15. Teddy
TEDDY
JULY
“Indie!”
I jolt awake, my body snapping upright as I gasp, my lungs burning.
The nightmare lingers for one disorienting moment before the specifics dissolve as I try to grab them.
All I know is that it terrified me more than anything.
My temples throb from waking so suddenly, the pain so sharp that I snap my eyes closed against the glaring sunlight pouring through the window.
I press my palms into my eyes, hoping to ease the ache, but it doesn’t help.
My stomach rolls, and I clench my teeth, fighting the waves of nausea as I extend my arm, eyes tightly shut, reaching across the rumpled sheet for Indie.
Then I freeze, because Indie should be in bed with me.
She should be right next to me. We fell asleep there last night, me holding her desperately because I said the most vicious, unforgivable words to the only person who keeps my heart beating.
Indie.
Oh, God, honey…
Blinking my eyes open slowly, I stare at the other side of the bed—it’s empty. I move my hand across the sheets where she should be, searching for any trace of her.
Her side is cold.
“Indie?” My voice cracks as I look around my childhood bedroom, scanning every corner—my closet, the beanbag chair, even peeking under my bed. Her backpack and shoes are gone, her phone isn’t on the charger, and her keys are not on the end table.
My heart slams against my ribs, thudding in wild panic, echoing the throbbing in my skull.
I stumble out of bed, one hand gripping the bed for balance and the other pressing against my pounding temple, feeling like my skull might split apart.
As I take a step forward, my bare foot slams painfully into the bed’s corner.
Pain explodes through my foot, causing me to double over and crash to my knees at the exact spot where her bag was.
My hands hit the hardwood as I brace myself, jolting my wrists. My knees are throbbing, and my breath is ragged as I frantically scan around for her.
“Indie?” I call again, more desperate now, panic closing my throat. “Honey?”
Where is she? Did she go to the bathroom?
Rushing out the door, not even caring that I’m only wearing my pajama pants, I check the bathroom, but the light is off and the door is open.
“Indie?” I choke out, stomping down the hallway. I peek into Nana’s room and wince. The memories wash over me like a tidal wave, and I’m powerless to stop them.
Nana on the bed, not breathing, not moving. Indie dropped to her knees without a second of hesitation, all sharp focus and calm command, while I was there, useless and breaking apart. I watched as she battled through compressions, trying desperately to save her.
Even though my heart was cracking, I couldn’t help but be in awe of Indie.
Her care, her devotion, her not giving up even then, when it was hopeless.
She isn’t upstairs. I stomp down the stairs and rush from room to room—the downstairs bathroom, living room, dining room, and kitchen. Mom stands by the stove, stirring pancake batter as bacon sizzles in the pan, as if it’s any normal Saturday morning.
She sees me walk in and smiles brightly, “Theodore! Good morning—”
“Where’s Indie?” I demand, my voice a harsh bark.
A cold sweat breaks out across my body, my heart slamming an uneasy rhythm, my skin crawling. My mind is nothing but a loop of her name.
Indie, Indie, Indie.
Mom blinks, her face blanching for a brief moment. Her eyes dart to the front door before shifting back to me.
“Where, Mom?”
She sighs and turns the burner down, wiping her hands on her apron before walking over to me. She’s wearing one of the stupid Baseball Mom T-shirts from high school. I didn’t want to play baseball; I wanted to join the Art Club.
When I told my parents, hopeful after talking to the art teacher, who said I showed real promise, Dad laughed at me. He actually laughed, then called it a sissy club.
I was signed up for baseball the very next day. I remember how I played until Pop and Nana helped me fake a shoulder injury just so I could quit without Dad riding my ass for it.
I realize that was probably the reason why I never told anyone about my art.
But I told Indie.
Mom kept the shirt, though it’s her usual casual house look. I’ve seen her wear it a hundred times; I don’t know why it’s sticking out to me now.
“Sweetheart,” she says, taking off her apron and putting it on the counter. “Maybe you should sit down.”
She gestures to a kitchen chair, pulls it out, and pats the seat. But I stand rooted in place, my eyes darting around the kitchen as I turn, unable to stop searching for Indie to appear from any hidden corner.
“Come here, Theodore, sit down,” she says, her voice sickeningly sweet, and it grates on my nerves.
“I don’t need to sit down, Mom. I need to find Indie. Where is she?” I pat my back pocket reflexively, remembering that my phone is still upstairs charging and I’m in my pajama pants. I clench my fists. “Where is she?”
“She broke your heart, sweetheart,” she says in a trembling voice, her eyes glimmering with tears as she cups my cheek. It feels like I’m six years old and she’s telling me Santa Claus isn’t real.
I recoil away from her like her touch burns.
“She left.”
The world caves in. My chest follows. A gasping, wheezing sound escapes my throat as the world grinds to a halt. A shrill ringing drowns out everything but my mother’s muffled, pitying voice. I catch scattered words: left, gone, midnight, breakup, good riddance.
“What?” I gasp out, rubbing at the burning sensation in my chest. My mother steps closer to me, hands out like she’s going to touch me. I flinch back, and she immediately stops, eyes widening a fraction.
“Theodore, are you alright?”
“Gone?” I choke. “She’s gone? She left?”
“She left, Theodore,” Mom says softly, that trembling voice making my skin crawl. “In the middle of the night like a little coward—”
“Don’t call her that!” I hiss, my mother flinching back at the anger in it. The protective urge rises inside of me, burning brighter and hotter than I’ve ever felt it.
“It’s true, Theodore. She left in the middle of the night, without even saying goodbye. And she said the cruelest thing to me before she went—”
“What did she say?” I desperately demand, hoping that maybe it will give an explanation, a clue, something to tell me where she went.
Mom misunderstands, thinking I’m angry on her behalf, because she sniffs, dabbing delicately at her tear-filled eyes.
“It was horrible,” she sniffs, taking a deep breath. “She said she felt sorry for me.”
I feel sorry for you.
“How do you do it?”
“What do you mean?” Indie asked, tilting her head up from my chest to meet my eyes.
“How do you… tell someone that they’re going to die.”
Indie sobered, then grew contemplative. “You think of how you’d want to be told—gentle, but firm enough they understand. Then I tell them I’m sorry this happened. Not that I’m sorry for them. The difference matters. One is empathy; the other can sound… cruel. It doesn’t matter about your intent.”
I just stared at her. “You’re amazing.”
“I’m a doctor,” she shrugged.
I shook my head.
“You’re Indie.”
It’s like I can see the woman clearly in front of me for the first time because it was deserved.
Or maybe it’s not that I’m seeing her clearly; it’s that I've seen this all along and was scared to set boundaries. Too scared of what she would do if I did set a boundary. I don’t know which one is worse. My ignorance or my negligence.
Doesn’t matter because both ended up with me losing Indie.
“She broke up with you, baby,” Mom whispers tenderly.
Broke up with me.
Indie broke up with me.
She didn’t say the words, but she didn’t need to.
The look on her face after what I said last night—devastation and betrayal so vicious it ripped all the light from her eyes—was enough.
I did that. I destroyed her.
How could I think I could apologize my way out of this? That I could make up for throwing her biggest trauma in her face? I said those words only to hurt her after feeling backed into a corner, answering questions that made my skin burn because they were true.
I can’t even stop it. The nausea wins, and with my mother standing right in front of me, I double over and vomit on her shirt and pants without warning.
She jumps back in alarm, shrieking, and her abrupt motion makes the mess drip down her legs, onto her shoes, then to the expensive marble tile she loves to brag about.
“Theodore!” she screams, the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls and making my head throb even more. “Look at this mess! The guests will be here in six hours! Go get a mop and clean this—where are you going?”
To the front door that I burst out of, my stomach dropping when I see—or rather don’t see—Indie’s car parked. My head swivels left to right, hoping that maybe she parked further down the block. No. This neighborhood is full of BMWs, Mercedes, Audis, and decked-out pickup trucks like my dad’s.
Indie’s Subaru is nowhere to be found.
The nausea rises again, my legs buckle, and I collapse to my knees on the front lawn, unable to hold myself up any longer.
This is agony.
“Indie,” I choke on her name, my throat tight. “Indie, Indie, Indie… no, no, no…”
Tears sting my eyes, and I rub at the tearing pain in my chest. The world was spinning too fast, too much, too much, too much.
My hands shoot to my hair and pull harder and harder, like I’m trying to tear it out, like if I punish myself, maybe she’ll reappear. Maybe I’ll hear her sweet husky voice again or see those beautiful, true blue eyes teasing me.
Mrs. Morris peeks out of her front door across the street, curtains on the houses next to her shifting. Let them witness my pain, I don’t care.
She’s gone.
And it’s all my fault.
“Theodore James, what are you doing—get in this house, now!” Mom appears on the front porch, shirt and pants changed, smiling tightly at Mrs. Morris, who’s standing across the street watching me fall apart. “Oh, hello, Deb! I’ll see you later for the party?”