65. Lolly
sixty-five
Lolly
I return home from the shop to find Mom awake in her recliner, watching a cooking show with Corina.
“How was your evening?” Corina asks, an inquisitive look on her face.
“It was good,” I reply. “Jay and I got a lot done. The shop is really coming together.”
“Good, I’m glad. Your mom and I’ve had a good night. She ate all of her dinner and worked on that blanket she’s been crocheting,” she says with a smile.
“Really?” I say in earnest surprise. Mom hasn’t crocheted in months. She just looks at her needles and yarn as if waiting for them to tell her tales of days passed. Sometimes recognition flits across her face, perhaps longing, but she hasn’t reached for any of her ongoing projects in so long.
“Mom?” I say tentatively.
She doesn’t look away from the television.
Corina shares an understanding smile, a glint of sadness in her eyes.
Mom clears her throat and turns to look at me. Her eyes study me closely, but yet from somewhere far from here– blue-gray ships in a harbor that has aged with splintered docks and overgrown trees.
“Well, who do we have here?” she says softly, moving her gaze to Corina in question.
“That’s Oliver,” she replies, placing her nearest hand onto Mom’s paper-thin, weathered forearm.
“Well, hello, Oliver. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, her gaze vacant but kind. Gentle in its reach. “You know,” she continues, “I always wanted a son.”
My breath catches as a lump forms in my throat. A writhing shadow wraps its way around my heart and squeezes. I dare a glance at Corina, hoping she can offer me something.
“Well, Oliver is a very nice young man, Chloe. You are going to love him.” she says.
I choke on a sob.
I send a silent thank you to Corina, relieved when Mom turns her attention back to the television.
Goddamnit, I miss her.
I miss her so fucking much.
I miss her and she’s here, but she’s gone. And I’m here, but part of me is gone too.
Each memory of hers that slips through the aether takes a piece of me with it. The pieces that only exist because of her. The cement that slowly forged a solid foundation from which I was able to grow a life worth living, and become a man worth being.
“Oliver?” Corina says quietly.
I look at her, certain she can see through me.
“Why don’t you let me stay with her tonight? You go on upstairs and get a good night’s sleep,” she pauses, “in a real bed.” She leans back on the couch and crosses her arms as if to let me know that she isn’t going to take no for an answer.
“That sounds good,” I admit. “Thank you.”
I grab my medication out of the drawer and head upstairs, fighting back tears.
I put my shoes back in their box and toss my clothes in the hamper before grabbing my sweatpants and a soft t-shirt before I head to the bathroom.
The water is comforting. A phantom embrace reminding me of birthday parties and Christmases. Basketball games and movie nights.
Pressure builds behind my eyes, threatening to spill.
Fuck it.
I let it flow. Let it sweep me away.
With my face under the water, I lean into the darkness. Give in to the pain.
Olani.
Mom.
Dad.
Mama Chloe.
I acknowledge the pain, letting myself sob—truly grieve.
I cry for my family. The years, days, hours and minutes they were robbed of.
I cry for Mama.
I cry for the past, the unsteady present, and the unfathomable future.
I cry for myself.
I rest my hands over my heart, imagining the swirling black rot exiting through my tears. All the pain hitching a ride, and being set free.
As I lie in bed, thoughts of those green eyes follow me, relentless in their constant flashes of a parallel world. One in which he is mine, and I am his.