by Tara Sivec
I stare at the headstone and realize it's the only one within my line of vision that doesn't have any flowers on it. It's the only one that shows no sign of anyone having visited it or having carefully picked out just the right decorations to show that this person was missed and someone was thinking about them. I feel guilty that I haven't been back here. I feel ashamed that I haven't let her know how much I've missed her. She should have a hundred different flower bouquets and notes littering her grave. She should have silk flowers and real flowers, flower pots and flower baskets. She was worth more than this barren four-foot by seven-foot plot of land with nothing to show how amazing she was but a patch of sod.
Slowly lowering myself to the ground, I sit in the exact same spot I did a year ago where I let the blood pour out of my veins and into the earth. With the index finger of my right hand, I trace the white scar on the inside of my left wrist as I stare at her picture.
I used to come here all the time after she died. I would come here and talk to her, and every time the wind blew or a bird flew by, I used to imagine it was her trying to answer me. After I got out of the hospital, I looked back on those times when I asked her a question and a windsock hanging from a nearby tree would blow in the breeze, and I called myself all kinds of stupid. The dead don't speak. They don't force a bird to fly by to give you a sign when you're thinking about whether or not killing yourself is a good idea. They don't make the musical notes of a wind chime ring out when you ask if she can hear you.
I pull the crumpled up napkin out of my pocket and stare at it yet again. I trace the cursive handwriting that looks so familiar instead of the scar on my wrist.
"This isn't real. None of this is real," I whisper to the headstone. "I've wanted it too much and my mind is playing tricks on me."
I hold my breath and look around for a leaf to flutter by or a bird to land on the next plot over. Rolling my eyes at my idiocy, I wad the napkin back up in my hand and throw it angrily into the grass.
My mother always believed in spirits. She believed in the afterlife and she believed people would watch over you after they were gone and they'd find a way to communicate. I always scoffed at her when we would discuss it, but she was adamant.
"Don't laugh. Your grandmother is watching over me. Sometimes I can just feel it," she said to me as we sat at the kitchen table eating dinner while my dad was at work.
"Mom, that's just creepy. Do you really think Grandma is like standing over you watching you make cookies or something? Or going to the bathroom? Oh my God, what if she's watching you and Dad when you…you know…" I asked, trailing off with a laugh.
She picked up the kitchen towel that sat on the table next to her plate and whipped it at me, laughing when it hit me square in the face.
"Well then, she'd definitely get an eyeful since you're father and I…you know…all the time. We're like rabbits," she told me with a wink.
"Oh, eeeeew! La-la-la-la-la-la, I'M NOT LISTENING!" I shouted with my fingers in my ears so I didn't have to hear her.
She reached over and tugged on one of my hands so I would pull a finger out of my ear.
"Seriously, though, you don't believe that your loved ones would want to watch over you after they're gone? Make sure you're okay? Just because they're gone doesn't mean they've forgotten about you. I think it's sad to think of a being in heaven and NOT be with the ones you love," she told me wistfully.
"Well, I think it's weird. There are entirely too many things that my loved ones do NOT need to see me doing," I informed her as I took a bite of my spaghetti.
"Just wait. When you're older and wiser like me. You'll change your mind."
I never did change my mind, though. If anything, after she died, thoughts of my loved ones watching over me made me angry. The bible says Heaven is a place filled with unimaginable beauty. It's a place of joy where there are no tears or sounds of crying. If Heaven really exists, and my mother is there, why in the hell would she ever want to look over her loved ones? There's no joy that can come of that. We're sad and we're depressed and we miss her so much we don't know how to go on living. Why would she want to see us like that? Why would she want to step out of the supposed beauty of Heaven and come back to this hell on earth? The answer: she wouldn't. She wouldn't want to watch over me and see me like this. There would be no everlasting happiness for her if she saw what her death has done to my father and me. She would be miserable and her heart would break if she had to be a spirit, fluttering around us day in and day out, seeing how damaged we've become without her.
"I know this isn't real. I wish it was, but it's not. I've wanted to talk to you so badly, so many times…"
I trail off and stare at her picture, trying not to cry. After a few minutes, I push myself up off of the ground and take one last look at her headstone.
"Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I miss you."
I know she isn't really watching over me and she doesn't hear the words I say, but maybe, somehow, she knows. Wherever she is right now, I hope she knows, but probably not.
I turn away and stare angrily at the crumpled up napkin in the grass, refusing to take it with me. It's not real. It was probably just someone playing a trick on me, sticking the knife in a little deeper and twisting the handle. It can't be real.
Walking past the napkin, I head toward my car without a second look back. Coming here was a bad idea, especially today. I thought it would give me answers to the questions plaguing me, but all it did was raise more. I know I can call Meg and she will talk me through this, but my fingers hesitate over the numbers on my cell phone as I unlock my car and get inside.
Slumping back against the seat, I scroll through the contacts in my phone until I get to the z's. A lump forms in my throat when I see his name. More than anything I wish he were here right now, sitting next me in the car, telling me I'm not going crazy and wrapping me in his arms. I should call Meg and let her be my friend. She would say something to make me laugh, and she would know exactly what I should do. The only problem was she never knew my mother. No matter how much I try to explain to Meg what she meant to me, Meg will never fully understand. She never saw us together, she never spent hour after hour with her, week after week, forming a bond with her and making her promises, and she never cared for her or mourned for her or felt an ounce of worry that the promises she made might someday be broken.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the seat, and a small sob escapes my throat.
I pushed him away. He just wanted to protect me, and I pushed him away.
Thinking about all of the time we spent together, each memory fractures my heart into even more pieces because he's not here right now. He lied to me, but I lied to him as well. I was never fully honest with him, and he knew that. He knew that I'd been keeping part of myself hidden from him. Why would he want to confide in me when I couldn't do the same with him?
I need him. I need to know that he was real. I need to feel his hands on my face telling me he loves me. I need to stop keeping everything locked in a vault and just let it all go. I want to break down right now; I want to rage and scream and cry, just like I did a year and a half ago, just like I've wanted to do every day since then, but instead kept it bottled up. I need to grieve. I need to cry for her and remember her, and I need to stop thinking that if I just pretend like she wasn't real and never talk about her with anyone, that it would hurt less. It doesn't hurt less. It hurts more. It hurts so much that I actually contemplated the idea of my mother "speaking" to me through Dr. Thompson and thought it was possible.
I want to pick up my phone and call him, but I can't. Not right now. Not until I can find a way to get through this on my own. He deserves a woman who is whole, not someone struggling to stay sane.
I can see her a few feet in front of me. Her short, blonde hair is blowing in the wind and her back is to me. I smile when I see her walking along the beach and race to catch up with her.
"Mom!"
My shout for her goes unanswered,
but she probably didn't hear me. The waves crash roughly against the shore, and the wind picks up, whipping my own hair around my face so I have to keep pushing it out of my eyes as I run.
I yell for her again and push my legs to carry me faster so I can reach her before she gets to the mountain of large rocks that jut out from the beach and into the water. She can't climb over those before I get to her. If she does, I'll never get a chance to talk to her.
She continues to walk at a steady pace, not turning her head to look back at me no matter how many times or how loudly I yell.
I'm running as fast as I can now; my chest hurts from breathing heavy as I run, and the muscles in my legs are starting to burn, but it doesn't matter. I need to make it to her. I need to push just a little harder and I'll be there with her. If I can just make it to her, I can tap her on the shoulder and she'll finally turn around. I'll finally see her face and her smile.
I've missed her smile so much.
No matter how hard or long I run, the distance between us continues to grow. She's walking and I'm running, and yet I still can't reach her. I don't understand why I can't reach her. Why won't she just turn around?
"Mom, please!" I scream at the top of my lungs.
Digging my feet into the sand, I push myself as hard as I can. My feet smack roughly onto the wet sand, and I can feel rocks and shells digging into my skin but it doesn't matter. The only thing that hurts right now is that she won't acknowledge me. She doesn't understand that I'm right behind her. If she would just turn around and see me, I know she would stop. She would stop and she would smile and she would take me into her arms and never let go.
The tears fall steadily down my cheeks as I watch her get to the rocks and begin climbing over them.
"Mom, stop! Please, don't go! Don't leave me!" I cry.
I'm still running but I'm not going anywhere. I'm not getting any closer. She's too far away now, and I know I'll never make it to her.
She's already at the top of the rocks and making her way down the other side. I watch in horror as her blonde head disappears from sight.
She's gone. She was right here in front of me, and I let her get away.
Glancing down at my feet, I realize I'm not running anymore. Looking behind me to see how far I've come, I don't see any of my footprints in the sand, and I wonder if I ever even left this spot. Did I just stand here doing nothing? It felt like I was running, like I was moving forward, but maybe I never was. Maybe this entire time I was just standing still while everything around me continued to move forward. Looking back at the rocks where she disappeared, I realize I that I don't want to be left behind.
Jerking up in bed on a gasp, I quickly glance around me, trying to get my bearings. When I see the familiar surroundings of my bedroom, I place my hand over my heart and slow my breathing.
The dream felt so real. I can still feel the wet sand on my feet and the smell of the ocean in the air. Reaching my hand up to my cheek, it's wet from the tears I cried while I slept. It's the same reoccurring dream I've had since she died. The dream left me for a little while, but tonight it came back with a vengeance. I lost count how many times I've watched her walk away from me in my dreams while I scream for her. I continue to scream and push myself and hurt myself and the results never change; she doesn't turn around, and she doesn't let me come with her. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. She's gone and she's never coming back. I can't reach her, I can't touch her again, and I can't stop her from leaving. Hurting myself and everyone around me because I can't move on is insane. Expecting my life to get better on its own when I want nothing more than to be with her again is insane.
I reach over to my bedside table and flip on the lamp, my eyes immediately zeroing in on the napkins littering my bed. When I came home from the cemetery, I walked to my door and paused in shock when I saw that it was entirely covered with napkins. Taped from top to bottom, covering every inch, were notes from Zander. I read each and every one of them before carefully taking them all down and bringing them inside with me.
I fell asleep surrounded by them after having read them each a hundred times. Picking up the one closest to me, I stare at the words he wrote in black pen.
Setting it down and picking up another one, I scan the words and think about him sitting at his kitchen table with his head bent over the napkins while he writes the words that are in his heart. I read through each and every one again and again and let his words fill my heart.
I love you because you make me smile.
I love you because you trusted me to keep you safe.
I love you because you make delicious cupcakes.
I love you because you're stronger than you know.
I love you because you're beautiful.
I love you because you make me happier than I've ever been.
I love you because you're not afraid to dream.
I love you because someday, you will write your story…and it will be amazing.
When I get to the last one, I look up and stare at the old ones from him I still have tacked to the bulletin board, scanning each and every one of those as well until I get to one tacked right in the middle. Goosebumps form on my arms and a chill runs down my spine when I see a note that wasn't there when I came home from the cemetery and fell asleep on top of my covers, fully clothed, surrounded by Zander's words.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I get up slowly and make my way across the room until I'm standing right in front of the board. My vision blurs from the tears, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep the sobs in when I realize I'm not seeing things.
How is this possible? I crumpled this up and threw it into the grass at the cemetery.
With a shaking hand, I reach out and touch the note to see if it's real. When I feel the rough texture of the napkin under my fingertips, the hand against my mouth can no longer contain my sobs.
I let everything out that I've been holding in for so long. I cry until I'm taking hiccupping breaths and my head aches and my eyes feel puffy. I stare at the note, the handwriting, and the message, and for the first time in a long time, I laugh through my tears. I laugh because I'm all cried out. I laugh because my heart feels like it's going to burst. I laugh because I'm probably going crazy but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the note, what it says, and the impossibility of it being in my room right now when I threw it away.
Turning away from the board, I race over to my computer, sit down and power it up.
As I wait for my word processing software to load, I wipe away my tears and think about the words Zander said to me that day in the park with Luke.
"It's the bumps and the bruises, the pain and the fear; it's messy and it's real and it's not some perfect little story that can be tied up in a bow. It's exactly what you should write about."
I hear his voice encouraging me to do something I've thought about but never had the strength to do. I see his smiling face in my mind, and it gives me the boost I need to do this.
Placing my hands over the keys on my laptop, I type the first sentence—words that I've repeated over and over in my head. My fingers fly over the keys and the story pours out of me along with more tears. I make it real and I make it raw, and I expose every single part of myself that I've kept locked up tight.
For two days I sit at my computer. For two days I relive every part of the last year and a half, and for once it doesn't break me. I forget to eat, I barely sleep; I do nothing but type. I type until my fingers are sore and my head aches from crying and staring at the small computer screen. I type until the very last word leaves me. When I finish, I look back through what I've done and realize I've written a book. Not a short story, or a play…a book. An entire book about my life.
I know I should eat something, or at the very least take a nap, but I can't. There's someplace very important I need to be, and a nap will have to wait. Hitting the "print" button on my computer, I jump in the shower
while the pages spit out, one after another.
When I'm done with my shower and the printer has released the final page, I secure the stack with a rubber band. Running into my room to grab my purse, I glance quickly at my bulletin board. Taking a deep breath, I remove the one napkin from the center of the board and slide it under the rubber band, running my palm over it and smiling, then quickly turn to my bed and grab the most important one from Zander.
Jumping into my car, I race across town, glancing over at the pages stacked on my passenger seat every few seconds. I pull into the driveway, and when I don't see his car, I try not to let it upset me. Grabbing a pen and the napkin from Zander I brought with me, I quickly scribble a note underneath his words and stick it under the rubber band next to the other napkin from my bulletin board. Scooping the stack of pages up into my arms, I get out of the car. With a deep breath, I walk to the top of the stairs of the front porch. I squat down and place the rubber band wrapped pages right on top of his welcome mat.
