Chapter 7 The Taste Of Failure
THE TASTE OF FAILURE
Istep out of the shower at quarter after five, having finished a half hour work out.
My four-thirty alarm has been routine for around the last nine-ish months.
Even on weekends. There’s a possibility it’s contributing to the dark circles under my eyes, but the structure of my morning routine keeps me grounded in a way that nothing else does.
Dad says it’s about motivation. He says it’s important to take the first steps to a good and healthy start to each day. He tells me he’s proud of me, and I can see he means it. He thinks I’m strong.
I think I’m just clinging to the rigorousness of what I know so that I don’t do something terrible like spiral into a grief I won’t be able to swim my way out of.
I stare at myself in the mirror, my towel tucked between my breasts to stay in place. I want to cry, but I don’t. I’m not even sure why, anymore.
It’s more than simply grieving. More than missing Tate.
I feel so alone, but there’s no one I want. No one I can imagine myself with.
I’m not the girl I once was, even though in my mind, at thirty-one, I still feel so young. Like my life is just starting even if I’ve already lived through the devastation of an ending.
A sharp laugh spills out before I can bite it back. I nab my bottle of hyaluronic acid and smear it onto my face. Next is the rose hip seed oil…
Who am I kidding? I’m not young anymore.
“Miss Mabel, it’s wakey, wakey time.” There’s no need to turn on the light. The child sleeps with enough nightlights in her room to ignite the firmament. Not that such a thing exists despite what doomscrolling TikTok tells me. Some rabbit holes are better left untravelled.
I flick the light on in her fish tank, moving through the colors until I land on blue. Pink and yellow might be her favorite colors normally, but when it comes to her glow fish, blue wins hands down.
I’d firmly refused having fish in the beginning. Cleaning the tank was a task I was not willing to oversee. Tate had promised I’d never have to.
I’ve since learned. I dislike it as much as I thought I would.
“Miss Mabel,” I sing-song as I pull open her dresser. “If you don’t get your booty up and out of that bed, I’m going to have to pick your outfit myself.”
“No.” A peek shows she didn’t even bother to open her eyes.
“I’m thinking black pants and a black shirt.”
Another peek risks both eyes glaring at me. She sits up in her bed, one side of her hair looking like something has nested in it.
I hold back my laugh as I pluck black socks from her drawer. I hold them up and smile as brightly and maniacally as I can muster. “And black socks!”
If disgust is going to find its way into my child’s face in regard to anything other than veggies, it’s the thought of wearing only black.
Mabel heaves a sigh as she throws back her covers to crawl from her bed. She doesn’t say anything at all as she robs me of the black socks, throwing them back in her drawer in favor of a purple and yellow striped pair that belong in a Dr. Seus book.
I smile to myself as I stroll wordlessly from her room and across the hall. Before I can knock, I see the light under the door flick on. My smug smile falls into a sad frown. My baby boy became the man of the house when his father left for an ice fishing trip to never return.
I don’t have to hassle him to do the things he needs to do. He just does them.
Sometimes I worry that he feels he’s walking the tightrope of my emotions. I fear the damage that might be doing to the delicate wiring of his brain. Fear the resentment he may one day feel.
I need to work harder to show him that he’s just a kid. He’s not the man of the house, and he doesn’t have to be. I don’t want him to be. He’s only just turned thirteen.
Thoughts of going out with Tanner fill my mind as I head downstairs. I’ve pretty much decided to do it by the time I’ve cracked the eggs into the pan. The scrambled eggs are light and fluffy and cheesy when my kids enter the kitchen.
“I want ketchup,” Thing One says. Despite the resemblance, it wouldn’t be Thing Two. Mabel doesn’t like to be second.
I blink again at the orange. Pants and shirt, bright orange. She’s breaking it up of course with a gauzy purple tutu and those striped yellow and purple socks. Her hair is just as wild as it was when she crawled from the cave of her covers.
“You look nice.” I compliment as I nab the ketchup bottle, giving a hefty squirt to the side of her plate.
I debate feeding Thing One before I attempt to wrangle the mess of her hair. Food might placate her. Or I might give her the energy to fight me. It’s fifty-fifty.
“I’m beautiful.” I smile at her little lisp.
Owen gives her a side-eye with a raised brow. I hand him his plate and he murmurs, “Thanks.”
I always try to eat breaky with my kids, so I slide into a chair at the table with my own plate of eggs and a side of coffee. The sky is already starting to color in shades of morning. “So, we’ve got a long weekend coming up.”
Owen nods between shovels into his mouth. “Can I spend Thursday night at Colton’s?”
“I’ll text Colton’s mom and see what’s up.”
Owen nods and tucks in again. My heart does that squeezy thing it’s so used to doing.
I focus on Mabel. “Are you excited for Easter?”
Mabel gives me a scrutinizing look. “Is the Easter Bunny going to come here or is he going to go to Memaw and Pepaw’s house?”
Ouch.
Owen flinches. I try not to wince or show how much it all hurts.
I really dropped the ball last year. The Easter Bunny didn’t visit us, even though I recall through the fog of grief, Mom reminding me he’d be coming. I’d been tired. It hadn’t even been a full two months since Tate passed. I was still in an ocean of grief. So was Owen. Mabel….
Well, Mabel wasn’t grieving. Not like us. The concept of forever being one entirely out of her reach.
Easter morning, Mabel had woken before me and seen absolutely zero evidence of the Easter Bunny having been in her house. Memaw calling to tell us he got confused and hopped into her house hadn’t helped settle Mabel’s hurt.
Because the Easter Bunny was supposed to be magic. And magic doesn’t make mistakes.
Oh, to be young.
“You know, I think he learned from last year,” I say carefully. “I bet he’ll appear wherever you’re sleeping.”
“It doesn’t really matter where he comes, as long as he comes.” Owen stands with his empty plate. Because he tries to be as helpful as he can, he rinses his plate and sets it in the dishwasher. Then he starts to fill the sink.
“Owen, honey, I’ve got it.”
“S’all good.” He doesn’t look at me as he slides the pan from the stove and into the sink.
My thirteen-year-old son washes the breakfast dishes.
I should feel proud, and I am. I have a kind, responsible child who takes note of his surroundings and acts.
But deeper than the pride, like a thorn imbedded into the tatters of my heart, I feel the shard of worry that I’m harming my son. That I’m failing him.
Because he is only thirteen. He deserves to be as carefree as his friends.
But here he is, taking care of us.
Sliding from my chair, my appetite lost, I carry my eggs to the sink. I’m about to dump them when Owen stops me. “I’ll eat those if you don’t want them.”
A prickly chill sweeps down the length of my spine. Like the kind before you’re violently sick. I palm my belly as I watch my little boy eat my remaining eggs just like his father used to do.
He cocks a grin at me that is jarringly older than his years. “Can’t let it go to waste.”
Tate’s words. Once upon a time, I would have responded by calling him a garburator.