by Lacey Dailey
The recliner screams in protest as it rocks forward, and I hear Reggie’s feet hit the ground. “Oh God, no. Rumor, your mother was diagnosed with depression a decade before she ever met your father. Your presence had absolutely nothing to do with it.”
“But I’m broken.”
“You’re what?”
“Broken.” I lift my nub. “My dad swore to me my mother’s absence had nothing to do with it but what if he was wrong? What if having a––"
“I’m going to stop you right there.”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s not.” His tone is tired. “Rumor, if you want me to be perfectly honest––"
“I do.”
“She thought it was her fault. Your mother, I mean. When the first scans of you came through, Allison thought that your lack of a hand had something to do with the anti-depressants she was taking when she fell pregnant with you. Something about tetragons.”
“That’s highly unlikely. I’ve done a lot of research regarding this nub, and the chances that she caused it are like one and five hundred thousand.”
“It took a few months and dozens more doctors to get her to believe that, but she did eventually believe it, Rumor. When you were born, there was no doubt in her mind that you were exactly who you were supposed to be. She was smitten with you, kid. Your father had to pry you away just to get his chance with you.”
My eyes reopen, and I trace patterns with my eyes using the bumps in his ceiling. The first object I trace is a rose for my mother, and if she were here right now I’d give her a real one, then a dozen more after that.
“Depression is a complicated disease, son. I never knew what was going on in Allison’s mind at any given moment but I know her decision that day had nothing to do with you.”
“She looks so happy though. In that photo on your mantle. She looks happy.”
“She was, I’m sure.” He takes a drawn-out breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is a murmur. “Allison used to describe her depression as though she was the television and somebody else had her remote. Channels were always getting switched and she couldn’t keep up. Simon was convinced his love would be her savior but depression doesn’t work like that. Love isn’t a cure-all.”
I wish it was.
“She wore an invisible backpack. On the days it was full, she stayed in bed, unable to carry it. On the days it was empty, she gave out laughs like free candy. And you know what, Rumor, I’d never seen her backpack so empty for so many days in a row until you were born.”
“You don’t have to bullshit me.”
“I’m not bullshitting you, kid. It’s the truth. She loved you.”
I don’t want her to be gone.
“I never had the chance to love her back the way she loved me.” The tears are hot as they leave my eyes, and I decide those ones are for her. “I wish I could’ve met her.”
“I’ve got pictures and memories for days, son. It’s not the same, but you can get to know her through me. I’d be happy to teach you about her.”
“I’d like that.” The tremor in my voice is faint but steady, a cause of emotion seeping through the numbness. “I’d like that a whole lot.”
“Whenever you’re ready though. It can be a gradual thing.”
“I’ve got some questions now, some about my mother and some not.”
“Shoot.”
“Do I have any cousins? What’s my grandmother like? Did you know it was me that first day in the motel? How come you never visited when I was a kid? Does anyone else in this family have congenital amputation or is it just me? How did my parents meet? Did you get along with my father? Do you know why my mother named me Rumor?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He laughs, and I wonder if it sounds like hers. “One at a time, yeah? We can sit here all night and go through them all until you fall asleep with your face in the carpet but let’s start with one for now.”
Easy. “Did you know it was me when we met?”
"I was fairly certain, yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It seemed as though my silence was what Simon wanted. Allison’s death broke all of us but it ripped your father apart entirely. He was in denial, talking about her as if she were still around and speaking about the future as if she would be in it. When he got offered a job in Chicago, he almost didn’t go. He never said but I think he didn’t want to leave your mother behind. Eventually, he decided to go. He sent pictures at first, invited us to your first birthday.”
“And then what?”
“He began to rebuild his life without her. I think, maybe, he struggled with things that reminded him of her. He shut us out, kid, and back then I was too pissed to argue. I should have fought to see you.”
“Do you think that’s why he never spoke of her? Or got married?”
“It’s possible. Your parents loved each other, Rumor. It was the kind of love I didn’t have with my own wife. The kind of love others are jealous of. Your parents weren’t married when you were born but that didn’t mean Simon didn’t want it. It didn’t mean he wasn’t planning a proposal.” His next words are low and come out cracked. “I will never forget the moment your father walked up to your mother, asleep in that casket, and slipped a ring on her finger.”
That’s why he never dated.
Because he always belonged to her.
And, God, I want to be furious with him. Scream curse words at the sky while shaking my fist, demanding to know why he kept her from me. Shout and ask him why he thought I didn’t deserve to love her like he did.
But I’m not furious. Because grief changes people. It sculpts you into a person better equipped to handle the pain, and that’s what my father spent his life doing. Handling pain. And though I never witnessed his tears or saw the quiver of his chin, I know they must have existed.
The same as my tears are now, his were for her.
“Next question?” Reggie asks.
Next question. “Do you know why my mother named me Rumor?”
“She named you after herself.”
“Huh?”
“Allison’s middle name was Rumer. Spelled differently, but she thought spelling your name with an O was manlier. Your grandmother was obsessed with this author named Rumer Godden, and that’s how Alise got her middle name. I chose her first name.”
“I… I share her name?”
“Yep. Naming you was the first thing she did after finding out you were a boy. She said she wanted you to have a piece of her wherever you went. So I suppose, in a way, you had a piece of her with you all along.”
All at once the pain hits. Like a flip was switched, forcing me to feel everything. I sit up and gasp, digging at my chest to set my lungs free from whatever has them constricted.
Sobs wrack my body, and the force of them has me coughing and sputtering.
The pain is brutal and familiar.
Grief.
I want to be numb again.
27
Bye Bye Butterfly
Alma
What I love most about Rumor are the kisses he gave me–– not the ones on the forehead, or the cheek, or the shoulder. The ones he gave me from a mile away.
The butterfly kisses, gifted to me with his smirk, and his laugh, and the tips of his fingers when they grazed the edge of my jaw.
He was my butterfly, and the kisses he granted me with were exclusive.
But there’s this thing about catching butterflies–– as soon as you get close enough, they’re gone.
28
This Is Real
Rumor
With loss comes praise. In the days after my father’s death, everyone around me was quick to applaud me for my strength, comment on how tough I was, and congratulate me on my ability to survive after a tragedy.
As if I had a choice.
It’s not optional–– surviving grief.
It’s just something you have to do because, really, there is no alternative.
B
ut what they don’t tell you is that survival is painful. It is exhaustion. It is a decrease in appetite and the inability to wash your hair. It is a full body ache after the numbness wears off and an abundance of tears leaves you dry.
Surviving is opening your eyes to a world that took love from you, and finding a way to be grateful for it anyway.
The dark sheets I’m wrapped in are warm, and though they’re damp with fresh tears, they’re safe. The cocoon I've built myself is free of bad news and pipe dreams. There are no deaths allowed. No liars permitted. No violins to be heard and no feelings to be felt.
It is silent. Surviving is my only expectation.
I plan to stay here forever.
I’m a jackass for letting Reggie limp up the staircase three times a day to feed me and make sure I haven’t stroked out. But I’m also too exhausted to vacate this bed. Opening my mouth to bite into the sandwiches he leaves me is a chore in and of itself. The slightest of movement exhausts me.
It’s strange. The more I sleep, the more exhausted I become. And I don’t get bored or restless. I just become more content. More sated.
The sharp knock on the door is my prompt to pull the sheet over my head. The click of the doorknob sounds and I wait for Reggie’s feet shuffling across the carpeting to accompany it. He’ll leave a plate on the nightstand like he always does, and then he’ll leave. Neither of us speaks because there’s nothing left to say. All that needed to be said was said that night in his living room. He kept his promise. He answered every question until my heart could no longer handle answers and I’d fallen asleep on the floor.
I haven’t spoken since.
My only companion is the whoosh of the ceiling fan above me, and the sound my tongue makes when I use it to scrape bread from the roof of my mouth.
Reggie clears his throat and I wait for the distinct clank of the plate hitting the wooden surface. It doesn’t come. What does come is a dip in my bed when a body settles next to mine. I flinch away from the hand that rests on my back.
This isn’t the plan.
This isn’t what we do.
“So, do you leave this bed to piss or you got a bucket in here somewhere?”
The sound of his voice is a roundhouse kick to the gut. I gasp and curl in on myself, shielding my heart from any more blows.
I’m covered in bruises, and I can’t take anymore. Not from real life and not from lucid dreams that give me my brother and then snatch him away as soon as I emerge from my cocoon.
“Man, your grandpa makes some bomb ass lasagna. Want some? I brought you a plate. Also grabbed you four slices of garlic bread because I know you're a slut for some bread. By the way, are we calling him grandpa now or is he just Reggie?” Something stabs at my solar plexus. “You gonna free yourself from that blanket trap or am I gonna have to come get you?”
He pokes me again and again and again until I reach behind me and capture his wrist through the sheets. His bones don’t disintegrate in my palm and the remains don’t sprinkle through the cracks in my fingers like they have so many times before.
This is real.
“J... Josh?”
My vocal cords sound like they’ve been put through a blender but he must’ve heard my sad attempt at communicating because his hand finds my shoulder and squeezes.
“Hey, brother.”
“Hi.” I manage to say right before a dry sob rips my throat raw.
“Christ, dude. You sound like a frog giving a blow job. Do they not have water in Michigan?”
I pull the sheet from my wet face. “This whole state is surrounded by water, dipshit.” Craning my neck against the pillow is all it takes. Our eyes connect and the relief I feel is imminent. His signature smirk and the small mole beneath his right eye are familiar sights, and nothing feels more like home. “Shit. I thought you were a dream.”
“I get that a lot.” Pushing his hair back with both hands, he winks at me. “From the ladies, I mean.”
“You’re an idiot,” I say.
Translation: I missed you, and I’m happy you’re here.
The mole in his skin moves when he frowns at me. “You smell like roadkill. Seriously, bro, when was the last time you showered?”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s disgusting.
My shrug is noncommittal and I use my fingernails to file away the dried tears on my cheeks. “Josh, I––"
“Rumor, don’t.” A lock of hair falls across his forehead with a small shake of his head. “I know everything. You don’t need to relive it. I’m not here to break you down, I’m here to put you back together.”
I wrap my fingers around the edge of the sheet and pull it up past my nose. The action isn’t enough to hide my somber face and I lay here in an attitude of stillness. “What if I don’t want to be put back together?”
“Well.” Rubbing his hands together, he gives me a pat on the cheek. “That’s just too damn bad.”
“Josh, I really don––"
“I know, man.” His tone is gentle, his gaze steady. He’s got his shoulders rolled backward, stretching the T-shirt he put over his head this morning. Determination is chiseled in the lines of his face, piloting the inferno behind his eyelids. The same inferno that’d ignite right before he put his knuckles in a kid’s mouth for calling me a retard.
“Rumor, I know getting out of this bed is going to suck but it needs to happen. You need to shower. Your hair looks like a rat’s dumping ground, and I can’t imagine the shit that’s growing in your armpits.”
“It’s not that bad.” I sit up, and the action fuels a protest from my muscles. With a grimace, I peel the sheet from my body, internally gagging at the line of sweat that keeps my skin and the cotton connected. I drop the fabric into my lap.
Josh recoils. “Dude.”
“Okay, so, it’s bad.” Dragging my hands down my face, I’m not sure if the moisture that meets my palms is tears, sweat, or grease. “What day is it?”
“Saturday. According to Reggie, you haven’t left this room in five days.”
“That’s not true. Believe it or not, I have walked across the hall to use the bathroom. I don’t have a piss bucket. I’m not a heathen.”
“Yeah? When was the last time you brushed your teeth?”
“You know what, Josh? Piss off!” My jaw pops when I clench it. “Do you know what the last few months have been like for me? Life has literally beaten the shit out of me. Over and over and over again I have been pounded into the ground and thrown into walls, and goddamn it I can’t take it anymore, Josh!”
A shadow crosses his face, and I don’t know if it’s cause of my outburst or the vision I just painted him.
“If you want me to shower, I will. Whatever. I’ll wash my damn armpits and brush the fuzz off my teeth. But as soon as it’s over, I’m getting right back in this bed.”
Our eyes meet, his resolve against mine. Chomping on the inside of his cheek, he shakes his head. Irritation ripples along my spine and I stiffen when he leans close to me. We’re nose to nose and I feel the puff of air when it leaves his nostrils.
“The hell. You. Are.” The last word is a snarl that makes his lips curl. With a smack of his lips, he climbs off the bed.
I flash him the deuces and flop backward, properly cocooning myself. “Peace out.”
“Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me.” Goosebumps break out across my skin when he rips the sheet away. I reach for it but he grabs it and uses both arms to wad it into a ball and toss it over his shoulder. “Get your ass up.”
“Screw you.”
He throws a hand over his heart and looks over his shoulder as if there’s somebody else standing at the foot of my bed, stripping me of my only comfort.
“Screw. You,” I spit, and his reply is to roll his neck and pop all ten of his knuckles.
My temper is rising up my throat like a volcano right before an eruption. “Josh, I’m not––What the hell!”
His hands are wrapped around my ankles
and he’s tugging. His fingernails dig into my flesh and a grunt leaves his chest with each pull. “Get out of the bed, Rumor! Stop acting like a punk ass bitch!”
A punk ass bitch?
Oh, hell no.
The roar that rips from my damaged chest is animalistic. My eyes feel black inside my head and when he lets go of my feet to pound on his chest, I charge. Rolling off the bed, I free my legs of the throw blanket tangled in them and kick the damn thing across the room. My gaze claws him like a set of talons, but he lifts his chin and closes the distance between us like he doesn’t feel the bite of my anger in his skin.
His lips start flapping but I halt his words with a fist in his shirt. Backing him against a wall, my look of disdain should have him cowering but it only makes his eyes more thunderous.
“You son of a bitch!” His back ricochets off the wall with a thud and I press my forearm across his chest to hold him there. My words are poisonous as they drip from my lips and snake their way to his ears. “What the hell is your problem? Huh? My dad is dead, shitface! My dad is dead. I slept on a mattress that smelled like horse piss before exchanging that for a gas station bathroom all so I could find my mother, who also happens to be dead. I’m living in a house with a grandfather I never knew in a bedroom that belonged to my dead mother. The girl I’m in love with broke my goddamn heart, and I can’t stop myself from missing her every time I dare breathe her name. I have no money, no perfect plan for the future, and I think I’m going to fail that stupid ass GED test! I am a mess, Joshua! I am a mess, and I’m scared, and I don’t want to hurt anymore.”
“Rumor...”
“How dare you?” I’m panting now, choking on my words, and tasting salt on my tongue. “How dare you say that to me?”
“Rumor...”
“Everybody keeps leaving me! My dad, my mom, Ace––”
“Rumor!” He captures my head in his hands, spreading his fingers across my temples. Our foreheads meet the same moment our eyes do and he whispers, “Breathe.”
