i can’t stop thinking about her.
“you should try and get some sleep,” my dad says. i can tell he’s tired. i don’t know how he’s doing this.
“i can drive for a while if you want,” i say.
“nah, i’m ok,” he says. “i just need more coffee."
----
he was drunk. high maybe. i couldn't tell exactly what had him so rattled this night. the only thing apparent was his disdain for my mother and his need to show her physically how terrible he found her.
i hated her boyfriend.
when he started hitting her while the three of us sat on the couch, it was quiet. at twelve, there's not much you can do to stop a grown man from doing what he wants. not that kind of man. i tried to keep my eyes on the tv and block her cries, but there's only so much you can do to keep it from getting in.
when he rose from the couch, her hair in his hands, she rose, too. he took her to the back bedroom, both of them unaware of my presence.
the sounds coming from inside the walls intensified as he moved from hitting her to throwing her. BOOM against the wall. BOOM against the other wall.
cries. screams.
grunts of triumph.
i moved cautiously like those idiots in horror movies toward the opened bedroom door. i could see him on top of her on the bed, his hands around her neck as she struggled.
i was frozen.
his face started to turn toward mine and i ran into the bathroom, cowering between the toilet and the bathtub and held my breath.
i watched a roach crawl across the floor and wished for its freedom.
----
we pull off to a gas station on the side of the highway. he starts the pump and goes inside, as i pull out my phone and look through my history for the hospital’s number. we haven’t had an update in several hours. i dial the number and sigh as it rings.
“hi," i say and give my name the the nurse who answers. “i’m just calling to check in on how my mom is doing." i fully expect them to say that she’s fine and start to prepare myself to get pissed off because we’re three hours into the trip and she'll be fine.
“about the same,” she says. “i have to tell you — i really hope you decided to come.” my stomach drops.
“uh,” I falter. “i — yes, we’re on our way. we left a few hours ago.” what does she mean?
“good,” i can hear her actually sigh with relief. “that was a good decision.”
“why?” i ask. “i thought you said she was the same?”
“she is,” she says. “but i didn’t say that was good.”
“hi," i say and give my name the the nurse who answers. “i’m just calling to check in on how my mom is doing." i fully expect them to say that she’s fine and start to prepare myself to get pissed off because we’re three hours into the trip and she'll be fine.
“about the same,” she says. “i have to tell you — i really hope you decided to come.” my stomach drops.
“uh,” I falter. “i — yes, we’re on our way. we left a few hours ago.” what does she mean?
“good,” i can hear her actually sigh with relief. “that was a good decision.”
“why?” i ask. “i thought you said she was the same?”
“she is,” she says. “but i didn’t say that was good.”
----
on the last night of my weeklong visit with her in tennessee, i styled her hair a new way. not that i knew much of fashion at 19 -- i was never that kind of girl -- but i'd wanted to play with her hair. and she'd wanted me to, too. it was the first time we'd ever wanted the same thing.
shyly, carefully, slowly, we sat. i swept her hair this way, that way, up, down. i settled on bangs and she agreed. i cut. she smiled. it felt normal.
that night, we pulled out the bed from inside the sofa, covered ourselves with blankets and talked. made jokes no one else laughed at. giggled like children. it was the only time we ever laughed together. she was funny. witty. she found me the same.
i felt old enough. finally. we could talk without me feeling hurt, left out, childish. a burden. i was leaving without her in the morning to go back to my own life, also without her. she was in my life as much as i allowed, and i didn't stay by the phone waiting to be included on her schedule. we laughed for hours. it felt normal.
it was the last time i saw her conscious. the memory of it still burns. if only she hadn't died ... how many more nights of this might we have had?
----
