Chapter 22 Me Too, Mom
me too, mom
Hannah - now
The silence feels like a tomb.
Rowan’s house felt safe. It didn’t matter there was no furniture or the dining room chandelier flickered like a creepy horror film every time we laughed too hard or stared at each other a beat too long.
The air was pure oxygen—uncontaminated by memory sparks of dark parking lots and the phantom scent of gin and sweat.
I could have stayed. He asked me to. But it was after midnight and my head wasn’t in a place to navigate what would come next if I did.
Except now I’m home. And home is quiet. Too quiet.
The air here presses in from all sides, thick and haunting. Suffocating.
Denial carries me through my nighttime routine.
Wash my face. Ignore the silence; it’s not there.
Pajamas. It’s only the normal kind of quiet.
Check the locks. Stop worrying.
Glass of water. You’re just tired—imagining things.
Check the locks again. Sleep it off.
As I climb into bed, my phone lights up with a text.
Rowan
Did you make it home?
For half a second, I consider telling him everything—my hands are trembling and I’m scared.
But that’s ridiculous because I’m fine. Deadbolts are secured. I’m the only one here. My neighborhood is extremely safe.
I’m. Fine.
Me
Yup. All good.
Rowan
See you tomorrow.
I plug my phone into the charger on my nightstand and pull the covers up to my chest. Everything the same as I’ve always done it. All interior lights off, save the one over the stove in the kitchen. Bedroom door open. Ceiling fan on low.
Wood creaks from somewhere in the house, the summer heat expanding the floorboards. Happens all the time, I remind myself. But tonight all I hear are heavy footsteps gaining on me.
It’s my imagination.
The steady hum of the fan doesn’t mask the crackle of ice dropping in the fridge dispenser from the kitchen two rooms away. I hear the crash of the restaurant door colliding with the brick wall and my pulse riots.
Deep breaths. It’s ice.
Overgrown bushes outside my window scrape against the glass at the same time the remembered sensation of my bound wrists slamming against my car hits me.
I throw back the covers in a rush to get up.
Bedside lamp, on.
Rowan’s hoodie, on.
On determined feet, I move through the house, trying and failing to breathe through the tightness in my chest. I hit every light switch like a panicked game of Whack-A-Mole until there are none left.
Light does nothing for the silence, though.
The wood floors creak again. Crackle from the kitchen. Wind outside sends the bushes scratching along the porch railing. Every sound vibrates down to my bones.
I check the locks for the third time. Down a glass of water over the sink, promptly stuffing it in the dishwasher, making as much noise as I can to drown out the pulsing of blood in my ears.
Palms braced on the counter, I suck in a deep breath. “You’re. Fine,” I mutter.
Again with the ice. A shiver slithers up my spine. My hand slaps the countertop with a thwack, and I storm into the living room. I power on the television. I repeat the mantra again, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, but I can barely see the screen through the moisture in my eyes.
Daniel does NOT deserve my tears. Stop it.
I click through the channels, my thumb hitting the remote like a game show trigger button, except I press it and nobody takes notice. So I press it again, harder this time. Then again and again.
You’re fine. Baseball game? No. You’re fine. News? Hell, no. You’re fine. Murder mystery? Definitely not. You’re fine.
At last, I stumble upon The Office playing in syndication on a loop and crank the volume up a few notches.
Stomping back down the hall, I collect my phone and a blanket before returning to the living room. Legs crisscrossed beneath me, I bury my face in the sweatshirt and tuck the blanket around me.
I tap my phone screen. 1:15 a.m.
The lamplight, the overhead lights, the television volume—I let them engulf me. Distract me. When my brain flashes something I don’t want to remember, I turn up the sound. When my skin crawls with haunting sensations of assaulting touches, I sink deeper into the cushions.
Nine episodes. I watch a full nine episodes until the warm glow of sunrise begins to streak through the drapes, bringing with it a comfort that finally allows me to drift off.
I’m awakened two hours later to the sound of a lawn mower outside. God bless the fourteen-year-old boy I pay to do this for me every weekend. But why so early, kid?
It doesn’t matter because I don’t have time to care. Brunch with Mom is in a couple hours and the only hope I have of looking like I didn’t just spend an entire night scared of the dark is a long, hot shower.
Punctuality has always been more my thing than Mom’s. So I shouldn’t be shocked by the suspicion in her eyes when I walk into Jelly and Jam fifteen minutes late. I absolutely will not be telling her I fell asleep in the shower.
Her forehead crinkles. “Late night with Mr. Army Man?”
I wish.
I shake my head. “Couldn’t sleep.” There, I didn’t lie. She still looks concerned, though. “Just one of those restless nights, I guess.” Also, not a lie.
Thankfully, the waitress interrupts to take our order and it seems to put the topic behind us.
“So, tell me how last night went,” she says as we hand over our menus. I watch the woman’s back for a moment to avoid Mom’s gaze.
She means Rowan. My heart swells beneath the memory of our time together. We laughed. We cried. We laughed until we cried. But nothing happened beyond conversation and a little hand-holding.
I’m not morally opposed to sharing some of the details, but something about Rowan makes me want to savor it.
Savor him. Keep whatever this thing is between us just that: between us.
Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s a futile effort because Mom can sniff out truth like a bloodhound.
Or maybe none of it matters because he has to leave soon anyway.
Still, I can’t bring myself to offer up much. “It was fine.”
“Lies, but I’ll allow it,” she responds coolly. “How’s he doing since his grandfather passed?”
Norm was the topic of conversation for most of the night.
Rowan soaked up every story, every memory his Pops and I shared like a sponge.
I was the faucet turned on full blast, giving as much as I could to put his guilty conscience to rest, to take even just a shred of the grief he’s been shouldering and throw it aside.
“I think he’s doing better,” I say.
“Good. That’s good.” She fidgets with her flatware, eyes darting around me and the table. “You’re gonna see him again then?”
I sigh in exasperation. This woman can’t help herself. “If you must know—”
“I must.”
“I’m going back over this afternoon to help him paint. Happy?”
She grins behind her coffee. “As long as you are.”
Before she can pounce on the rare sight of her only daughter blushing like teenager, I steer the conversation to something more serious.
“So…the chairman of the BCH board called yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“He thinks my—our—story is valuable to their mission and could help encourage more donations, so they’ve asked me to give the keynote speech.”
Remembering the pain, the loss we endured, carries a heaviness that feels like gravity beneath a layer of concrete beneath another layer of gravity on top. Unbearable. Unsurvivable.
But we did survive. It’s the message I know Boulder Children’s wants to hear. And I think it might be time for me to share it.
Mom watches me intently, soft and warm. They weren’t related but, I swear, sometimes I look at her and all I see is Gwyn. I know she sees Maddy in me, too. She says it’s probably because the four of us spent so much time together we all morphed into the same person.
Eyes a little glassy, Mom’s crow’s feet tip up. I think she’s about to speak, but she hesitates.
“Mom, will you say something?”
“I’m just…” A pause and a hard swallow. “My beautiful Haddy girl.” She shakes her head, her words a tendril of awe floating across the table as she studies me like it might be her last chance to do it. “Look at you.” Her voice cracks on the end and she sucks in a shaky breath.
I twist my hands in my lap. She’s not even gone yet and the impending grief already feels latched on to me like a shadow.
When Mom is at her brightest, it’s high noon and the grief is barely a passing thought—thin and fleeting.
But then, in moments like this, mortality dims her light a little and it’s evening.
The shadow looms bigger and bigger until the night swallows it whole and darkness consumes every space where her light used to be.
Maybe it’s meant to be a mercy, the shadow. Preparing me for what’s to come. Mostly it feels like a noose I can’t escape.
“Mom,” I whisper.
“Sorry,” she sputters, swiping her cheeks. “Didn’t mean to get all sappy. I just love you is all.”
“I love you too.”
Her mouth opens, breath caught in her lungs for a beat before she says, “And I…”
The words don’t come. How could they? They’re too painful to say out loud, but they’re written all over her face.
I’m going to miss you, Haddy.
Me too, Mom.