The Days Without You: A Story of Love, Loss, and Grief

by Skylar Wilson

  Kylie heaved a sigh, wiped her eyes with a trembling hand, and exited the pew, a wrinkled leaf of paper tucked into her palm. Stepping up to the pulpit, she smoothed the paper flat and inhaled sharply.

  “My mother.” Her voice quavered slightly. “She was the strongest, kindest person I’ve ever known. I consider myself lucky to have had not only a parent, but a friend, like her. She always encouraged me to be the best version of myself that I could be, encouraged me to challenge myself, to face new adventures, but to always be true to myself.” She took another sharp breath and swallowed, her eyes darting around the building. “I would selfishly give anything to have just one more day with her, one more hour to say goodbye, but I know she’s not in pain anymore. She’s with God and my father now, and I know she’s happy there.

  “She taught me kindness and patience. She taught me to follow my dreams and to never give up on them, nor to give up on love and happiness.” Her eyes darted to Adam. “Mama, you will always be missed, and I will always be your sweet pea.”

  Wiping away a few stray tears, she stepped down, hurried back to the pew, and slumped between Adam and Cat, burying her face in her hands.

  The pastor smiled sadly and ended the service with, “Let us cherish life while we still have it and cherish our loved ones while we still have them with us.”

  Several people approached Kylie to offer their condolences, shaking her hand or giving hugs or kissing her cheek. A few shook Adam’s hand, and Cat knew several faces and gave a few hugs. Once the church had cleared, Kylie made her way up to the altar, to the urn of ashes. She picked it up, holding it out in front of her. An odd sort of look came to her eyes, as though she were filled with a mixture of relief and sadness. Adam stood in the pew, watching quietly.

  Cat patted his arm. Her cheeks were pink, her makeup smudged. “I need you to help me make sure she’s okay,” she said in a quiet voice. “When her dad died, she completely shut down. She even stopped talking to me for a few months.”

  “Sarah asked me the same thing,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “She asked me to promise that I wouldn’t let Kylie shut down after she died.”

  She gave a slight nod then turned to watch as the pastor spoke a few quiet words to Kylie. She nodded a few times, mumbled, and stepped down, cradling the urn. Her red eyes looked dry for the first time this morning.

  “Are you ready to go?” Cat stepped out of the pew and put an arm around Kylie’s shoulders.

  She stared down at the urn in her arms. “Yeah.”

  Kylie followed Cat and Adam outside into the sunshine. Even the warm rays of sun on her face had little effect on the numbness in her chest as she silently walked to Adam’s truck.

  “Is there anything else you want to do?” asked Adam.

  Several moments passed. “No, I just want to go home,” she said, somewhat curt, and climbed into the truck’s cab without another word.

  Adam and Cat exchanged glances. With a shrug, he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the engine.

  While Adam drove, Kylie stared at the passing scenery. Houses and lawns and trees crawled by. The urn sat in her lap, and she kept her hands around it. The rearview mirror reflected Cat’s pickup. Cat was worried—Kylie could see it in the scrutiny in her eyes whenever she watched Kylie, in the inflection of her tone when she spoke. Mostly, though, apathy had taken over. Perhaps it would pass when her grief wasn’t so fresh.

  No sooner had they arrived at the house than Cat headed straight into the kitchen to busy herself with heating the kettle on the stove, while Kylie and Adam seated themselves at the kitchen table.

  “What now?” Kylie mumbled, staring at her hand as Adam held it.

  “Just try to go back to a normal life. As normal as it’ll ever be, at least,” Cat said over the tinkling of mugs on the counter.

  Kylie glanced at Adam, who nodded. “Go back to work, hang out with us. Keep yourself busy.”

  A normal life? That seemed like a distant dream. How could there be any sort of normalcy again? And the idea of returning to work was growing sickening. How would she put up with Bruce’s harassment or Amanda’s criticism? The thought of it all made her crinkle her nose.

  Cat set a mug of tea in front of Kylie. She glanced up to see Cat’s eyes holding an expression that looked an awful lot like pity. Adam squeezed her fingers, and she flicked her gaze to him. An awkward silence fell, and all Kylie could think to do was take a big gulp of the hot tea, scalding her tongue and making her eyes water.

  “I think I just want to take a nap,” she muttered, looking down into the mug with a grimace and clicking her tongue in pain.

  “Kylie,” said Cat in a tone that was both sympathetic and patronizing. “Are you sure? Will you be okay?” she pressed.

  Kylie stood, taking her mug and dumping the tea in the sink. Standing there, she stared blankly at the steam rising from the sink while the amber liquid swirled down the drain. In all honesty, she didn’t know if she would be okay. She couldn’t answer. The sea of grief still engulfed her, and she still trudged through the days, one second after another. No foreseeable future awaited her; only one second at a time was bearable.

  Adam rose—looking somewhat hurt or concerned—and raised his brow. His expression, or perhaps the rejection in his eyes, made her feel guilty as he stepped toward her. Her eyes darted up to him, and she took both his hands and forced the most genuine smile she could muster. It felt shallow.

  “Thank you for coming to the service with me,” she said.

  “Call me if you need anything,” he offered, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

  She only offered a nod.

  I can't do this, not today.

  Grits had been slow for a Sunday night. Between taking orders, filling drinks, wiping down tables, and serving plates, Adam stopped now and then to listen to the solo singer on the corner stage. Propped on a stool, the young man strummed and picked at his acoustic guitar while mumbling low lyrics into the microphone. Adam leaned against the bar as he watched for a moment. The guy wasn’t horrible, he thought; a little clearer with his words and he wouldn’t be half bad.

  Someone tapped his shoulder, and he turned to face Clark’s scowl. Adam muttered an apology and buzzed back into the kitchen to pick up a large tray of plates.

  A few days had passed since Sarah’s funeral. Kylie had sent him text messages every day so far, sporadically in between naps or watching television, but he had yet to see her face-to-face. Her messages were short and clipped, but he was still relieved that they were at least communicating regularly. Hope crept in that she wouldn’t shut him out.

  After the last patrons left, he turned to head into the kitchen but stopped at the gruff, heated sounds of Clark arguing with the singer. Their voices rose, loud enough that Adam found it hard not to listen.

  “That’s not what we agreed on!” he heard the musician yell.

  “There’s nothing on paper. We didn’t make enough to pay you that tonight.”

  Adam grabbed the mop and bucket from the storage closet, humming loudly to himself, but it was a fruitless effort to block them out.

  “Forget this place, then. I can do better anyway!”

  The young man stormed out, slamming the door behind him, causing the glass pane to rattle in the doorframe.

  Adam continued to mop, still humming loudly and working to move the mop under all the table legs. Clark stood at the front podium, mumbling to himself.

  “Great…this is just great.” He pecked furiously at the computer. He paused. “Adam?”

  “Yeah?” He looked up from dunking the mop in the bucket.

  “You play, don’t you?” Clark’s face contorted, as if pained to ask a favor. “That was supposed to be our act for next Saturday, but he obviously won’t be coming back. Could you—could you fill in?”

  Adam’s chest inflated, but he fought down his eagerness. “Sure,” he said, hoping to sound calm and cool.

  “A solo act? Enough for a couple
hours?”

  “Yes.”

  Clark considered him, his lips pressed into a thin line. “All right, you can play on Saturday. Samantha can wait tables to fill in.”

  Adam restrained himself from whooping in excitement. He was finally going to play a solo night! Samantha, he knew, would be mad about having to wait tables, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Instead, he cleared his throat, grinned, and said, “Great. I’ll bring my equipment around 6:30 on Saturday.”

  The night was warm and muggy, and even the air felt sticky for early May. He wiped his forehead and pushed up the sleeves of his button-down. It had been several hours since he’d last heard from Kylie; she was probably asleep. Tomorrow would see her first day back to work, and she needed her rest. Best not to bother her.

  Upon arriving home, showering, and fixing himself a sandwich, he noted the house was unnaturally quiet and poked his head into Shawn’s bedroom, only to find it empty. He shrugged to himself and took the opportunity to practice a few covers on his guitar and to work on a setlist for himself until his excitement waned and his eyelids grew heavy. Letting out a long yawn, he tossed his pick onto the table, set his guitar in its stand, and headed to bed.

  What seemed only minutes after he had closed his eyes, a loud, ear-splitting crash sounded from downstairs, startling Adam out of a sound sleep. He shot up, threw the covers back, and jumped to his bare feet, scrambling down the steps to find Shawn spread-eagled on the floor. Beneath him lay Adam’s guitar, shattered into pieces. Loose strings splayed in every direction like broken spider legs, wood splintered into a thousand bits. His heart faltered and his jaw dropped.

  “What the.... Get your ass up, you worthless piece of shit!” The words hurled themselves from his mouth before he could stop them, and his head spun with anger.

  Shawn grunted and rolled onto his side. Adam leaned down, grabbed his arm, and yanked him to his feet; he was deadweight, barely holding himself up. Beyond angry, he shoved Shawn toward the sofa, and Shawn stumbled, falling onto it.

  “What the hell, man?” he slurred, letting out a soft groan as he closed his eyes.

  “Get your shit together, Shawn!”

  But no response came. Shawn lay sprawled across the sofa, mouth agape, drool pooling at the corner of his lips. He slid onto his back, one arm and leg hanging off the edge of the cushion, and vomit bubbled and dribbled over his lips as he began to gag.

  Heart pounding wildly, Adam tugged on his shoulder until Shawn rolled onto his side. The contents of his stomach spilled down the cushion, and Adam shoved a pillow behind his back. He shook Shawn’s shoulder and yelled his name. Still, no response came, not a twitch or a moan. Adam’s pulse quickened as panic set in. He shook his roommate once more, his mind scrambling with fear. Frantic, he sprinted up the stairs, tripping over a few stair treads on his way, snatched his phone from the bedside table and leapt back down, skipping two steps at a time as he dialed. Shawn had probably been out partying and had too much to drink, or maybe he had tried some unknown drug he’d been offered. The words tumbled quickly from his lips, explaining Shawn’s condition to the dispatcher.

  He stayed by Shawn’s side until the ambulance arrived. Watching his roommate being hauled onto a gurney was nauseating, and he looked away until the sound of the siren faded. Suddenly, he felt guilty for all the times he had yelled at Shawn. All at once, he felt scared for him.

  Kylie lay awake in bed, staring wide-eyed at the dark ceiling. The red numbers on the clock read two in the morning. Lights from a passing car on the street roved the room for a moment, shining across the ceiling. Sleep had come on and off, ten minutes here, fifteen minutes there. She rolled onto her side, now eyeing the old posters on the lavender-painted wall; various actors and bands stared back at her.

  The piercing ring of the phone startled her, and she propped herself up on one elbow to see Adam’s name across the screen.

  “Adam?” she answered.

  “Kylie,” came Adam’s stressed voice. “Shawn’s in the hospital, and I’m just…I’m freaking out. Did I wake you?”

  “No, I was awake. What happened?”

  “He came home wasted—passed out—busted my guitar—then he was choking, and I had to call 911—”

  “Are you at the hospital now?”

  “Yeah, but I’m about to go. They won’t tell me anything since I’m not family or whatever.” A sigh. “I just…I don’t really know why I called. Sorry for waking you. You should go back to sleep.”

  “It’s fine. I wasn’t asleep, anyway.”

  “Oh.”

  With one hand, Kylie pulled the bed covers higher up. What was she supposed to say? “Do—do you need help or something?”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’ve got to clean up the house anyway...vomit and guitar bits everywhere…”

  “I hope Shawn will be okay,” she said, uncertain.

  “Same. Well…I’ll let you go. You need your rest. Good luck at work. I l—well, goodnight.”

  Kylie bid him goodnight and tossed the phone aside.

  After dragging herself up the steep stairs, Kylie heaved open the door to the office. She swallowed hard. With her head bowed, she passed each cubicle until she reached her own, flung her purse onto the desk, and slumped into the chair. Mashing the power button on the computer, she stared blankly at the monitor while it groaned to life.

  “Welcome back,” greeted the sound of Bruce’s voice.

  She jumped at the sound. “Hi,” she said in a flat tone, unable to muster faking nice.

  “Feel like grabbing some lunch today?”

  She turned to eye him, but softness had replaced his usual pompous air. “No, but thanks.” The words came a little less curtly than normal.

  He nodded. “Let me know if you change your mind.” His footsteps carried him down the aisle.

  Kylie shook her head, leaned her chin on the palm of her hand, and watched as the backlog of work emails loaded. A sigh escaped, and she longed to still be curled up in bed.

  Another set of footsteps approached her cubicle.

  “Kylie,” came Amanda’s voice, almost urgent. “I’m so glad you’re back. Can you cover the advice column for the website today? Lisa’s out sick for a few days.”

  Her brows knitted together. “Doesn’t Maggie cover that when needed? She’s over content.”

  “Normally, yes, but Maggie took a half-day and she needs to oversee the rest of content before she leaves.”

  “Ah. Um, sure. I’ll cover the advice column today.”

  Amanda heaved a sigh of relief, pretending to wipe sweat from her forehead. “Thanks. I’ll get you the login credentials for the advice email.”

  The morning passed, painstakingly slow, while she sifted through questions to answer. One wanted advice for making her kids listen. No, Kylie wasn’t particularly keen on offering parenting advice. Another wanted to know how to confront her cheating boyfriend. Just walk in on him while he’s on top of another girl, she thought bitterly. That one wouldn’t work either.

  Finally, after what felt like a hundred emails, one caught her attention.

  I’ve been feeling so lonely. My husband died last year while overseas, and I don’t really have any friends. I’ve always had a hard time making friends and meeting new people. I already work from home and hardly find reasons to leave the house anymore. Every day just gets worse, and I think I’m depressed. I’m not sure how to cope with the loneliness. Please help.

  - Lost

  Kylie frowned and read the email for a second and third time. This, truly, was genuine despair. She felt frozen in her seat. I can’t do this, not today. She bit the inside of her cheek. Ripping the bottom cabinet drawer open, she yanked out her purse and darted down the aisle and out the door, ignoring questions and hellos from her coworkers.

  The sun warmed her face as she rounded the street corner, and her racing heart began to slow with every step. Ducking into her usual sandwich shop, a bell tinkled overhead. The interior proved just b
ig enough to fit three tables with two chairs at each, and checkerboard tiles lined the floor. The woman behind the counter smiled warmly.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while. Your usual, sugar?” she asked.

  Kylie couldn’t help but return a small smile. “Yes, please.”

  She paid and plunked her purse down at one of the tables. Slipping out her phone, the thought to call Adam crossed her mind, to tell him about the email. Should she? Would he know what to say to get her mind off of it? The bell tinkled behind her. With her legs crossed beneath the table and her head bowed, she kept her eyes on the phone’s blank screen, ignoring the breeze from the open door and the young woman striding to the counter. How could she possibly respond to that email, that cry for help? What could she say? To include it could be a pivotal break in the advice column’s usual history of cheating spouses, nosy neighbors, and misbehaving children. Still, a small part of her wondered: Was she looking at a glimpse into her own future—miserable and alone? No, she thought firmly. She had Adam. She had Cat. She wouldn’t be alone.

  Her mind made up, she decided not to call or text Adam.

  Just as she reached to put her phone away, she heard someone speaking to her, “You should probably brush up on the Gidget rules soon, especially after last year.”

  Kylie looked up to see Samantha Hart at the next table over. Her palms began to dampen in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Not now. She couldn’t do this right now. She glared as Samantha flicked her long, dark hair over her shoulder.

  The woman behind the counter came around to set down Kylie’s bagged lunch, and Kylie murmured her gratitude before swiftly clambering to her feet.

  “That was a bad call and you know it,” she spat, snatching the paper bag from the table and slinging her purse over her shoulder. Throwing a last glare at Samantha, she darted out the door.

  With quick steps, balancing the bagged lunch in one arm, she ripped out her phone from her pocket to text Cat.