeks redden.What the hell?I need to end this conversation, but luckily, he takes me out of my misery.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll stop by.” He winks, throws his beach towel over his shoulder and waves goodbye as he walks towards his group of friends. I let the silence fall between us and put a soft smile on my face until I turn back to the girls baking themselves under the October sun.We’re spoiled.
When I get back home in the afternoon, Mom is at the kitchen counter, surrounded by open mail and a glass of Chardonnay. We've luckily been doing a lot better. I haven't found the strength to fight, and my boyfriend is dead.
She doesn’t look up when I come in, just says, “Did you eat?”
“I didn’t actually,” I tell her, as the rich aroma of her Moroccan cooking envelops me. The scent is a tantalizing mix of spices and warmth that wraps around me like a comforting embrace.
Mom was born in Morocco before moving to France in her twenties, and she knows how to cook. The kitchen is her canvas, particularly the fragrant tagine or sizzling Merguez sausages, masterpieces that speak of her heritage. Each time I catch a whiff of her creations, it is as if being hugged by her love. A love that she doesn’t know how to communicate half the time, but I’m good at shoving uncomfortable memories into those little boxes in my head.
She circles the rim of her glass with a red-painted nail. “You should see someone, Sara.”
“What do you mean?” I drawl.
“I mean… talking to a therapist.” She frowns with concern.
“I'm fine,” I mumble with more anger in my voice than I want.
Her mouth twitches. “It’s not about that. It’s just —” she stops, picks up an envelope, and sets it down again.
“I’ve done and said things that are irreparable, Sara, and… I don’t want you to feel alone. I know what you’re going through, but I’m an adult and I’ve inflicted too much pain on myselfafter your brother. You’ve grown beyond your years, and I hate…hate the pain you’ve already had to go through... talking helps sometimes.”
“It doesn’t.”
“What about with me?” Her voice is small, a plea for forgiveness that she may have lost her way along the blurry lines of grief and being a mother.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. You’re the only one who can understand me, which is why I was desperately needing you, and I love you, I do, but you’re also the one that...”
She stares at her wine as if the answer is somewhere at the bottom. “Who has hurt you because of it,” she whispers. “I know… I am — so sorry.” She readjusts her posture and glances at me. “It seems you had a better day today?” she asks quickly, and I can hear the apprehension in her voice.
“Actually, Mom, today might have been my first okay day in what feels like a long time.” I pause, staring into her teary eyes. “So, are you going to feed your daughter or what?” I force a chirpy smile, and she giggles, her laugh sounding like a soft veil of hope wrapping me all around.
Going to bed, I feel hopeful. I lay there with Joe’s hoodie pulled over my face. I used to think grief was a hole, something you had to crawl out of. It’s not; it’s a tunnel you have to walk through with stones attached to your back that will crowd out your organs, unbalance you and change the pressure in your head. You become a version of yourself that is learning to survive by carrying grief as an unfamiliar weight, an invisible love. You can’t see it and you can’t touch it, but every breath you take will hold on to that love. Until it becomes familiar again, just never quite the same. As I fall asleep, I promise myself I’ll never let go of love, ever again.
In the morning, I make coffee and stand at the window, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from an unknown number and my heart feels uneasy.
UN: U alive?
Me: Depends. Who is this?
