Tuesday, January 31st
Cat
I looked up the five stages of grief on my phone today.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
Clearly one doesn’t move through them in a linear fashion; I’ve mostly been living in a state of denial, bargaining, and depression, moving from one to the next seemingly within hours.
I have yet to be angry, and I most definitely have not arrived at acceptance.
I skipped classes today and yesterday. I was supposed to have my onboarding for my research assistant position yesterday, but my eyes were red and puffy with the tears I’ve been shedding and I didn’t have the energy to get myself dressed, let alone face people.
So I emailed all my professors that I was sick with the flu.
I know I’ll need to get myself together eventually, but today’s not that day.
Vada has called me several times a day. Zack and Summer have been texting me, and even Steve called me Sunday night and again yesterday evening.
This morning, Tori stopped by before class. It was the first glimmer of hope since Sunday. I pounced and bombarded her with questions. Had she been staying at the apartment? How was Ronan? How did he seem? Upset? Sad? Unaffected?
“I honestly saw him only twice for about thirty seconds,” she told me. “But he looks sort of like I’d expect him to look… like shit, like he’s not sleeping much or very well. But he won’t talk to me about… you. And he won’t really talk to Shay, either,” she told me with a shrug.
That seed of hope in my chest evaporated like a drop of water on a hot stone.
***
It's just before six o’clock in the evening when I wake from the kind of nap that makes you forget what year it is. My body is heavy, my mouth dry, and the ache in my chest is momentarily replaced by confusion. But only for a moment.
My dad’s voice is clearly audible downstairs.
“God damn it, Frank, get ahold of your son and talk some sense into that boy or I will.”
I shoot up in my bed. My dad is talking to—make that shouting at—Ronan’s dad.
Frank must be on speaker; I can hear his clipped voice clearly. “I respect you, Bobby, but don’t fucking talk to me about Ronan that way. From one father to another: I understand you’re ticked off, but I won’t tolerate you threatening my kid.”
My dad chuffs. “You know my daughter has hardly left her room since your son decided to come to my house and break her heart?”
Yeah, he did break it, but not until I gave him a reason to.
“You know full well it’s not as simple as that,” my mom chimes in, her tone much calmer, more reasonable.
“What are you talking about, Jen? God, I always knew this would happen. Didn’t I tell you this would happen?”
My mom doesn’t respond, but Frank does. “Ran hasn’t shown up here. He doesn’t answer my calls—”
“Yeah, because he knows he fucked up, but he’s too chicken to face the music. Here’s a suggestion: go find him!”
A tight exhale travels through the phone. I imagine Frank is working to maintain his composure. “I will talk to my son, okay? I’ll go see him and make sure he’s alright.”
“You’ll make sure he’s alright?” my dad bellows with an incredulous laugh.
“Yes,” Frank growls. “I will make sure my kid is alright. Just like you’re making sure your kid is alright. And I promise you this, Bobby, Ran didn’t set out to hurt Cat. He lov—”
My dad laughs maniacally. “Don’t tell me your son loves Cat. Don’t you da—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” my mom says sternly. “Frank, thank you for taking Bobby’s call. I’m sorry for this entire situation. Please, check on Ran and make sure he’s okay. This can’t be easy on him. Please give Penny a hug from me and let her know I’ll stop by tomorrow to cuddle the boys.”
And with that, my parents end their call with Frank.
My dad’s footfalls are poignant, a restless clomping through the living room. “I want to fucking kill this kid, Jen. I want to…” He trails off, his voice as tight as a bowstring.
“Robert Stevenson, you’re a good dad, but you’re also infuriatingly ignorant,” my mom says.
The pacing ceases. “How am I ignorant?”
“You’re ignorant of the deep psychology behind Ronan’s actions. You’ve always been hell-bent on disliking him. You don’t bother trying to understand. You look at the facts with a surface-level understanding of the relationship our daughter had with Ronan.”
My mom, the quiet warrior, defending the boy who left me. It should sting. For some reason, it doesn’t.
“Cat is my daughter. Ronan is not my son. I will always choose my daughter’s well-being over the well-being, the emotions, the feelings of some boy.”
“As you should, Bobby, but don’t forget that Cat isn’t entirely innocent here, okay? It wasn’t Ronan who kissed another girl. It was our daughter who hurt Ronan.”
My dad stays silent.
“But regardless, I believe there’s probably more to Ronan’s actions than just the kiss. I think he’s working through his trauma and—”
My dad huffs. “Jeez, Jen, always the trauma. How long has it been? How long is that boy going to use that as a reason to act like an idiot?”
“Oh my god, Bobby. You know what, never mind. You don’t want to understand this. And that’s fine. You do you. I’m going to go have a chat with our beautiful daughter,” my mom says so forcefully, I’d think she was on the verge of yelling at my dad.
She makes her way into my room moments later, taking her spot on the edge of my mattress.
“Hi sweet pea,” she says with the soft tone that makes me want to revert to calling her mommy rather than just mom, like I did when I was five. I’m so lucky to have her.
I just blink at her.
“I’m going to need you to get up and get dressed,” she says with a small smile.
“Why?”
“We’re going to the grocery store,” she says so enthusiastically, I wonder if I misheard.
“I don’t want to.”
“It’s not about what you want. You need to get out of the house. Let’s go. You have ten minutes.”
***
“I expect you to go to class tomorrow, Kitty,” my mom says when we’re perusing the bread aisle at the supermarket thirty minutes later.
“I know life feels topsy-turvy right now, but what we’re not going to do when we find ourselves in situations like this is neglect our own well-being, okay?
” She tosses a loaf of pre-sliced multigrain bread into the shopping basket I’m using to support my body weight as I trudge after her through the store.
“Okay,” I drawl.
“And you’ll also come back to the office tomorrow morning. I have two patients back-to-back and really need you to be available.”
I sigh with the heaviness of someone who’s carrying a fifty-pound rucksack. Honestly, that’s exactly how I feel. Weighted down. “Okay.”
“And you know what I was thinking? You could stay at the office all day Fridays. You can work on some of your research for your professor and I could give Kimberly the entire day off.”
“Okay,” I say yet again. Maybe if I keep saying yes, I’ll eventually remember how to mean it.
My mom stops and looks at me for a long moment. She just nods, then continues walking, quietly pulling me forward with her like she always does.