8. Amanda #2
I’m not blind to it. She’s right. I know that. Maybe it is a mistake to lean on him. But I don’t want to rely on anyone else. Eventually, I will, but it doesn’t have to be right now, especially when everything else is already changing.
“Not everything’s a case study, Val.”
“That’s true.” She taps her fingers on the metal table, then starts picking up after herself. “But this is textbook. Eric’s locked in constant self-sabotage.”
“Next, you’ll say it’s his shadow. Bring up some psychoanalysis.”
She arches her brow. “I wouldn’t be wrong if I did.”
“Eric is fine,” I counter.
“Eric is not fine. And neither are you. You haven’t been…” She trails off, almost hesitant, her features soft as she watches me. “Since that night before Italy.”
Maybe I haven’t been well since that night, but Eric…
Her words send me inward, my mind flashing with memories and locking into one.
Eric opened the door to his small home on the promise of corny horror movies and popcorn.
What hit us, though, was the smell of stale beer, whiskey, and cigarettes mixing thickly in the air.
His mom was sprawled on the couch, her lips moving and mumbling, even if barely conscious, her face gaunt and pale.
She wore a flimsy robe. The tie was almost undone, showing her naked stomach beneath it.
Mascara smudged with tear tracks stained her cheeks.
Eric didn’t pause or stumble in his step.
There was no hesitation as he went straight to her, forcing his fingers down her throat.
Aunt Ellie coughed violently, her body convulsing as she lost the contents of her stomach.
His hands shook slightly as he gently told her she was doing well—just a little bit more, and she’d be done.
I stood off to the side, unsure, icy panic coursing through my veins.
I’d never seen anything like it before. I felt young and helpless, frozen, while Eric, just a teen like me, sprang into action, certain of what to do.
The thought that he must have done that before—alone—bubbled inside me.
I wouldn’t leave him alone. Not him. Not them. Not like this.
My eyes locked with Eric’s, but he wasn’t looking at me the way I was used to. It felt like something new had taken root. “She’s going to be okay,” he said quietly, his voice breaking just enough to make it clear he wasn’t sure at all.
I swallowed, stepping forward. My heart thumps erratically as I brush her hair back from her slack features. “She’s so pretty.”
His amber irises were on his mom’s closed ones, but Eric’s gaze was unfocused, fragile and broken.
“It’s all him. He can’t see her value. So, she thinks it just isn’t there. No matter what I do.”
The weight of the silence between us grew unbearable.
Eventually, he lifted his mom and took her to the bathroom.
I heard the shower running. I looked for cleaning supplies and started tidying up the mess, wiping down the floor.
When Eric came back, he brought a trash can with him, and together, we finished cleaning.
We sat on the floor, leaning against the door, staring at the empty couch.
“There. Like nothing happened. Tomorrow, she may not even remember,” he said flatly.
I wanted to reach for him, to comfort him, but I didn’t know how. “You’re not your dad,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“No, I’m not. Fuck him.”
I held my breath as the air between us thickened with unspoken tension. Eric’s face cracked for just a moment, exhaustion and hopelessness creeping into his features. He turned to me, his voice low. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I moved closer.
I took his hand in mine, grounding both of us in the chaos.
Eric watched the way our fingers entwined, his face unreadable.
For a moment, I almost wished I could disappear into him, into that moment, and forget there was a world outside this tiny apartment, where everything felt so fucking broken.
The weight of the memory is heavy and prominent as I am jostled by everything that Eric always carries. Alone. But that’s not the night Val’s talking about.
“Look.” She reaches out, so I face her soft, warm eyes. So unlike her. “You both carry this weight like Atlas.” She pauses for dramatic effect, as if we’re in one of her therapy sessions. “So maybe just talk to him.”
“I can’t stir that shit up.”
She’s not put off by my silence.” You have to be honest with yourself. Why did you go to Eric and no one else, Mandy?”
Why? The question digs at me, but my own self-preservation won’t let me answer it. Because the answer, I’m afraid, might be too fucking real. I’ve been avoiding it for so long.
“Okay, let’s try this a different way. On a scale of one to ten, rate your anger, sadness, and humiliation.”
Valeria loves this game; quantify your emotions, slap a number on the mess. But I don’t want to play. I sit there, frozen, speechless. Valeria doesn’t rush me, waiting me out. She wraps her hand around my left shoulder, the touch soft but firm.
“Dig fucking deep, Mandy. You just found your live-in boyfriend and baby daddy balls-deep in that mousy woman, and we’re spending more time talking about Eric than Daray. What does that tell you?”
The answer echoes, undeniable now. Six. Two. Nine. But still, I can’t make myself say it.