50. Then
Then: April 1st, 15 years ago
I t’s been one year and one month since Mom passed. Passed is too gentle of a term for what she did, but it sounds less aggressive than saying my mom killed herself a year ago. Not that anyone is asking me this, but if it ever comes up in conversation I’ll probably say that she left and leave it at that. It’s part of the truth without having to dive deep into all of the whys about what she did. I’ll never understand her why.
After our camping trip last spring, we agreed to make it a yearly tradition. It wouldn’t necessarily need to be in the same spot, but why not? Why fix what’s not broken? And it turned out to be a great trip. Dad and I bonded over s'mores and day hikes over nearby trails. Nothing too strenuous, but just right for both of us. We’d return to camp after hours of walking through rocky terrain and sometimes, before the sun disappeared below the horizon, I’d dip myself in the creek for a quick rinse. The water had been freezing, but it’d been the perfect shock to my system. It made me feel alive .
We’re already planning for our yearly trip next month when it’s a little warmer.
As soon as we’d returned home, Dad kept his word and dropped me off at the library each day, as promised. I’d spent the morning pouring over my assignments and finished my schoolwork for the day by lunchtime. Dad went into a private study room somewhere else in the library with his laptop and got work done there. I think we both enjoy the quiet space of the library, knowing that we don’t have to be stuck at home all day.
I start setting an alarm and waking up early each morning. Dad sometimes still attempts new recipes whenever he gets an itch to cook something, but it isn’t long before we both conclude that it isn’t doing either of us any favors. Before long, we start making our own meals. Sometimes for breakfast, I’ll have a bowl of yogurt with cinnamon granola, or avocado spread on toast with salt and pepper. Lunch is often salad, soup, or a sandwich. Dinner is often something I can easily pop into the microwave. I miss Mom’s home-cooked meals, but I still can’t force myself to make any of them. Maybe someday, but not today.
Monday through Friday we head to the library and are the first to arrive as soon as they open at nine a.m. We both work until noon, and then I allow myself to wander through the bookshelves. Since we’ve been coming to the library more often, I’ve started reading again. I read book after book. The more books I read, the more I’m itching to start writing again. The ideas are there, but I haven’t let any come to life on paper. I’ve waved them away, as though they are pesky bugs I want to get rid of—but they are getting harder to ignore.
One day after finishing up my assignments, I turn to a blank page in my notebook and start to write. I plan to jot down ideas for a story that has been replaying in my head for the past few weeks, but my pen has a different plan instead. Funny how that happens sometimes.
What came out wasn’t a story at all, but a poem. A poem that flows out of me effortlessly. I don’t think I’ve ever written poetry before, that was Mom’s thing, not mine. I read the words I’ve just written, and then I read them again.
I walk up to the front desk and show it to the librarian. She is an older lady with thick, black-rimmed glasses, and she’s reading a large novel at her desk when she glances up at me from over the top of her lenses. It always weirds me out when people do that.
“Can I help you, dear?” she asks me politely.
I don’t say anything but hand her my writing. She adjusts her glasses and peers down at the paper. She takes a moment to read through it and looks up at me.
“This is good. Did you write this?”
I’m beaming. But maybe she is supposed to say that sort of thing. “I did, thank you.”
“ Really good. In fact, you should join our writing club. We meet on Fridays at four o’clock. It’s only an hour and there’s snacks.”
A writing group? I don’t know… I don’t know if I’m ready for that sort of thing. I’ve enjoyed coming here before other people arrive. It’s not busy during the weekdays since most other people my age are at school, and other adults are working. We mostly have the whole place to ourselves. I don’t know about sharing this poem with a group of people.
She must read my nervous expression as she softens her gaze and hands my poem back to me.
“No pressure, of course, but it’s a great tool if you want to improve your writing. Sometimes we have authors come in and do talks, and sometimes we offer different writing courses. If it’s something you’re passionate about you should come check it out.”
She reaches somewhere below her desk and pulls out a flier, handing it to me.
I thank her and quietly walk back to where I’ve been working and pack up my things. Maybe I will go. It won’t hurt anything to go at least once and see what it’s all about.
Friday afternoons have quickly become my favorite. I always bring something new that I’ve written. Whether it’s a short story or ideas for one that I want to run by the group, I always make sure to have something I can offer. It’s not a large group, there are never more than six people in attendance each week. I’m not sure how many have signed up, but at least four or five come every week.
Surprisingly, I’m the youngest aspiring writer in the group. I tell them I’m thinking of getting my degree in creative writing and literature. Several who are currently in college or graduated years ago have online colleges they recommend to me. I start applying to all of them right away.
Friday afternoons have become my new safe haven. I already spend most of my days here, but coming here with a group of like-minded people has never felt so refreshing. I didn't say much the first couple of meetings, but ever since then I’ve connected in a way, a year ago, I would never have imagined.
I ended up graduating early. I worked all through the summer and didn’t take any breaks except for our one camping trip. On weekends we never do much, I usually save those for reading and writing. During the week I was back into go-mode.
My old school, Atlas High, reached out to me and asked if I would like to walk with my class next month, but I declined. It isn’t a bad school or anything, but it isn’t a place I have any desire to return to, even if it is to walk across the stage and be handed an official diploma. The online school I graduated from partners with my school for students who have dropped out or, due to certain life circumstances, need a break from the on-campus education style. Everyone in school knew about what happened last February. It’d been one of the smartest decisions for me personally not going back to the public school system.
For the first couple of weeks, students I’d barely said one word to were suddenly texting me about how sorry they were for my loss. A few even had the nerve to ask how she had ended her life. I thanked a few of the ones I felt were sincere, but after the news became “old news,” not one of them continued talking to me. It was as though they had wanted to be a part of the gossip and when it died down, they had already moved on.
I can’t fault them for it too much, I’d probably have done the same thing. Because they didn’t know what it was like. They hadn’t lost their mom in such a tragic, terrible way. To them, it was another name in the paper, another name on a tombstone they would have forgotten by tomorrow.
They probably already have.
I haven’t heard back from any of the colleges I’ve applied to yet, but it’s still probably a bit early. I turned seventeen earlier this school year and have recently started working on my first novel. It’s going to be a murder mystery that takes place in the course of one evening. The murder happens around midnight and the story starts ten hours earlier that day and counts down until the big moment when “it” happens. I haven’t reached that point yet, but I’m close.
Dad has mostly kept busy with his work. I asked him if he got a new job, and he said it was the same one but he was able to do most of it from home. When I asked him what he’d meant by “most,” he shrugged and said it meant that once a month or so he’d have to go into the main office downtown. But not like the crazy hours he used to work.
As odd as our relationship can be at times, it is slowly and surely getting better. I am thankful for him being here. I’m not sure what our day-to-day would look like if I’d stayed in public school and he’d continued commuting and working long hours. Our lives would look a lot different, and I try not to dwell on it too much. Rather, I want to be grateful for how things are. As grateful as I can be anyway.
Even though we’ve had a year without Mom, it still feels like she left us yesterday. I still see her and hear her in everything. But already, most days, it’s not as painful. Like when I’m lost in my writing, or wrapped up in a book I’m trying to finish, or talking about book things with some of my new writing friends at the library.
Those are the few times I’m allowed to escape. Escape the gaping hole she’s left inside my heart. Escape the pain when I’m lying there at night tossing and turning because I miss her so much it’s unbearable. She will never wrap her warm arms around me and hug me close to her beating heart. I will never hear her laugh echo through the walls of this house. I will never sing and dance with her to our favorite 90s bands in the kitchen, cooking our favorite meals together.
She will never drag me to therapy again. She will never show up unannounced and demand her presence like she often would. She will never whisk me away on another one of her adventures. We will never get to play our favorite game of Christmas Shopping List. She never did let me win.
Some days I write all of these things down. I write lists of all the things I loved about my mother and another list of all the things that drove me wild. Once, on a really bad day, I’d spent a solid hour coming up with a list of things, only to shred them all to pieces by the time I finished. I immediately regretted it and tried to rewrite as many of the items as I could remember. Dad had walked into my room to find me madly scribbling a new list on a ripped-out sheet of paper, sobbing.
He walked over to me, without saying a word, and wrapped his arms around me tightly. He didn’t let go until I stopped crying. And then he kissed me on the top of my head, something Mom used to do on some of our best days together. The gesture made me cry even more, and even then he didn’t let me go. His arms wrapped back around me and we stayed that way for what felt like a lifetime.
I never imagined needing my dad in this way until now. And now, for as many days as we are given on this earth together, I never want to let him go.
Stay, stay, stay.